JLA Watchtower (Archive)

"Mr. No-face," he called out, stepping through the light layer of snow.

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It was fortunate enough the his face had been covered by the headstone.

Still, he took the opportunity to seal his mask to his face again, yellow tinted gas hissing out from his belt buckle.

Standing up, he dusted snow off his knees before turning around. "Junior Musto. What're you doing here?"

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"There's another face bothering me." Musto leered closely, no sense of personal space as always, unnerving. "So I followed you. You know faces. Because you don't have one of your own, right?"

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"...Hn." The Question leaned away from him. "Define 'bother' and define 'face'. What's going on?" It wasn't really a good moment to be pestered like this by someone he was usually fighting with.

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His voice pitched down, lower, an attempt to sound baritone. "He's trying to get me killed. I don't like that face. I can't die until I do my pa proud -- and he shall call me sonny boy."

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Never mind the fact that Musto's father had been dead for a long time.

"...Which face?"

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Their conversation is rudely interrupted by the sound of two police cruisers pulling up; their occupants spilling out into the cemetary like angry bees. Glocks are drawn and aimed at Musto. "POLICE! FREEZE!"

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Musto jerked back and started to back away, reaching into his coat. "No! Not yet!"

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"Get down on the ground, NOW!" One of the officers fires off a shot at the sudden movement. Another can be heard to retort, "Goddamn freaks..."

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Not shocking. Izzy was slacking on his cops. Maybe he'd just stopped caring again.

The shot was far off, but it was enough for Musto to pull out his gun. The Question turned his head quickly.

"Musto, no."

If there was going to be death, it was going to be on his terms.

"What the hell do you think you're all doing?!" he demanded of them. Sure enough, Musto was part of a mob in Hub, but what was with this now?

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"Jesus Christ," mutters the third. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way! Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head! Both of you! Now!"

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"NO!!" It was not a very masculine scream, but Musto pulled out his gun, firing rapidly at them.

"Are you watching, Pa?! Are you??"

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The officers dive behind their patrol cars for cover. "Just my goddamn luck," growls one to his partner. "I get the fucking crazies five minutes before end of shift." One of the others reaches for his radio to call for backup.

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"Shit." The Question turned quickly and slammed his elbow into the side of Musto's skull, knocking him out quickly during his firing spree.

"Izzy, we're going to have to... talk later," he muttered to himself, grabbing onto Musto's arm and slinging it around his shoulders before he started to flee further into the cemetary.

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One of the cops chances a look over the hood of his squad car. "Hey! They're making a break for it!"

His partner -- overweight by a significant margin -- makes a dismissive gesture. "They're welcome to each other. I ain't going back there." The third has his flashlight in hand, and is already taking off into the darkness, the narrow beam of light bobbing up and down wildly with his rapid pace. "Sonofa -- HICKS! Get your nonexistent skinny white ass back here before I -- shit."

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The flashlight was kind of hard to miss. The Question grumbled to himself.

Third worst day of his life, and that was saying something.

Kneeling by a tree, he dropped Musto unceremoniously against it before turning around.

Time to stalk a cop and get some information.

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He hasn't been on the force long. He doesn't even technically have his shield yet. Way too enthusiastic for his own good, most of the five-eleven would say. And he's hot on the suspect's heels, gun in hand.

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It was obvious enough. Energetic, new. Not even born in the city, likely. The kind of person that was going to get himself killed.

He moved smoothly and silently, somehow managing to keep the light crunch of snow to a minimum. Circling around the cop, he perched atop a headstone.

Then he literally pounced for him.

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And he goes down like a ton of bricks, managing only a surprised yelp in the process. The gun is knocked from his hand, lost to the darkness. They roll over in the snow a few times before coming to a stop, the rookie trying to reach for his nightstick to defend himself. The flashlight lies a few yards away; a narrow shaft of yellow light shining starkly on the cold snow.

He doesn't have the weight advantage, even with the heavy kevlar vest he's wearing.

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Pinning him down with his knees, the Question was literally sitting on the man's abdomen; he grabbed the hand fishing around for the nightstick, and twisted it around to simply cause the cop pain.

"You," he hissed, his voice shaking unnaturally. "Why the hell are you after us?"

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His face contorts with agony, his breath misting thickly in the frozen air. He doesn't answer, instead slipping the pepper spray from his belt and letting loose with it, turning his head away from the capsicum sting.

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The spray hit his lack of face... and seemed to do little to nothing.

"What a waste," he hissed at him. "I'm going to ask you again." The Question took the hand. "Everytime you don't answer, you're going to have less use for your fingers. And in turn, be incapable of doing your duty. Why are you after Junior Musto?"

He broke the pinky.

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He yells this time, the spray slipping from his fingers. He stares back at his attacker. "... the hell is wrong with you, man?"

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"I don't know. But you really should tell me what's going on. I'm not really known for my patience."

He snapped the next finger.

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He's rewarded with another yell, the rookie's eyes watering with the pain and the cold. "I don't KNOW, man!" he spits back at him. "Four-one-one gave us a tip about this Musto guy wantin' to kill Vic Sage, something to do with some dude named Ro ... ro ... Rodor! That's all I know! Christ ..."

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Rodor...?!

He paused, eyes wide behind his mask.

Eventually, the Question stood up, but he wasn't finished. He lifted the rookie up by the collar. "Try to track that call. No one's after Vic Sage." Then, he tossed him aside, peered at him.

"Run. Now."

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He grunts as he lands heavily in the snow. Fortunately the cold means he can't feel his broken fingers too much. He stares back at the other man. "You're fucking crazy, man. Crazy." But he moves, unwilling to have anything else broken tonight, and picks up his flashlight before stumbling back through the maze of tombstones towards his patrol car.

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