The DCFutures FanFic group is aware that many of the names and 
concepts used in this work of fiction are the property of DC 
Comics.  We use them WITHOUT PERMISSION for NO PROFIT, but rather a 
look into the future of some of our favorite characters.  Some of 
the concepts and all of the story is, however ENTIRELY original, 
and property of the authors.  So there.

****

INFINITY, INC.: DCF #1

****

Story by Jason Tippitt scarcrest@hotmail.com
Script by Erik Burnham darvey@rocketmail.com & Jason Tippitt

****

This story takes place AFTER the events in Batman:DCF #36

****

ONE WEEK AGO
WARRIOR'S BAR, NYC

	It's been too long, Tim thought.  Too long since I've been 
here.  Glancing around Warrior's, he thought of Shannon and sighed.  
This was where they had met, after all.  This very booth that he 
was sitting in was filled with his laughter, and hers, and Guy's, 
and Arianna's... Arianna, the best friend who had no clue where 
Shannon was.
	SIGH.  Tim had promised not to look for her; she didn't 
need to be seeing him, not after what she'd gone through... at 
least, what he'd managed to piece together.
	"Excuse me, miss?" Tim asked the girl with the tray as she 
passed.  She kept going.  Now was not the time, little girl.  
"Hey!" Tim yelped, causing several patrons to turn their heads.  
"You, in the skirt!  I'd like some help, over here!"
	The waitress, her eyes burning with a cold contempt for the 
owner of that voice which had just addressed her, as well as the 
reddened cheeks of someone highly embarrassed, turned to face Tim.  
Her nametag read "Tara."
	"You will not address me with such disrespect.  Wait your 
turn."
	"Wait my turn?" Tim asked, trying to place the girl's 
accent.  "Are you kidding me?"
	Tara as well was trying to place something... in this case, 
the face that was insulting her.  She was certain she had seen it 
before, but couldn't place it with a name.  And it hardly mattered; 
this peasant's aura was even more displeasing than those she was 
forced to share quarters with.
	"Tara, hon, why don't you get back to the bar and fetch Mr. 
Drake here a cold one?" Guy Gardner asked, stepping into the dining 
area from behind Tara's seething form.
	"Drake?" she repeated.  That name... she knew it.  It hung 
in the air with promises of money, freedom, the life to which she 
was accustomed.  Drake.  If she could make him, he would save her 
from this life...
	Yes.  "Yes, sir."  The words stuck in her throat, but the 
possibilities eased them by.  She smiled to Tim as she turned, 
trying to walk away in as seductive a manner as possible.
	"What's up with that one?" Tim asked.
	"I think she smells some money," Guy laughed and pointed 
back to the booth.  "Have a seat, stranger."
	"So..." Tim began.  "When did you take on the ray of light 
over there?"
	"She's part of an experiment."
	"I don't like that combination of words, Guy."
	"Ha.  Seriously, she n' a few other kids are gonna make a 
difference.  I'm gonna teach 'em how to do it, and they're gonna 
make the world a better place.  They'll be a team."
	"Team, huh?"
	"Hey, don't mock me 'cause I got aspirations.  I'm tryin' 
to put my degree to use, here.  Teach these kids about right and 
wrong, make 'em decent people in the process, I hope.  Tara there, 
she could use a little help with that attitude of hers, so I put 
her to work on the tables.  The others do other things, y'know, odd 
jobs and stuff, around the place..."
	"...But nobody eats for free."
	"Somethin' like that.  It's all legit, it's all clean, and 
it builds character.  Hopefully, the right kind'a character."
	"Here is your refreshment, Mr. Drake."  Tara returned with 
an ear-to-ear grin on her face, leaning over the table.
	"Ah, thank you?" Tim said, trying not to smirk.
	"Please, do not hesitate to summon me if you need anything 
more."
	"I, ah, won't.  Er, I'll do that."  Tim raised his glass.  
"Thanks."  Tara smiled and bowed slightly, and backed away.
	"Oh, yeah.  Definitely smells the money," Guy laughed.  Tim 
shrugged it off.  "But really, the real reason I'm doing this, Tim, 
is to get back to the old days."
	"Pardon?"
	"The old days.  When there were heroes you could look up 
to, y'know, somethin' better n' the League we got right now and the 
new Suicide Squad."
	"Right," Tim frowned.  He could see two people in the 
restaurant thanks to a mirror in the back.  One of them was 
extraordinarily beautiful, glowing.  Tim knew her -- the model.  
The other was the guy Eve used to kick around with, the archer.  He 
didn't really feel like talking to Johnny Longbow right yet... and 
he knew he didn't want to discuss Squad politics at the moment with 
Guy... they'd saved his life and his reputation, after all.  "Guy, 
I gotta get out of here," Tim sighed.
	"Get out?  Ya just got here, man!  I got steaks on!"
	"I know, but I'm not feeling so good.  I'll catch up with 
you later."
	"You sure?" Guy asked, rising from his seat with Tim.
	"I'm sure," Tim nodded, accepting Guy's outstretched hand 
and shaking it.  "Thanks for the beer."
	"Anytime," Guy nodded.
	Minutes later, Tara entered, smiling, with the 
aforementioned steak.  "Mr. Drake, I... where has he gone?"
	"Home," Guy answered.
	"Damn it!" Tara swore, tossing the plate of food at the 
table and storming off.  
	Guy watched her leave, shrugged, and started into the food, 
which was still mostly on the plate.  Waste not, want not.

****

FIVE DAYS AGO
BURNHAM, MAINE

	It's peaceful here, Alisha thought, surveying her new 
property.  And that's exactly what she needed.  Peace.  She needed 
away from the cities, away from the League, away from everything 
and everyone she had ever known.  Away from her team, and away from 
all her memories of Daniel.
	Alisha sat on her porch, her body's temperature shifting to 
make up for the harsh New England winter.  She never even noticed 
it.
	Should I change my name?  She wondered.  Go back to my 
maiden name?  It was a possibility, but she had so little left of 
Dan, his name was almost the only thing that she could manage to 
keep.
	She would not abandon his name.
	Inside, Alisha looked at herself in the mirror.  Her jaw 
became more jagged, her hair shortened and darkened, her form 
became more angular and rough.  Dan was looking back at her from 
the mirror, and it was more than she could bear.
	Alisha broke down in tears and collapsed onto the floor, 
once again wearing her own skin.  Why did Dan have to die?  They 
were going to have a baby and live happily ever after, just like 
the fairy tales always said.  Just like Mom always said.  Good 
girls got rewarded.  Hadn't she been good?  Hadn't she put her life 
on the line for people she didn't even know?  Hadn't she given 
enough to the League without asking anything in return?
	All she wanted was Daniel, and he was taken away.  The 
autopsy said that it was a malfunction of his cybernetic implant; 
it had sent the wrong electric impulses through his body and 
interrupted necessary functions.  The same thing had happened to 
others, though... either the technology was at fault, or the League 
was.  Star didn't know, so she left.  She took her vacation, added 
in some time to grieve, and never told them where.
	Why did she keep her communicator with her, though?  So 
they could contact her?  Track her?  Come and take care of her and 
tell her that everything was going to be all right, Daniel was fine 
and everything would be perfect again?
	Nothing would be perfect again.
	Nothing.
	Lightning sparked from Alisha's eyes and leapt forth, 
destroying the communicator and setting the wall on fire.  Quickly, 
she became a beast with the power to blow the fire out and saved 
her home.  And then, from the strain, Alisha Michaels passed out.
	Sweet dreams, Alisha.

****

TWO DAYS AGO,
NEW YORK CITY

	Two of the Justice League's non-powered gunmen stood watch 
outside an uptown apartment, weapons holstered.  "So, what do you 
think's going to happen, Pete?" one asked.
	"I dunno, Fred," his partner replied.  "Seems mighty damn 
weird for a 'malfunction' to take out half the metas.  The same 
defect in half the cybernetics, but not the other half?  I think 
they were sending out some high-tech pink slips, you ask me."
	"It was more than half," Fred said.  "More like two-thirds, 
maybe even three-quarters.  I hear there are only about 50 masks 
left on active duty.  Hell, even the Jerusalem contingent is 
letting folks retire."
	"My dad would be so proud."
	"What's that, Pete?" Fred asked.
	"I didn't say nothing..."
	An invisible pair of hands grabbed the men's heads and 
butted them together, knocking them unconscious.  Jonathan Bolander 
entered the unlock sequence on his apartment door's keypad, and 
stepped inside, half expecting to hear alarms blaring.
	"Right on schedule," he muttered as he saw his body come 
back into view.  He stepped into the apartment, finding his 
belongings tossed all over the place, as expected.  The League's 
new Most Wanted was home.
	He stepped into the study, feet tangling in a pair of boxer 
shorts left on the floor, hoping his "brothers in arms" hadn't 
found the safe.  His computer was gone-- no surprise there.  They 
were probably reading and rereading his journal entries, looking 
for clues on how long he'd been a Patriot plant (the whole time.)  
How many times he'd betrayed a mission (none: deep cover meant 
playing the role of Justice Leaguer completely, even arresting 
one's Patriot kinsmen -- although he had let the Blackhawks' 
support crew get away.)  How much he knew about the plans of 
Patriot and the Suicide Squad (nothing -- Patriot had little 
unified leadership, and as far as he knew, the Suicide Squad was 
still disbanded, although rumor had it Nemesis was, as always, 
looking for recruits).
	He stepped over to his bookshelf, finding much of it 
undisturbed.  He crossed himself, praying this wasn't the set-up 
for a bomb, and pulled a leather-bound edition of Paine's "The Age 
of Reason" from the shelf.  The shelf slid three feet to the right, 
revealing a safe.  He quickly entered the combination -- a totally 
random set of numbers unrelated to his birthdate or that of anyone 
close to him, no driver's license or significant dates involved -- 
and opened the safe.
	It all came down to this.  A bottle of Miraclo tablets -- 
40 of them he'd stashed away over 10 years with the League filling 
out and monitoring his intake.  A framed photo of happier times -- 
Anne-Marie and himself visiting his cousin, the Right Reverend 
Louis Craemer and his late wife Janice, and their foster daughter 
Abby -- and Anne-Marie's engagement ring, hanging on a gold chain.  
...And a bundle of paper currency, good on most of the Eastern 
Seaboard.
	He lifted the items out of the safe, dropping his bag of 
belongings to the floor to fill it.  He put the items inside, then 
stood up.  "Damn, dropped the ring," he muttered, bending back down 
to pick it up from where it lay next to the bag.
	It saved his life.  A searing blast of energy tore across 
the apartment, streaking over Bolander -- singeing the hair on the 
back of his head -- and struck the wall beside him as he clasped 
the ring.
	"Damn," he cursed, running into the next room, slipping the 
necklace with the ring around his neck, slamming a Miraclo tablet 
into his mouth and biting down.  He shouldn't take more than one a 
day, but this wasn't the time to worry about dying -- he was too 
busy, well, worrying about dying.
	The glass melted, and the shimmering silver form of Captain 
Atom set down in the living room.  The second Captain Atom to 
appear in this era -- this one called himself Cameron Scott and 
was, as far as Hourman could tell, the real deal.  Not that this 
was any comfort; this one was blindly loyal to Justice, and it 
didn't look like things had changed, despite the question over 
Justice's new demeanor.
	"You're under arrest, traitor," Captain Atom said.  
"Although you'll make things a lot easier on yourself if you just 
let me kill you... unless you'd rather be tried and humiliated 
first."
	"So, how's Robin?" Bolander asked, feeling his metabolism 
start to churn.  If he died right now, he thought, this would 
really suck.  He'd always hoped to die like he'd lived -- with a 
beautiful woman nearby.  Not that he'd always lived that way, but 
he'd wanted to, damn it.  And why was he worrying about this type 
of thing now?  "Are you and the boss still giving him loyalty 
lessons?"
	"That child knows more about it than you ever did," Captain 
Atom said, stepping forward.
	Ah. Bolander knew what to do now.  "Well, Cap, we'll always 
have Paris," he said, thinking really hard about... somewhere he'd 
never been, yeah.
	Captain Atom grabbed for him, but ended up with a handful 
of air as a pop of imploding air resounded through the room.  "Damn 
it!" he shouted, blasting Bolander's holovision player with a surge 
of energy.  He stepped outside the apartment and picked the 
communicator off one of the unconscious guards.  "Captain Atom to 
team leader," he said. "I lost the subject. He teleported out."

****

YESTERDAY
OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI

	"I'm overwhelmed, Kent."  Helena Shaw smiles in the dark; 
oh, the big, bad gangster called Priest claims he hates it when she 
uses his real name--
	"I hate it when you call me that," he grumbles.
	--But she knows, deep down inside, that he's a softie.  Um, 
no.  More like he's a lion -- loud and ferocious, but still likes 
to be scratched behind the ears... although he puts on a big show 
about it.
	"Overwhelmed by what?" he asked, drifting in and out of 
sleep.
	The dark-haired bounty hunter lay beside him, head propped 
up by her hand.  "You brought me here, to your home," she said.  
"Usually we just go to one of the places you keep..."
	"This is 'just a place I keep,'" he said.  "It's just got 
more stuff in it."
	Yeah.  Good cover there.  Avoid the moment at any cost.  
Helena smiled, kissed him on the cheek.  "Just keep telling 
yourself things like that," she chided.  "Maybe you'll start 
believing them."
	"How can I fall in love with someone who could get hired to 
arrest me at any time?"
	Helena was almost asleep herself when the question jolted 
her back to consciousness.
	"What did you say?"
	He turned to look at her.  "Business is business, Helena.  
That's my creed, and that's yours.  At least professionally..."
	"After what happened last Christmas..."
	"It was the solstice, actually."  (* See Afterlife: 
Children of God for details -- Mana-Jing)
	After what happened back in December, how could you think 
that?" she asked.
	"You mean you'd turn down a job?" he asked.  "That's unlike 
you."
	"No, I mean -- how can you go on saying it's just 
business?"
	"So I can sleep at night," Priest answered.  She didn't 
hear him, though -- her commlink was ringing.
	"What?" she answered tersely.  "It couldn't wait 'til 
morning, Donut?"  Another pause.  "Okay, yeah, I'll be there in a 
little while."  She snapped the phone shut.
	"Business is business," Priest said, walking toward his 
bathroom and shutting the door.  He looked in the mirror at himself 
and shook his head in disgust.  "And *your* business is being a 
total moron."
	He walked back out into the bedroom, "Look, Helena, I--"  
But she was gone.  "Eh, I'll tell you next time," he said, lying 
back down.  He didn't sleep well that night.

****

GOTHAM CITY -- WAYNE MANOR

	Tim sat lazily on his recliner, staring at the ceiling.  
Clark was in town -- no doubt testing out that new gig of his.  
Alfred had been nattering away, but had finally taken the hint that 
Tim wasn't listening and thus shut himself up.
	The teleline had been disconnected.
	There were no further interruptions.  Tim found himself in 
an almost dreamlike state; he wasn't asleep, but he was only 
marginally aware of his surroundings.  Like he had just gone inside 
of himself... a turtle instead of a bat.
	Inside this shell, Tim thought about Guy's words.  The 
'good old days.'  And then Tim thought about these same days that 
he had visited... the days where the world was protected by a REAL 
Justice League...
	Tim stopped himself, regretting still the way he had acted.
	"But you don't get through a day walking backwards."
	"Too true, Master Tim.  I take it your impersonation of a 
deaf-mute is now at an end?"
	"Yes Alfred, it is."
	"Splendid.  Did I tell you that..."
	"Not now, Alfred.  We have work to do."
	"I beg your pardon, sir?"
	"I need you to round me up information on all the known 
metahumans operating OUTSIDE of the Justice League that have access 
to high technologies.  I also want the names and information on any 
metas with high profiles... and while you're at it, get me the 
names of the work for hire."
	"For whatever reas--"
	"Forward the information to the Lexus; I'm going to New 
York.  Damned if I'm going to pay for all this myself..."
	"Pay for all what, sir?" Alfred asked, lost as to exactly 
what the information he was gathering was to be used for.
	"For the good old days, Alfred." Tim said as he strode 
towards the garage.  "For the good old days."

****

GOTHAM CITY -- LOWTOWN

	Now I know why I've never been here before, Hourman figured 
as he trudged through the subterranean shopping mecca that was 
Gotham's Lowtown.  I hate it.  A lot.  
	But I need help.  Someone's help.  It might as well be 
Batman.  Never met the man, but he looks like he can handle 
himself.
	Besides, this is Gotham... who else am I going to go to?

****

	Danny Parker viewed the world through smoke colored 
glasses, both literally and figuratively.  Literally because, well, 
his eyes and light just didn't quite mix anymore.  Figuratively 
because, well, does anyone know the definition of the word 
'pessimist?'  Look it up.  See Dan's picture for yourself.
	As a lifelong resident of Gotham's Lowtown -- meaning he 
was poor and had grown up as a mallrat, working in various retail 
establishments and eateries -- Dan had a healthy distaste for life.  
Suicide?  Sure, he'd tried it once.  Did it work?  No.
	Thanks to that accident.
	On the other hand, the same accident had given him 
abilities he hadn't thought possible.  Some mook in laurels had 
wanted him to do something worthwhile with them -- besides getting 
paid?  Yeah, right -- but you take things as they come.  That's 
what Danny had learned down here.  Take the good and the bad as 
they come.
	Say, that guy looked a little like that Leaguer guy... 
whatsisname... Pocketwatch?  Minutem -- Hour!  Hourman.
	Hmm.  His sig was still worth a decent amount in trade.  It 
could get Dan credits, coin, paper money, or be used as barter over 
at the memorabilia mall.  Hmm.  Guess it was time for an 
introduction.

****  

	"Hi there!  Hourman, right?  I'm a fan."
	Jonathan Bolander was in no mood for the public.  The 
public -- sheesh.  He was aware what they had done for him, but 
still -- this one took the cake.  Dark glasses, foppish straw-
colored hair, and a black wardrobe complete with red suspenders.
	Oh, fashion police, where are you when you're needed?
	"My name's Dan Parker and I was just wondering..."
	"Look, Dan, I'm kind of busy right now.  I'm looking for 
someone, so..."
	"Oh come on, I'm just looking to get a sig, man!"
	"Later."
	"Oh, sure... like you're going to go to the trouble of 
making yourself easy to find later?  Give me a break!"
	"JONATHAN BOLANDER, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!"
	A rock of stress caught in Bolander's throat.  The League 
had caught up with him.  A casual turn revealed one Peyton 
O'Reilly, better known as Shamrock.  Not that Bolander had to turn; 
that Irish brogue of O'Reilly's was so recognizable.
	Shamrock was a great go-to man; he did his job quickly and 
efficiently -- Bolander had used him once or twice... to neutralize 
high-powered security risks.  He was completely invulnerable, and 
his strength was just... off the charts.
	That rock of stress just turned into a mountain.
	"Hey, pal -- you can wait your turn!" Dan Parker, the 
annoying sig-hound, screamed to the gigantic Shamrock.
	"Don't make him mad," Bolander whispered.  "His powers grow 
with anger, and he looks pretty upset right--"
	"Your powers grow with anger?  Oh, that's original.  Look, 
you stupid mick; step to the side until I've taken care of business 
with the celeb here, you got it?"
	"MICK?!?" Shamrock's body shimmered and grew a fourth again 
its original size.  O'Reilly's accented voice shook with the rage 
that fueled him.  "STEP ASIDE YOURSELF OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES!"
	Jonathan was worried.  He was already suffering the 
twitches from his overuse of Miraclo a few days before; he couldn't 
risk it again... but then, there was the life of the sig-hound.  
The life that would step between himself and O'Reilly and, provided 
he used a pill, give him the chance to get away.
	It was almost worth it...
	Jonathan was about to reach for a pill when he saw the sig-
hound's body convulse and expand on it's own, stretching towards 
the larger man.  Like a python, the mass of flesh wrapped around 
Shamrock, squeezing him.  'That's not going to work,' Bolander 
thought, completely correct.  Shamrock shrugged his shoulders and 
actually ripped the sig-hound's body.  Bolander gasped and reached 
for a pill -- no need, Parker grunted audibly and flowed anew, 
forcing his mercurial form into the mouth of the larger man -- 
O'Reilly -- that loomed before him.  
	What Bolander could not see was the battle that was waged.  
Parker's plasticlike form stretched and expanded within the giant, 
filling his lungs and taking grip of O'Reilly's heart, making it 
stop momentarily.
	...One might say attacking the vulnerabilities of the 
invulnerable.  Before long the giant's air supply had been cut off, 
despite his efforts to pull the sig-hound away.  Bolander could 
only watch with a dropped jaw as O'Reilly fell to the ground and 
the sig-hound, Parker, returned to his normal shape.
	"Now, can I get that sig?" Parker asked.
	"You saved my life," Bolander stuttered in surprise.
	"I saved your life to get your sig and make some cash.  No 
offense, but I still have some things to do today, so..."
	"Where did you get your powers?"
	"Oh, this is going to be a long day." Parker sighed, 
crestfallen.  "Great.  Say -- do you have a smoke on you?"

****

SOMEWHERE IN LIMBO
	
	They didn't know how long they had been stuck in the 
nothingness of limbo.  Hours, days, weeks, months... years... 
passage of time was not something their tiny minds could 
contemplate.  They knew only subservience to their lord, and 
destruction in his name.
	They had been sent through the boom tube to conquer on 
behalf of their master, but they had never arrived at their 
destination.  They did not know or care as to why they had not yet 
arrived, they were not intelligent enough to question their delay.  
They merely grew more and more impatient, and with their impatience 
came an equally powerful bloodlust -- one that even Darkseid would 
have found impressive.
	A light sparked on the edge of their vision and the 
Parademons moved towards it.  Sounds of a city, of civilization, 
of...
	...Conquest.

****

TO BE CONTINUED IN INFINITY, INC.: DCF #2

****

This issue was brought to you by Erik Burnham and Jason Tippitt, 
who decided a team book would be fun... and y'know what?  IT IS!  
Question -- is this an ongoing or a limited series?  Well, that all 
depends on YOU.  We have TONS of story ideas... but maybe you don't 
wanna read 'em!  Let us know.  And send us some mail for issue #2 
(due out soon) which features the convergence of everything, and 
the solidification of the DCF's latest -- and hopefully greatest -- 
team!  Who will make the cut?  WHO WILL ANSWER THE CALL?  I 
guarantee you'll wanna be here for:

MAYHEM IN GOTHAM!  (Until we get a better title.)

Send all comments to darvey@rocketmail.com and 
scarcrest@hotmail.com