[hider=Prologue]
ONE WEEK EARLIER

“There are some who say that all is predestined,” the faceless man said, brushing at the lapel of his blue leather jacket. “That all of our actions, major and minor, have been planned from the beginning. Whether this is by a higher power or by the forces of incidence and coincidence is another debate altogether. But, for the sake of argument, let's suppose for a moment that everything happens for a reason, that even our smallest actions are determined far in advance. You can't fight fate.” The man with no face cocked his head, leaned back against one of the pool tables in the decrepit bar. “If that's the case, I imagine it must be a huge comfort to know that what just happened was inevitable. Might as well have gotten it out of the way.”

There was no agreement or argument from the twelve men scattered all over the bar, only moans of pain. Kavanaugh's Irish Pub usually smelled of sweat, stale beer, badly cleaned toilets. Tonight, the man they called The Question had added the smell of blood to that particular cocktail of stench. Stepping over the bodies of the men he had just beaten, he slowly walked towards the bar, hands in pockets. Dennis Kavanaugh, the owner of the establishment, could do little more than cower behind the bar. “What do you want, man?” the Irishman called out in fear.

“It's pretty simple, Kavanaugh,” The Question answered. He gave a not-so-gentle kick to the ribs of one of the gangsters who tried to rise. The thug yelped, wisely stayed down. “Let's do some math here. All of your goons are down. The bosses aren't going to help you. Right now, it's you and me. One on one. Now, you saw what I did to these dozen, so I don't think you're going to try and pull anything with me. Simple arithmetic, right?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Kavanaugh nodded vigorously.

“So it's like this. The protection racket is over. Small business owners in The Wedge no longer owe you or the Irish Mob any money. You get me? And especially poor Mr. Patel. Tomorrow, you're going to walk down to his convenience store and return all the money you collected. And you're also going to generously cover Mr. Patel's hospital bills, since you put him there. Not to mention twenty percent of your take. Pain and suffering, Kavanaugh.”

“The bosses will have my ass,” Kavanaugh pleaded.

“That's too bad,” The Question said tonelessly. With no face, it was impossible to tell how he really felt. “I guess you're just going to have to go to your bosses in the Irish Mob and admit that you're a failure as a gangster. And they can go to their friends in the police department and the courts and City Hall and tell them that you're a liability. Or, and here's a thought, you could go to the feds and turn all them in. All the bosses, Cooley, McNamara, Mahon, all of them. And Dinsmore and all your other friends in City Hall. How about it, Kavanaugh?”

The Question never got an answer. He turned at a small sound, immediately tensed up as he saw one of the Irish mobsters had recovered enough to grab a discarded pool cue. Really? A pool cue? Those twelve had come at him with chains, broken bottles, switchblades, bats. The Question was fairly certain this particular gangster had come at him with a carving knife about ninety seconds earlier. But a pool cue? Weak.

The Question reacted instinctively. Be like water: water can flow, water can crash. He stepped forwards into the attack, gloved hand moving like he was waving to a friend far in the distance. The pool cue snapped, broke. Good. Now for the man holding it. Palm strike to the face. Snap kick to the gut. Elbow lock and takedown, the sick crunch of the elbow dislocating. It all happened by rote, calmly and without fuss. 

The buckshot passing just above The Question's ball cap required more immediate attention. Kavanaugh, it seemed, had found the shotgun he kept under the bar in case of trouble. Great. Just wonderful. The Question fished in his pocket, found the smoke pellets he always kept handy for just this kind of thing. One smashed against the scuffed wood floor, immediately flooded the room with thick, swirling yellow smoke. The Question, mentally trained to memorize a room at a glance, was easily able to navigate the bar at a glance. Not to mention his mask acting as a filter. By feel and hearing alone, he was right behind the blinded and coughing Kavanaugh.

It would be so easy. All The Question had to do was reach out, touch a few pressure points, strike a precise blow, twist the neck, dig into the eyes. Any one of those would have worked. The man with no face considered it. No one would miss Kavanaugh. No friends, no family. Not even the Irish Mob, most likely. All he had to do was reach out.

The Question reached out.

And pulled Kavanaugh to the floor. Unharmed and alive. More than The Question could say for the man's victims, the future victims of the men Kavanaugh had protected. “You're lucky I'm in a good mood tonight, Kavanaugh,” the man with no face said sourly. 

There was nothing to put them in prison for, no RICO case against the Irish Mob. Izzy O'Toole, his friend on the police force, could put them away for a day or two on affray charges before some slick downtown lawyer got them all out. A day or two where Kavanaugh and his men wouldn't be dealing drugs or running their protection racket. 

It would have to do. That was what counted as a victory in Hub City.
[/hider]



“This had better be worth it. I am burning through a lot of vacation time,” the man with no face grumbled, adjusting his dark necktie. With his bright orange shirt and cobalt blue suit and coat, he was immediately noticeable. But the fact that he had blank skin instead of a face did not make him the least bit approachable. 

Through Carr's brief speech, he had carefully looked over the others who had been invited to the Watchtower, his eyes invisible behind his mask. Some he knew personally, others bu reputation, some he had never heard of before. Maybe they would be able to fill the massive shoes the missing heroes had left. Or maybe they would crash and fail. It'd be wise to plan for either option.

The klaxons snapped Vic Sage out of his own thoughts, and his brow knitted at the alerts. Prison riot in Metropolis, zombies in Tokyo. Vic had had his fill of zombies for a while, not to mention he saw several competent heroes immediately dive through the portal to Tokyo. Metropolis it was, then- they'd need a hand there.

“The best way to get a stone from the ocean is to dive right in,” he commented as he leaped through the portal to Strykers Island. 

The exercise yard had turned into a battleground. Vic took a moment to look around and understand the situation before jumping in- the works of Sun Tzu had been pounded into his head. Specifically, “the general who wins the battle makes many calculations in his temple before the battle is fought. The general who loses makes but few calculations beforehand.”

He could only observe for so long, though- the guards were holding their own but were heavily outnumbered by the enthralled inmates. Not to mention the heavyweights were starting to make their moves. After a moment of calculation The Question came to a decision- not an easy one, but a necessary one. 

The guards would have to take their chances with the garden-variety inmates. Even under the thrall of Starro, they had no more strength or fighting skill than an average criminal. Rather, The Question's skills would logically be better applied against one of the bona fide supervillains. But which one?

The Question looked around to see Shrapnel clambering up the wall. “I'm not drunk enough to fight him.”

He looked up to see Captain Comet and Manchester Black engaged in telekinetic battle. “Nope.”

Then, finally, his eyes settled on Bloodsport unloading a riot gun at the guards. Dangerous, too dangerous for a regular CO, but still just ordinary flesh and blood. The Question took off at a run towards Bloodsport, his gloved hands already hurling smoke pellets in front of the man.

A thick, swirling cloud of yellowish smoke bloomed in front of Bloodsport, hopefully obscuring the mercenary's view of his intended targets. Long enough for The Question to leap into the air and smash the heel of his foot against Bloodsport's shotgun. He didn't even look to see if he had disarmed the other man as he landed gracefully and assumed a fighting stance. He was calm, prepared for battle, his mind already emptying. As Munenori said, “once a fight has started, if you get involved in thinking about what to do, you will be cut down by your opponent with the very next blow.” 

“You and me, Bloodsport,” The Question said, thick yellowish mist swirling around him. “Let's do this.”