JLA Draft


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I knew I needed to get Tim right away to be honest and, for the weird idea I have, he was almost a critical element. I also found it funny to pick the sidekick before the hero. Honestly, I can see very few members of the Batfamily still being there by the end of round 2. Now comes the downside of being near the front of the pack: having to wait 22 picks and hope no one picks my next 2 picks.

Also, I edited it into the first post but I made a spreadsheet on Googledocs to keep track of picks and turn order.. You can find it here.

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Gliding between molecules of air, it only took a matter of seconds to cross the state. Late, he thought, always frigging late!

There was literally no time to ponder the irony because he stopped on a dime at his front door.

Protruding from the pale wood at eye-level, a silver dagger with an opulent handle held to the door a note on plain white paper: I know what you & your friends did. You will die for it. -D

She opened the door, her raven hair already spinning as she turned around - he saw it in super slow motion as he does everything - and said: "Dinner's on the table, Wally."

"I can't," he said crushing the note in his crimson-gloved fist. "I have to work."


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Abandoned Warehouse, Gotham City. A flashlight flickers into view, as a athletic man steps toward a pile of crates. He's wearing a trenchcoat and hat, his face is out of view. In a calm, careful voice, he speaks into a cellphone.

???: I know, okay? I'm telling you, Sionis isn't using the weapons and he isn't selling them, he's just running them.

The man slides a crowbar into one of the crates and pries it open,

???: Track the shipping order. I dunno, Google it or something. You're the expert.

The man pulls the lid of the crate off, and gasps. A gloved hand reaches in, and lifts out a gun. Not an AK-47 or anything from this world, but something alien, with sharp angles and a dull, black metal.

???: This is a bit bigger than I expected, Professor. We're going to need some back up.

From behind the man, someone clears his throat. The man turns, seeing a very large, very strong thug, wielding a hunk of leaden pipe. The man lifts his head, his face finally coming into view. There is no face. The thug gasps.

The Question: Hey, Tot. I'm gonna have to call you back. I've got a thug situation here. … No, it shouldn't be a big deal. I'll be home for dinner.

The Question places the phone in the front pocket of his pristine blue suit.

Thug: W-w-what are you?

The Question: That is the question, isn't it?

The thug cries out, swinging the pipe, but the Faceless Avenger simply dodges, before disarming him with a kick.

The Question: My personal recommendation for you, my man?

The Question slams his fist into the Thug's head.

The Question: Just lay down. I'll stop beating on you, your bosses will never know what happened.

The thug swings a huge fist, which again, The Question dodges, countering with a leaping knee to the face, mashing the thug's nose across his face, splattering blood. The thug falls and stays down. The Question brushes a nearly invisible mote from his suit, before picking up the alien weapon he had found and moving toward the door, pausing only to drop a blank business card on the chest of the unconcious thug.


Born Charles Victor Zsaz, better known as TV reporter Vic Sage, The Question is an enigmatic man of mystery. A talented martial artist, a daring detective and kind of an asshole, most (including Sage himself) would call this faceless man a low-rent Batman. But The Question has a few advantages the Dark Knight doesn't, as a life long loner, Sage only has a few liabilities, and more importantly, he can work under the radar and outside the spotlight. Sage died of cancer during the events of 52, passing his mantle to Renee Montoya, but found himself awake, six months ago, in his own bed. No one, save himself, remembers his death. Sage is cancer-free, and determined to find out what brought him back, but every answer he's found has only left him with more questions.

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