Author's Note:

This is the final installment of Recruitment, though of course, events that happened here can later shape how the story continues. In particular, one character will be examined more fully later on. The next chapter, which will introduce many additional heroes I have not yet touched on, will be up at some point in the future.

As said, I do have the next 20 or so chapters planned out, although I will always accept suggestions or ideas of characters you might want to see.

Just to inform you, Clovis City Limits has since closed their doors, but at the time this chapter takes place, the establishment was open. Also, the country song was written by me, and while the whole of it may seem both gratuitous and corny, I kept it in (I was originally going to shorten the scene) because those lyrics do reflect Greg Sanders' views on his life and childhood. And I agree, I will not seek out a career in song-writing.

If you so desire, leave a review or comment if you see a mistake. I do like reviews, of course, but do with this as you will.

I do hope you enjoy this chapter.

I do not own any of these characters, nor do I possess the rights.

One Month Ago

In a cluttered apartment, Question again looked over his hand-written notes obsessively.

"Won't be easy. Can be done," he muttered to himself, flipping over the pages slowly, formulating the scenario in his head.

"For the best."

Now

On the outskirts of Clovis, New Mexico, in the appropriately-named bar Clovis City Limits, Greg Sanders pulled himself off of the barstool he'd been occupying for the past thirty minutes and onto the cheaply-made makeshift stage. While a few of the bars' patronage were paying him attention, most were off in their own, drunken (or at least tipsy) worlds. It's only when he pulled the microphone toward him and lightly coughed that everyone was looking at the man.

"Howdy, partners," he began, pulling the chair behind him forward, and sat down, the microphone still in hand, "I'm Greg Sanders, but my fans call me the Travelling Troubadour, likely 'cause I've been travelling the south and west, playing shows for the better part of 15 years now. This fine establishment heard I was passing through town, and asked if I wanted to play. Hell, even without the free tab, I woulda done it."

At this, the crowd laughed appreciatively, and looked expectantly at the nearing-40 year old man. Greg yanked his guitar up onto his lap. "I was out at Phoenix a week ago, and I'm making my way back to Texas. Or Arkansas. Hell, I've only been to Nashville once in the last five years, so I may try to get there. I admit it, I'm a wanderer," Greg insisted, his eyes locking with the audience, "and while I wouldn't have it any other way, I won't forget where my roots are. That's what this here song is about."

With that, Greg began lightly strumming his guitar, and tilted his hat down, the only thing now in his vision was the microphone and dusty floor. He strummed for a few seconds, then sang.

The place where I grew up didn't have any paved roads

It didn't have no super-mall, but we kids were never bored

Just throw us a ball and fifteen bats, you'd never hear us complain

And if someone said they wanted to leave, we'd joke they were insane

No, the times weren't always good there, we still had some things to fear

Like the time that Jody's father struck his mother on her ear

And even after three whole months, she still couldn't hear

But it's clear

Where I come from, we haven't had a murder yet

Hunting season, shooting deer and game is the closest you would get

Where I come from, old-timers still get our respect

And if you ever dare insult the troops, then you're not welcome back

It's a place that I have always loved, forevermore and then some

My life and home, where I'm from

If you walk down by the schoolyard, you'll notice a white oak tree

Where I laid down next to Mary back in 1983

It was Prom Night, in our senior year, she was such a gorgeous gal

And I had never been as happy as I'd been pressing her against the wall

But the same night I laid next to her upon the dry and brittle grass

One of my best friends got crazy drunk and died in a car crash

Oh, I'll not forget the tears that streamed down his poor mother's face

My friend Malcom, gone without a trace

I still can't help but to love this place

Where I come from, the word 'family' still means a lot

And the importance of faith and church has not been forgot

Where I come from, kids are still playing by the stream

Tossing rocks at fish and I sometimes wish it was as good as it seemed

I left so many friends there when I ran away that spring

It's so hard to comprehend the joy I feel when one of those friends ring

When I think about my childhood there, and the man I have become

I know I'll never forget, it's impossible to forget

Where I come from

Before he had even finished the last word, the roar of applause had already began. Greg smiled at this, then spoke, "Clovis, that's the best sound I've heard all night. But my home's more'n just where I'm from," he added, the smile that formerly adorned his face now gone, "it's where I've been. America's been my home since the day I was born, and for the most part, it's a pretty damned safe place to live, 'specially for us folks out in the country."

The murmur of agreement followed this, and Greg carried on. "A month ago, though, we were attacked by aliens. Real-life aliens, swooping down on us and imposing new laws. Sure, they were eventually dealt with, but for the first time in a long time, some of us folk felt powerless. Yeah, we had our guns, but you try to shoot one of 'em suckers? You'd have better luck tryin' to shoot down the International Space Station. I reckon that's the scariest thing that happened to us since we lost our boys last September. We got mighty blue devils both times. This is a slower tune, but it's an important one."

And again, Greg strummed his guitar, and began to sing. The crowd, drunk or not, loved it.

In a dim, desolate abandoned factory, a small group was forming a circle, composed of Angle Man, Heatwave and Bloodsport. Most of them had been there weeks now, and in the boredom, they do one of the few things they can – they chat.

"That Silver Banshee sure has a stick up her butt," Bloodsport stated, glancing over to where her room was located, hoping she couldn't hear. "What's up with her?"

"I wouldn't be too concerned," Angle Man replied, also looking in the same direction. "Maybe it's the Scottish in her? Either way, you saw what she can do yesterday. She can discombobulate half the League with that scream, and just like that, our job's a hell of a lot easier."

"What in the name of God does discombobulate mean," Heatwave asked, quite confused. "You just made that word up, didn't you?"

Bloodsport chuckled heavily at this while Angle Man shook his head in shame. "I don't even know how to reply without sounding insulting."

Heatwave rolled his eyes, while Bloodsport was still guffawing. "Seriously, I've never heard that word before in my life. You can't blame me for that."

"Doctor Spectro will get a kick out of this one," Bloodsport teased.

"You tell him, and you'll taste my fury," Heatwave threatened. A few seconds of silence passed, and the three of them laughed once more.

"Anyways," Angle Man said once the laughter died down, "any idea who Monocle's picking up today?"

Bloodsport and Heatwave shook their heads. Angle Man sighed.

"Well, he said it'd be the last member anyways," Angle Man continued, scratching his head. "So that's, what, seven of us, counting Monocle?"

"I think you're missing one. Psycho-Pirate, maybe," Bloodsport offered.

Heatwave and Angle Man groaned.

"You're right," Bloodsport replied mournfully, "maybe it's best if we did forget him."

The sound of a car pulling up caused the three of them to turn their heads to the entrance.

"Guess it's time to see the new guy," Angle Man said.

"The final piece of the puzzle," Heatwave added, ignoring the looks from his two teammates. "And then it's time to kick the Justice League's ass."

"Hear hear," Bloodsport replied, a grin on his lips.

Greg knocked his knuckles on the wooden bar. "I'd like another cowboy cocktail over her, ma'am," he said, smiling at the young bartender. "Straight whiskey, if you're not familiar with the term."

"Coming right up," she replied, looking guiltily at him. "You know, you have a really good voice, honey."

"Aw shucks," Greg replied bashfully. "Thanks, darling'."

At that moment, a woman ran into the bar, covering her bare breasts with her arms and a copious amount of tears streaming down her face. One look at her short skirt, dyed hair, faded jewelry and fishnet stockings made clear one thing: She was a prostitute.

"Please, help me," she moaned, tightening her grip on her sides, acutely aware many there were far more interested in seeing skin then listening to her. "I've been raped."

The room erupted into laughter, and beneath the bar, Greg Sanders tightened his fists.

"Ain't no one can rape a hooker, darlin'," a particularly boisterous man called out. "Pretty sure it's in them lawbooks. You're s.o.l."

The rest of the room, save the bartender and Greg, hooted at this.

"Yeah miss," another called out, "but maybe we'll think about helping you out if you move those arms of yours outta the way."

Defeated, tearful, and torn down, the young woman quickly scurried out of the bar without another whimper.

With a disdainful look at the crowd he just sang to, entertained for an hour and a half, Greg grabbed his hat off the bar and followed. Fury was in his eyes, and death etched in his face.

"So, who's that," Angle Man said, unimpressed. "Golden Boy?"

"Nah," Bloodsport replied, shaking his head. "Name's Goldface. I've seen him on TV a few times. Fought Green Lantern once."

Heatwave nodded approvingly. "Looks like a pretty serious customer."

The three of them were watching Monocle give the grand tour to the newest, and last, team member. Goldface seemed rather unenthusiastic about their headquarters, but for the most part, kept his face straight. While none of them could hear the conversation, they all heard it before. How Monocle could give the same speech time and time again without cracking amused them. But now, it was over, and Goldface spotted the small group. Angle Man waved his hand, as if saying 'We're dying to meet you.'

The new arrival made his way to the small circle, looking around at all of them. Angle Man held out his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you. As I'm sure you're aware, you're the last member of this Anti-Justice League Squad."

As Goldface took his hand, Heatwave replied in protest, "God, that name's flippin' awful. Hell, Injustice Gang wasn't poetic or nothing, but it beats the hell out of 'Anti-Justice League Squad.'"

Angle Man scowled at Heatwave, but before he could reply, Bloodsport cut in. "Yo, let the new guy talk. How ya doin', man?"

"I am just fine," Goldface replied, somewhat stiffly. "But I am rather bored. The whole ride over, Monocle was yapping and yapping. I'm not much of a talker myself."

"Then for your own sake and sanity," Bloodsport said with urgency, "avoid Psycho-Pirate. He'll drive you cuckoo." At this, Angle Man and Heatwave nodded in agreement.

"To be fair to this man," Goldface replied, his tone conciliatory, "his codename is Psycho-Pirate. Maybe that should have told you something."

Angle Man shook his head. "Psycho, fine, but for the last week, he's been going on and on and on about crop circles and secret cabals. It's driving us all up the wall." He paused, then added, "Besides Silver Banshee, that is. I don't think she listens to a single word any of us say, to be honest."

"About Psycho-Pirate, that's funny," Goldface began, "because on the way here, Monocle-"

"Psycho alert, psycho alert," Doctor Spectro said, walking quickly up to them, pulling his red shades off. Behind him, Psycho-Pirate walked toward the lot of them. Spectro added, in a whisper, "Disperse, disperse."

Heatwave looked at Doctor Spectro distastefully. "What, are we still kids, for Christ's sake?"

"To be honest," Bloodsport chimed in, looking around at their dilapidated headquarters, "this sorta does look like my old high school."

Angle Man raised his eyebrows, as Psycho-Pirate joined the circle next to him. "Detroit?"

Bloodsport nodded. "Detroit."

"I drove backwards once through Mexico without a car," Psycho-Pirate suddenly said.

Everyone groaned.

"When it happens, it's going to be so great," Psycho-Pirate added, as though it fit into the flow of the conversation. "I mean, we're in for a show."

Noncommittally, Heatwave replied, "Sure, sure."

"Hey," Psycho-Pirate said excitably, "have I told you about the Illuminati?"

"Actually," Goldface replied amidst the renewed groans, "I was wondering-"

"Gentlemen, it's late," Monocle spoke, walking up to them. "Tomorrow, we'll hold a few more training sessions, and then within the week, we'll strike against the League. Psycho-Pirate," he added, staring at the unstable individual, "I insist on talking to you as soon as possible."

"As the crow flies," Psycho-Pirate replied. Turning to the five others, he bowed. "I wish you all a fine night."

Both he and Monocle walked off, leaving the others to slowly disperse, Angle Man showing Goldface his room for the moment. Only Bloodsport stood in the center of the room, glancing suspiciously over at Psych-Pirate before finally going to bed.

"Ma'am, please stop," Greg called out to the disheveled girl. "I reckon I'd be able to help you out."

She ceased walking, and turned slowly to him. Her makeup was horribly running down her face, and she was still sobbing.

"What's your name, miss," Greg asked simply, his face stern. "Please, let me help."

She sniffed, and went to wipe her eyes, but as though she forgot she was topless, quickly moved her arm back down. Seeing this, Greg pulled off his jacket and handed it to her, then turned around.

"I'm Mandy," she finally said, and Greg heard she was putting his jacket on. "I am a hooker, like those guys said."

"Like horse hockey," Greg replied heatedly. "You're a human being, a woman, and worth all the dignity and respect a fella can give a lady. You safe for me to face, Mandy?"

"Ye-yeah," she said, and he turned around. "Thanks for your jacket."

"Listen, this is what is gonna happen," Greg replied. "Tell me who did this to you, and where. After that, you just sit here. I'll get you an ambulance. Get yourself checked over," he said smoothly.

"It was only supposed to be one guy," Mandy replied, sniffing away additional tears. "But he called his friends, and they all-" She broke down again, sobbing.

"Please, ma'am, who and where?"

"Quality Inn," Mandy said, wiping her face with her now free hands. "It's just down the road that way." She pointed the opposite direction she was walking, and Greg nodded.

"Where were you going, Mandy? There's nothing out that way 'sides Texico in six-odd miles."

"I was just looking for help," she replied miserably. "Those people in the bar weren't the first people to say no to me."

Disgusted, Greg said, "There ain't a single decent guy in this dungpile. Consarned pieces of-"

"What will you do to them," Mandy cut in.

"Darlin'," he said, gently, "you let me handle that. You just stay still. I'll call an ambulance for you. Don't you worry no more 'bout those fellas. They'll get what's comin' to 'em. You can take my word for it."

Bloodsport was the first one taken out that night.

It was simple – just make a little noise, such as throwing a few coins on the ground, and like that, Robert DuBois, who served his country in the first Gulf War, and had a spot of PTSD, was out cold. A karate chop to the back of the neck, and the muscle-bound villain was done.

Silver Banshee was next. Though unlike Bloodsport, he didn't risk waking her. He simply crept into her office-turned-room, and with a little chloroform, the second one was out of the way.

After tying her up, and more importantly, gagging her, the next on the list was Goldface, who was, by all accounts, a fearsome foe and fair fighter.

As it turned out, though, it's quite difficult to be an adequate combatant when asleep, as was proven also by Angle Man and Heatwave.

Monocle almost smiled at how easily it was all working out.

Doctor Spectro was still awake when Monocle reached his small room. Straightening out his monocle, which was getting extraordinarily bothersome, he walked into the villain's room.

"You're up awfully late, Mr. Emery."

Doctor Spectro nodded, and let out a yawn. "Yeah, I know. I just-"

He suddenly stopped, and looked up in surprise at Monocle. "How'd you know my real name, man? I never told anyone."

"How indeed," Monocle replied, and with a swift punch in the face, Tom Emery, Doctor Spectro, was no longer someone to worry about. Not that he was before.

"It was amazing," a voice spoke, and Monocle looked back. Psycho-Pirate stood in the doorway, his smile crazed. "Maybe it's because I'm off my meds, but this has been the funniest three weeks of my life."

"You told me you didn't even know until after the first couple nights here," Monocle replied, scratching his mustache. "While I appreciate you keeping quiet, what let you in on it?"

"Monocle, a gentlemanly individual by all accounts, taking me aside and talking about the Illuminati three days after picking me up? Come on, you had to know someone would see through it."

Monocle smiled. "I wanted to have fun. At least, as much fun as possible in this dump."

"Was it worth it," Psycho-Pirate asked with a smile.

"Just about," Monocle said, and with a swift punch, Psycho-Pirate was down.

"And only the Turtle remains," muttered Monocle, staring down at the limped bodies of Spectro and Psycho-Pirate. "Only the Turtle remains."

Vigilante quickly sprinted out of the Quality Inn, going for his motorcycle, which he hid behind a dumpster. Both six shooters were tucked back into their holsters and Vigilante wiped some sweat away from his face with his red bandanna, which he pulled off his head.

And he drove away fast, crossing into Texas on US Route 60 merely three minutes after jumping on his motorcycle.

Greg Sanders, his guitar strapped onto his back, was doing close to 80 when Superman flew by, telling him to pull over. Flabbergasted at first, and worried that Superman, and the Justice League, were somehow chasing him, pulled over, and almost panicking completely, began grabbing for one of his guns.

"Whoa, Vigilante, there's no need for that," Superman said, his voice displaying obvious confusion. "I just wanted to talk."

Vigilante breathed in deeply, and let his hand down. "I reckon you're here to snatch me up for the Justice League then, yes?"

Superman nodded, unsurprised. "Word's gotten out?"

"I done heard heroes from Anaheim to Augusta were getting herded up," Vigilante replied. "But I reckon I should be right honest with you. I don't think I can join."

"Why's that, son," Superman asked. "Someone with your talents could help us out quite a bit. In fact, I feel-"

"I shot and killed three people tonight, Superman," Vigilante said, his voice cold. "And I'll tell you what for, I don't regret it."

The Man of Steel stood there in silence, contemplating. "I've heard good things about you, as have the others. It was a unanimous decision to offer you a place in the League."

"Dang if that ain't amazing," Vigilante replied, tipping his hat in respect, "but I reckon you may have spoke prematurely."

Superman thought a bit more, then finally spoke. "In three days, every new member will be moving up to the Watchtower. I want you to be there. The founding members will hold a trial, and determine whether or not your actions were warranted. If we determine that they were, you will be granted membership in the Justice League. If not, then the official story will be that you prefer working alone. Given your namesake, that might not be hard at all to sell."

"I thank you, I truly do," Vigilante said. "I'd be honored to join the League, but at the same time, I don't want to besmirch it either."

"Then we will see you in three days," Superman replied grimly. "We'll send word of where to be so you can be teleported up there. I'll inform the senior members of this trial, and we will go from there."

Vigilante nodded, and Superman flew away into the night.

Well, dagnabbit, Greg Sanders considered, glancing up at the quickly-fading shape of Superman, I really done stepped in it this time.

And he felt bad. Disappointing Superman, who had helped stave off an alien invasion, was embarrassing. He also knew, though, that when it came down to it, he'd have done it over again.

If that kept him out of the League, as far as Greg was concerned, then it's a small price to pay for justice.

Monocle knocked loudly on the door, but before Turtle could answer, he barged in.

Wide-eyed, Turtle glanced up in surprise. "Is something wrong, friend," he asked, drawing out each syllable with excruciating annoyance.

"Been playing a hard game, Turtle. Ever since I found out you escaped prison," Monocle replied. He ripped his namesake out of his eye and threw it to the ground. "Three guards supposedly died, though I know China had you released to further deteriorate the state of Louisiana."

"I don't-"

"Not only do you pose a threat to the stability of this state, you pose a threat to the Justice League. Or would have, had you actually been able to contact Monocle."

Turtle stared bug-eyed at him. Wordless. Which, when it came down to it, is the way the Question liked it.

"Infiltrating was easy enough. Getting you all in one place, and taking you out, easy also."

"But, who are you," Turtle managed to croak, his confusion etched onto his face.

"That is the question," he replied.

Twenty minutes later, the Question, now donning his typical blue fedora and trench coat, not to mention his faceless visage, exited the long-abandoned factory he's called home for three and a half-weeks now.

He shuffled forward, his happiness already waning. So many criminals, but did I go after the right ones?

Question didn't know. He knew a few things, though, for sure: Once he got back to Hub City, someone from the League would track him down and offer him membership. Question would accept, because if he didn't, the League wouldn't trust him. But would he trust the League?

He didn't know this either. He did know, he just prevented a challenge to the League, one composed of B and C-rate villains, one that would be unlikely to cripple them, but again, you never know.

You never know.