Humming a song that wouldn't be written for several centuries, Booster Gold sat on his bed, elbow leaning against his suitcase as he rested his chin in his hand.

He'd finished packing; now he had started thinking.

Some people would have been surprised to discover that since traveling from the 25th century to the 20th, Booster had spent quite a lot of time in thought. Granted, they were seldom deep thoughts on the meaning of life or the sound of one hand clapping (though sometimes at breakfast he wondered irritably why toast always lands buttered side down.) No, mainly they ran along the lines of "why doesn't my 'teevee' respond to voice commands?" and "how many world wars have there been so far?" and, one of the biggies, "which pedal is the brake, again?" If the truly wise man is the one who realizes the depth of his ignorance, then Booster was definitely one of the intelligentsia.

But although he was vague on the details of the 20th century, Booster did have a basic, instinctive understanding of its people, because people were always the same. The trappings of the day were thrown over around a familiar, humanity-shaped framework. Once you'd realized that old men were complaining about the "degenerate, worthless youth these days" in Greece in 1083 BC, you really knew everything you needed to about humanity.

Currently humanity was troubling Booster, a specific bit of humanity named Maxwell Lord.

Max. Max had weaseled his way into the Justice League under false pretences and remained there by being sufficiently repentant and considerably capable. The Martian Manhunter had assured the Leaguers that Max truly was a changed man, and no one argued with him . . . partly because Martians were telepathic, so he ought to know, and partly because . . . well, he was J'onn.

But forgiving didn't mean forgetting . . . and one of the things that hadn't been forgotten was that Booster had been recruited by Max.

When Max had propositioned him--no, wait, Booster knew better than to leave that open to 20th century interpretation--when Max had invited him to join the Justice League, Booster hadn't known that Mr. Lord wasn't, as he claimed, acting with the League's knowledge and permission. He hadn't known that Max was nudging the League towards ever great publicity and popularity for his own ends. He certainly hadn't known that Max had staged Booster's fight with the Royal Flush Gang, which was what had earned Booster Gold membership in the League to begin with.

"Of course we believe you, Booster," J'onn said kindly when the facts came to light and Booster protested rather wildly that he hadn't known. The Martian threw a sympathetic smile down the conference table. "Max admitted as much. No one questions your veracity."

But even as he said it Black Canary had studied her fingernails (pointlessly, since she wore gloves) and Blue Beetle's eyes had flicked towards Booster, sharp as a knife, and Guy Gardner--well, Guy let out a reverberant belch which inspired loud and lengthy dialogue that J'onn later cut out of the minutes of the meetings, to be replaced with "Fifteen minutes of childish quarreling followed." A distraction for which Booster was grateful.

So it was a rocky start, but one that had gradually improved as Booster followed along on missions and smiled brightly at everything and concentrated on getting along with everyone, even Guy, (although that seemed to be something of a wasted effort.) And now he hardly ever walked into an awkward silence that meant he'd just been the subject of discussion and dissection.

Still, Booster felt that being handpicked by Maxwell Lord for a mission would only lead to him, Booster, once again being feathered by the same brush as Max, or whatever the saying was. He didn't want to be stuck as someone else's satellite anyway; he wanted to forge his own orbit.

But how to do that, hmmm . . .

Booster shrugged and put the matter aside for the moment. He would figure something out. In the meantime . . . he grinned as a new thought struck him, a thought that Max definitely would not have approved of. Bouncing to his feet, he trotted into the hall in search of a phone.

Barda shook the last of the utensils out of their drawer as Beetle walked in. Well, he didn't so much enter the room as hover in the doorway, actually. But Barda knew he was there. You didn't last long on Apokalips if you didn't notice people behind you. "Hello, Blue Beetle!" she said cheerfully.

"Oh . . . hi Barda." He paused as she unplugged the toaster, carefully wrapped it in tissue paper, and fitted it in one of the massive suitcases gaping open on the floor. "Whaaat are you doing, exactly?"

"Packing," Barda replied, wondering if she should take the popcorn popper. On the one hand, it only made popcorn. On the other hand, what if they wanted popcorn? Reaching a decision, she unplugged it.

"I can't help but notice," Beetle said after a lengthy silence, "that you're taking all the appliances."

"That is an exaggeration," Barda said, not looking up.

"Well, true, you haven't taken the stove or the fridge yet--"

"There you are, then," she said triumphantly.

"Ah . . . right," he said lamely, obviously unable to come to grips with her flawless logic. "But you are taking everything else."

"Not the dishwasher."

Beetle rubbed his forehead hard enough that little blue creases spread across his mask. "Right, not that either. But everything else."

"I am going on a mission," Barda explained, testing the sharpness of the steak knives. "Obviously a Modern Woman must make sure that she brings the appropriate tools with her when travelling to a new location."

The man in blue slowly drew up his gaping jaw. "R . . . ight."

Barda threw him a sympathetic look. She didn't blame the Beetle for his confusion. Being a Modern Woman on this planet was tortorously complicated.

With dedication and training, with sweat and tears, with perseverance and good old American know how, the United States Air Force had finally succeeded in teaching Captain Atom how to cross his legs. Or, rather, they had taught him how not to cross his legs.

Do not throw your leg across your knee so fast you're in danger of dislocating something, they had told him. Do not press your legs together so hard that they look like they're about to meld together into one lump of silver. Do not, we really mean this, do NOT "casually" drop your hands to shield your nether regions, because there will never be a casual way to pull that off. And, no, you may not have pants.

His Air Force trainers pointed out that, in his silvery superhero form, Captain Atom wasn't anatomically correct anyway, which was partially true. In most ways he actually was. From the ridges of (literally) steely muscles of his chest to the sleek dip of his lower back to the wash of chrome across his thighs, he resembled nothing so much as a talented artisan's masterpiece, in dedication to the human form. Except, it seemed, the artist had been slightly embarrassed about one particular . . . area . . . of the human form, and instead of detailing it had simply left a bit of a tactfully smooth bump there.

Unlike the hypothetical artist, Captain Atom did not suffer from slight embarrassment. Instead he suffered from a hell of a lot of embarrassment, with lashings of humiliation, shame, and horror on the side. True, he was about as likely to get arrested for indecent exposure as a naked Ken doll, but it was the idea of the thing.

So the various psychologists and and experts of the armed forces had worked long and hard to get the often irritable Captain to adjust and stop trying to strategically angle his body away from occupants when entered a room, which gave him an odd gait like a gimpy crab.

Finally the military beat it out of him. Not literally, of course; he was their HERO, wasn't he? No, they used memos and paperwork and hours of practice.

And so Captain Atom lowered himself with measured slowness into the plush chair in front of Max's desk, hands on the arms of the chair as he scooted it forward a bit before raising his left leg a few inches, pivoting it in a steady swing until it landed gently on his right knee.

Captain Atom had been with the Justice League International for about a week and trusted Maxwell Lord IV about one eighty-ninth the distance he could throw him. (Super-strength, in common with many powers, wreaks havoc on cliches.) Max smiled all the time, and oddly enough the flash of his teeth reminded Captain Atom of the unsmiling eyes that studied him whenever he paced the halls of the underground military base that was too secret to have a name. A calculating look. Captain Atom was not big on metaphors, but if he'd tried his hand at symbolism he would've referenced chessboards and pawns.

And why was it, he wondered, that he was always the pawn?

"I'm just saying I may have commitments that prevent me from . . . from spending an extended stay at this house of yours--"

"This house of yours, Captain," Max interrupted genially. "What kind of commitments do you have that take precedence over the Justice League, exactly?"

Somehow Cap would've felt much better if Max had delivered that line with a scowl or accusatory stare instead of, as ever, a gleaming smile. A facade, definitely, but the attitude behind it seemed more probing than upset. Atom shifted uncomfortably, almost switching his crossed legs, but remembering not to just in time. "Well. Outstanding . . . cases. Tracking, uh, villains. That sort of thing." Was that even superhero language? Did they call their assignments "cases"? "Of course," he added, "I'm flattered you want me to help with this surveillance mission and I'd like to help if I could, but--"

"Of course you would, Captain. Of course you would." Max leaned back in his chair, lazily spinning a pencil in his hand. "And the League wants to help you. So I'll tell you what. You just take all the time you need for those cases of yours."

"Really?" Cap couldn't believe his luck.

"Of course! After all, there are three people in the house; we don't need everyone watching the suspects all the time." Max gave a little laugh to underline how absurd the idea was. "In fact, why don't you take Booster Gold with you when you go on those little adventures? He could use the experience."

"Er . . ."

"Or take Barda. You can give her some lessons in self-restraint and reasonable force."

"Ah . . ."

"I know, why don't we alternate which one you take?" Max suggested brightly. "Yes, that's what we'll do. Don't worry, Captain Atom, you're with the Justice League now. You'll never need to do a mission alone again."

"How . . . wonderful," Cap choked out.