Welcome to part 2! All usual warnings apply: I don't own Justice League and suing me would be a waste of time 'cause I have no money. I really really enjoy writing JLU Question, the guy's nuts! Hope someone decides to review soon, I'm lonely!!! Also, guess I should have mentioned this is a post-Destroyer fic. Not that it too much matters, but, there you go.
Everyone was quiet as they headed back to the Watchtower. It would take some time to track where Foxglove had been sent. Until then they had no idea if she was in Tokyo, in which case she was likely perfectly content to wait, or if she'd been transported into deep space. Flash was doing his best to keep optimistic. Superman, Batman, and J'Onn were silent, which eventually had the effect of squelching the majority of conversation. After several long moments Flash was unable to keep his peace. The quiet was oppressive and made him feel like it was a funeral.
"So . . . Someone's going to have to let her partner know Fox got misplaced." He ventured.
Green Arrow groaned, loudly. "Oh god. Don't remind me. Can't we just bring her back without bringing him into this? It'll be a repeat of the Huntress breakup debacle."
Black Canary rolled her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."
Arrow gave her a glare. "You aren't the one he accused of stealing his pants and replacing them with larger sizes after he didn't eat for two weeks because he was busy triangulating crop circles and nanites." He growled. "And you also aren't the one he punched in the jaw for suggesting he work through his feelings instead of burying them in his conspiracy theories."
Flash glanced up. "Actually you said he should stop moping like a kid, quit acting crazy and get over the damn psychotic broad." He corrected.
"I don't recall it that way." Arrow replied, sourly.
Flash smirked. "Whatever you say. Besides, they aren't dating, are they?"
Canary frowned a little. "I . . . don't know." She said, uncertainly.
"I thought you girls knew about this stuff." Smirked Arrow.
She glared at him. "You can't tell how people are looking at each other if one has her eyes behind a mask and the other hasn't got any at all."
"We're docking." Called Batman from the front, interrupting any further speculation as the ship moved smoothly into the hangar, and the hatch slid open.
"I'll let you know when I find something out." Batman said, shortly, sweeping past them all in a swirl of midnight cape.
Superman nodded. "I'll contact GL, if we have to do any space travel we'll want him along . . . " He looked questioningly at J'Onn, whose brow was knit, worriedly.
The Martian nodded slightly. "I shall speak to the Question." He said, quietly.
xXxXxXx
The Question's room was a study in organized chaos. He knew precisely where every clipping, file, book, photo and item was, and how it related to any other item in the room, though the state wasn't readily apparent to anyone just walking in. It was the way he worked–everything spread out so that he could access it quickly. This was why he didn't care for visitors when his files were in use. Invariably someone moved something and upset the whole thing. He kept the bed cleaned off for seating, but few people were able to keep their hands to themselves, particularly the first time they entered. It was one of the things he liked about his partner. Foxglove didn't touch anything, she didn't move anything, and she didn't ask him how he could find anything in this mess, which eliminated three major pet peeves.
He carefully stacked several articles about a major software company on the desk next to the articles about UFO sightings he planned to cross-reference with them, and loosened his tie, glancing at his watch. Nearly nine. Foxglove had gone patrolling due to a tip she'd frightened out of an informant, and was supposed to be back soon. She'd mentioned some items she found that she thought he'd take an interest in, and she'd also mentioned dinner, if he remembered correctly. Or, more accurately, a drink before dinner. She could drink with her mask on, somehow or another, but she had yet to take the thing off in front of anyone. She got her food, and went back to her room with it. It didn't particularly bother him; he wasn't one for going without his own mask after all. Mutual respect for one another's quirks made for a good working relationship, and fostered a friendship.
Not knowing quite what she'd be bringing, he decided to pause in his filing and leave everything out, just in case she'd found something he hadn't taken into account yet. The coffee had gone cold in the black Area 51 mug Fox had given him, knowing he'd find the cheerfully waving alien picture amusing considering that in 1977 the aliens had been relocated to a sub-basement of Fort Knox, and all that was in Area 51 nowadays was gold and (more importantly) Illuminati artifacts. He was about to wash out the mug when there was a tap at the door.
It wasn't Foxglove. She rapped smartly, three times only. This was a soft series of taps. Question frowned under his faceless mask as he headed to the door. It was rare that anyone but his partner knocked at his door, so he was suspicious when it happened. His apprehension grew when he found J'Onn standing in the hallway. General paranoia tended to spill into personal paranoia, and seeing someone who had never before paid him a visit in place of the person he was expecting caused a swift and terrible leap of deduction.
"What happened to Fox?" He demanded, before the Martian could even begin.
J'Onn frowned, and hesitated. "We . . . are not certain yet." He said. He was standing stiffly, but it was hard to decide if it was worry, or if it was just the way he was. "Luthor's transporter malfunctioned. Batman is tracking the path. We do not believe the transporter harmed her, only moved her."
Question paused a long moment, giving the impression of staring at J'Onn hard. "Where?" He said, quietly. "Next town over, across the country . . . " he paused, his voice tight "Space?"
J'Onn frowned. "We are . . . tracking. Her communicator is either out of range or damaged. When we know where to find her, we will go immediately."
The Question tightened and straightened his tie, grabbing his overcoat and hat, silently, giving himself time to think. Perhaps the malfunction of whatever blew had sent her only a short distance. She'd be dreadfully annoyed, but his partner would be unharmed.
But when did things ever work out like that? From the careful way the Martian was wording his answers, it stood to reason that the machine had the potential to send her anywhere. He had faith in her ability to keep herself alive if she landed somewhere with an inhospitable climate . . . assuming she was conscious . . . but if the trajectory was truly awry . . . no amount of survival skills would help if she'd gotten tossed somewhere she couldn't breathe. He tried not to think about that. "We should be ready to move, then." He said, shortly, stepping into the hallway.
J'Onn regarded the faceless man a moment, and nodded, turning without a word to lead the way.
xXxXxXx
Foxglove hung limp from the shackles, fighting to draw breath. She couldn't even make sense of the questions being shouted at her; all she could hear was the crack of the lash against her skin and her own screams. They'd stripped her of all but the mask which they couldn't remove. She'd been kicked and beaten viciously in response to the shock the jailer had received from it, even before they hung her by her wrists. Her back was burning agony from shoulders to knees.
She couldn't answer their questions if she wanted to. Voices blurred, darkness threatened at the edges of her vision. She bit back a sob, panting raggedly. It took several moments to realize the whipping had stopped. A hand took the muzzle of her mask, cupping her chin, and tipped her face upward, and she looked into eyes filled with false sympathy. This jailer had stood by the door, she realized, sluggishly. The other was still behind her. The one who was hurting her. This one smoothed her faux hair, cooed at her.
"Poor sweet girl . . . " He said, softly. "You're very brave. Very brave indeed." He caressed the mask, gently.
Good cop, she realized. She'd played this game before. It was harder with the Question; they'd never quite worked out which of them was 'good cop'. With Batman . . . well, anyone else was 'good cop' by default. She closed her eyes a moment, fighting against herself. She wanted it to stop. The pain, the screaming. She wanted to not be exposed, naked and helpless.
"Just a little bit. That's all we want. If you just give me something . . . anything . . . I can make him stop. I'll clean you up, I'll bandage you. You have to be cold, and hungry . . . I'll help you if you let me." He said, gently.
She opened her eyes, slowly, looking up and seeing the hunger there, the coldness, the false sympathy. If she told him anything . . . that would put her friends in that much more danger. That would put the Question in that much more danger. That would put the Earth in that much more danger. She swallowed, throat raw from screaming. "Go . . . to hell." She panted, softly.
The man's eyes went cold and dead, and he stepped back. "I'm sorry you don't want my help." He said, coldly, and the pain and screaming started again.
Foxglove woke in her cell, shivering and barely able to move. She was uncovered, blood had pooled on the cold metal under her, dried there. Pulling away from the floor hurt in a hundred places.
God it was cold, and moving . . . moving was blinding agony. She moaned, closing her eyes and clenching her teeth against a wave of nausea. She wasn't taking off the mask. Losing that, she'd be truly naked. So, she realized, swallowing bile, she couldn't let herself vomit in it. It took a great deal of effort and pain to make it to the threadbare blanket on the floor next to her, which at least blocked some of the cold from the floor. She closed her eyes, panting.
She'd told them nothing. She had no idea how long they tortured her, how many times they paused so that 'good cop' could try and coax something from her. Every time she wanted to make it stop. Every time she thought instead of her partner, and her mentor, and she told her tormentor to go to hell. She hadn't expected to wake up. When the darkness had finally taken her completely, she'd been grateful, thinking it was likely all over with. Now . . . she lay in the cold cell, unable to do anything about the warm blood she felt trickling from reopened wounds.
What would Batman do? Her mentor would be stronger than this. He'd have already escaped. Already have found a way. She closed her eyes against the threatening tears. It seemed reasonable to assume she would die here. That the aliens were already tracking her path back to Earth, with plans to invade. What was left, was the hope that she could hold out. That she could continue telling them to go to hell until her body gave out entirely.
She smiled, grimly. They'd have quite the surprise waiting on Earth.