Because the story would not be complete without a chapter with this guy in it.
The hallway was long and winding, curving about sharp corners and extending down to a very dead end, in which one could only surmise their sudden case of vertigo to the maze through which they had descended to it. Indeed, it was the most altered, most unexpected hallway in the tower, as if the architect had wished to toy with the minds of those who came across it, and whose quarters resided there. Due to that fact, few chose to reside there, and even fewer walked down and past its walls, not only for the cause of dizziness, but for paranoia of bumping into a veritable lunatic.
So Bruce found himself as he strode down the hall, down the shape and form of the ship that so conformed to this hall, a file tucked firmly under his arm as he continued, temper short, patience shorter, and a desire to end this debacle as soon as possible. He was not accustomed to asking others for help, nor was he accustomed borrowing things from them (save his closest friends, and those were in great shortage) and this an almost unprecedented occasion for him, one that he hoped he would not have to repeat again.
The end of the hallway grew near, as did the room at the very end of it, where the one assisting him resided, and he found his pace quicken, the door drawing nearer, and the file found its way to his hand, where it became tightly clenched, and he paused.
The door stood, closed and authoritative, commanding a moment of respect, at the very least, for the occupant, and he utilized that moment and then stepped forward to speak. The person who was in current possession of the room had created voice recognition software and a lock on his door, with technology pocketed here and there that rivaled the technology on Bruce's quarters on the tower.
"Question," Bruce said, imperative as his brow furrowed, "I've finished using your file."
The door slid open and Bruce was introduced, for one of the few unpleasant occasions he would visit it, to the room of long, red strings that extended to the ceiling and were pinned to the wall to the pictures that were scrawled over in incomprehensible scribbling, graphs and charts and statistics that were all folded, plastered over the walls that were no longer visible, and a scent that was not attractive nor detracting but merely there.
In the corner, surrounded by stacks of books ranging from the occult to pie-making, there was a man sitting with no face, unkempt hair, and a fedora slightly askew, typing away on a typewriter, for his paranoia about technology (even his own) had festered and consumed him so.
"Batman. Nice to see you. Brought back my file?" the man that could be summarily illustrated as the most paranoid, conspiracy theorist man Bruce had ever met, did not move his head away from the report that he was constructing.
"Yes. It was helpful." He replied, and The Question nodded, the lack of a face revealing nothing.
"Of course. Glad to be of service. It goes on the table." He pointed with a thumb while maneuvering around the keyboard with one gloved hand, to a thick filing cabinet by the doorway, and Bruce wasted no time in placing it there and turning to leave the room as soon as possible.
"Wait. Something I need to talk about." He stopped him, and reluctantly, Bruce paused and turned to regard the man who had not paused in his typing to even talk to him, and found himself waiting, out of manners he did not think existed within him at the moment.
"What?" he asked, and it did not sound polite even though he was struggling to make it sound like it was. Question paid no mind.
"There are rumors. About you. And others."
"What kinds of rumors?" Bruce asked, a brow cocking up. This was not going to be good.
"Homosexual tendencies. Five men, all seemingly heterosexual, and yet, with the case of you, no longer."
"I'm not discussing this." Bruce said, and there was blatant disgust and contempt in his voice as he turned to leave, yet once more the Question spoke.
"Stop. Not done yet."
"I am." He replied, and he turned to leave the room with the stench he now found quite repelling, only to have the Question follow after him, much to his dismay.
"Then you won't know."
"And about what, pray tell?" he asked, trying to control the consuming desire to crack skulls and break bones.
"It's too suspicious. Five men, all leaving their supposedly theoretical closets, five men who have displayed entirely heterosexual tendencies and displayed no homosexual tendencies whatsoever, have all decided, not only to go their own separate ways, but to center all on one man."
"Thank you for tidily summarizing up the past week for me, Szaz." Bruce retorted coldly.
"Still not done." He responded curtly and continued. "Take into account the personas of the men that are supposedly in love with you."
"Supposedly?" Bruce repeated, as the evidence, experience, and conclusion could only point to that which seemed most obvious.
"Flash. A well-known flirt and Casanova imitator. Plastic Man, who could easily oust him in that field. Orion. A berserker who has appeared to be asexual and more or less with only a desire to fight in his blood. Guy Gardner. Dated many women and has shown revulsion for any homosexual-related topics mentioned at any time. Booster Gold…Booster Gold is undeniably living proof of himself."
"What are you getting at?" Bruce lowly uttered as they paced down to the end of the hallway that was undeniably the Question's, and then into the main foyer leading to an elevator Bruce was willing to throw himself down to escape.
The Question paused, face, blank and unreadable as usual, appearing even more so, unnerving even Bruce as he stared at him and awaited an answer.
"Mind control through an unmentionable gas." He said, quietly, simply, as if it were a fact. "A gradual, secreted chemical inserted through the ventilation shafts of each of these men's quarters, which is all conveniently placed right by their heads of their beds, wafted through at the hour when most of them would usually rest and thus the gas provokes them, manipulates them into experiencing arousing dreams about the person that they would assume some prominence in their mind, at the very least, and would cause them to misinterpret them as budding romantic emotions for said person."
"Which is apparently me?"
"It's a conspiracy." The Question said, enclosing upon the privacy of the Dark Knight, who did not budge but was feeling the strong urge to do so. "If all the men, superhumans no less, were aroused by the same person, the levels of testosterone would skyrocket. There would be a mad, frenzied dash with which, as is the mindset of men, to woo and capture the object of their desires, thus causing a lack in work ethic, organization, and all semblance of authority. The system that you and your cohorts have formulated amongst your private ranks, archaic and susceptible to changes as it already is, would crumble. Anarchy would overcome the league. Disaster will fall."
After a moment of dramatic pause in which the Question had not moved from where he stood, staring up to Bruce, he added for emphasis (which for him, was apparently necessary), "Armageddon."
"Interesting theory." Bruce said, although it sounded as if he meant anything but. "There are flaws in it, however. There have only been five men. Hardly enough to topple the authority of the league."
"Interesting, indeed. But was it not one woman that brought the original league to its knees and sold out the world to her people?"
Bruce had no outward reaction and chose to change gears unless he decided to give into his need to punch his companion into a wall.
"A gas." He articulated one of the key points of the theorist's ideas, prompting him to nod avidly.
"Yes, oh, yes. A gas. The one thing any of the five men have in common is that they regularly spend nights in the quarters they are assigned to, which would give any predator a chance with which to utilize it. Once the five men are secured, they can move onto any other unsuspecting males that have the same variable in common, which only leads to more questions, more questions to be answered, but of course, there will always be questions, but still leaves you to be the subject of attraction. For such reasons I have blocked off the vents to my room, so that such a gas will not affect me."
He paused for breath, and Bruce found the reason for the peculiar smell in the room.
"Does this not make sense?"
Bruce thought, long and hard, and then regarded the Question carefully, considering the idea as well as the obvious lack of sanity before him.
"We'll stay in touch." He replied, by which he obviously meant the opposite by, and then turned on his heel to retreat to an elevator, not even offering the man a second glance.
For a quiet, peaceful moment, the Question stopped and watched, calmly, placidly, and then, unbeknownst to anyone but him, smiled as he returned down the way to his hall.
Plan A worked. He thought as he entered in the code to his door, which was the passkey stating the numerical connection of underground government terrorists to My Little Pony (this connection he would bet his life on), and entered his quarters, setting down his hat on the filing cabinet where Bruce had placed the file, and made his way past a ceiling of dangling red string and pictures to his seat.
Batman has bought the red herring. He is unaware of a sixth's attraction to him. He sat at his typewriter, as if overcome by serenity (or at least, the closest thing one could achieve in this horrible, godforsaken world) and set off to complete the remainder of his report.
All is well.