Welcome to Chapter 2, anyone who's reading this!! The first couple chapters here are a bit short, but they'll get longer, and the action picks up soon, so I hope you enjoy this story.

I actually got a little emotional writing this chapter. :) Hope it shows. Please, please, R/R!! And as always, I own only my own character, and have nothing worth suing over!!


When they held the Memorial service, Foxglove had gone almost three days without food, sleep, or removing her mask. J'Onn was worried, sensing the tightly-controlled emotions just below the surface, threatening to break free at any moment. She'd so far played the part of stability, speaking to those who came to her, letting the Flash hug her, giving her opinions on plans for the service. The shakiness in her hands and voice was more evident as time went on, and any attempt to speak beyond a fairly superficial level was met with a gentle, but final, change of subject.

There was to be no casket, no tombstone. Foxglove had vetoed the idea, knowing that the Question would have hated the idea of burying an empty coffin, leaving an empty grave. He'd have hated the permanence of such symbols overlying nothing. She knew him best, so in the end there was only the memorial service on the Watchtower.

Nearly everyone came, filling the great conference room, some having to stand in the back. Even those who hadn't known him were there. The League pulled together for one of its own. Even Huntress, despite their messy falling out, sat quietly in the back, her hand wrapped around a tissue. The only one missing was Batman. She knew he was working. He was always working. A little part of her was angry at him, but it was like being angry at the wind for blowing. He was who he was; he was working when they held Superman's memorial, after all, why should this be different?

J'Onn stayed beside her, his hand on hers, being a support as she sat, silently, while Superman, Green Arrow, and even Wonder Woman, dressed in white and gold, stood and spoke, their words lost to her. She heard sighs, murmurs, even a little ripple of laughter about something Ollie said. She merely watched their movements, not quite seeing them, not quite hearing what they said, watched the lenses of her mask analyze her surroundings without really grasping the displays. There was a pause; she'd asked to be able to speak, and she reasoned it was the time for it. She stood, J'Onn at her side, taking her shoulder, gently.

"Mariko . . . you don't have to . . . " He said, softly.

She took a breath, shaking her head, forcing her voice steady. "He would. For me."

She was grateful he accompanied her, and stood by her. His presence was comforting as she paused, trying to hold her thoughts long enough to speak them. Looking at the sea of faces, of sympathetic eyes was impossible. It took a long moment, focused on the podium before her, to find her voice. She took a long, slow breath. "I could tell you . . . any number of things about the kind of man my partner . . . was." She said, quietly. "But in the end, I'd only be using many words for what a few would say. I loved him." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. "I love him." She whispered, grasping the podium hard, her hands trembling. "He . . . told me a story once. Of a man who . . . dreamed he was a butterfly. When he awoke he wasn't certain if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly . . . or a butterfly dreaming he was a man." She swallowed. "I hope . . . one day . . . he'll answer the question for me." She turned, and let J'Onn take her back to her seat.

The rest passed in a blur. People spoke to her, touched her arm, her hand. A few embraced her, Diana even kissed the forehead of her mask. Dozens told her that if she needed anything she had only to ask. It was intolerable until she managed to excuse herself, escaping into the empty Watchtower hallways.

She hadn't thought about what she was going to do. She went back to her room, changed out of her costume, took off the mask, packing it under her clothes in a large duffel bag. Going into Vic's room was the hardest part. She tried not to think as she downloaded the last thing he'd been working on, a massive file from the looks of it, and took the papers on his desk, his notes. She even opened his locked filing cabinet. The one he'd only recently trusted her with the combination to. She wasn't even certain why she was taking his work. It just . . . seemed important. The last thing she took was a hat–a fedora, brown, unexposed as of yet to the spray that changed the color of his clothing and hair, and affixed his mask. She held it in her hands a long moment, and put it on, pulled it low as she left the room with a lingering look back that made her chest tighten painfully.

She turned out the light.