OK, this is the last I've written on this subject. But I'm going to hold off marking it "complete" for a little while, because I thought I was done after the first chapter...
Chapter 3
Newton strode into his boss's office, shoving his mask back in disgust.
"So, Dave, how do you think it went out there?"
Newton glared at the suit. "I felt like a complete idiot out there, with everyone gawking and trying not to laugh at me." He paused. "So I guess that means I did it right?"
Tom laughed warmly. "You did great. You totally sold the awkward, embarrassed, kinda clumsy but likable Joe Sixpack image we needed you to project."
Dave (alias "Newton") smiled back. Yeah, I had my doubts about that the line about my wife, but the PR guys were right – it went over just like they said it would. And the catcher's mitt thing? I haven't needed anything like that since I was 14, but it really helped sell the whole package."
Tom nodded. "Yeah, we gotta keep reinforcing Newton's public persona – nice, average guy with powers he's still learning how to use, but wants to use them to help people. While, of course, avoiding any real excitement and going home each night to his wife, 2.2 kids, and dog."
"And getting a paycheck every other Friday, Tom. Don't forget that – it's the most important part."
"Yup. And the last thing we need is for anyone to connect Newton from Stark Super Solutions to The Rifleman, the superhuman wanna-be hit man for hire."
Dave looked down and pursed his lips. "Tom, you know I never actually took any contracts, or even tried to kill anyone, right? I mean, I did a few meetings and talked tough and did some demos of my powers, but no one ever hired me."
Tom put a hand on Dave's shoulder. "Yeah, Dave, we know. Believe me, we checked you out more thoroughly than the boss's dates. If we had the slightest doubt, you'd be in prison right now, instead of here."
"I just couldn't see any other way to make a living with my powers. And while I got 'em pretty under control, I couldn't just pretend they didn't exist. I didn't like the idea, but it seemed like the perfect use for 'em was as a hit man."
"Yeah, they do make you pretty much a walking gun. But not every gun has to be used for murder. Hell, you don't even have to be a gun. We're talking with a few companies right now that have some really interesting problems. One's a rocket company what wants to do some aerodynamic tests on some designs, one's a munitions maker that has some weird ideas about artillery shells, and there's this guy in Kansas who insists he's going to revolutionize the body-armor field. And you, my friend, are cheaper than a wind tunnel, safer than a howitzer, and far more flexible than a machine gun."
Dave smiled. "Those sound like fun. So I get to launch some model rockets, toss some artillery shells, and fire Bbs at armor plates? And get paid for it?"
Tom chuckled. "Not exactly. The guy in Kansas is being pretty cagey, but I get the idea that they aren't armor plates like we think of them. Also, you're not getting paid for it. We get paid, and then we pay you."
Dave nodded. "Close enough for me. Hey, any word yet about my friend Hank?"
Tom sighed. "Yeah, but it's not looking good."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean everything you told us checked out. From our investigation, he's strong, he's tough, and he's working as an enforcer for the Kingpin. That last part is bad, but from what we've discovered he hasn't really done anything really bad so far. He's roughed up a few people, but nothing serious, and they aren't the type to complain. So he's really not that far out of our parameters."
Dave could tell there was more. "So, what's the problem?"
Tom shrugged his shoulders. "There are two. First up, the Kingpin has a rather aggressive employee-retention policy. Your friend is a really small fish, but Fisk isn't exactly the parting-gits and two weeks' severance type. So that could be a problem. But more importantly, we really can't figure out how we could use his gifts."
"He's pretty strong, and he's pretty tough..."
"Yeah, but so are a lot of other people. He's not that much stronger and that much tougher than a normal person, and he's not an especially skilled fighter. The best we could offer would be a referral to a boxing or wrestling program as a sparring partner, and I'm afraid that if the Kingpin's people wanted to get him, they'd have little problem in finding him. Hell, even the Hollywood stunt people are feeling squeezed, between metahumans and computer graphics."
Dave shook his head. "I was afraid of that, but thanks for trying." He headed for the door.
"Just keep your eyes and ears open, Dave. You've brought in some good people. Bill's coming along nicely, and Susie is turning into a real all-star." He hesitated, but continued. "And when you came to be about Hank, I could tell you were pretty sure it wouldn't work. You did a good job selling him, but I knew you already were half-convinced it wouldn't work."
Dave turned back, irritated with himself. "Yeah, but I told him I'd try."
"And you did. It's nothing against him, it's just we aren't running a charity here. Everyone has to pull their own weight, earn their way, and he just isn't qualified." Tom pulled a business card out of his desk. "Here, give him this card. This guy has some pretty good contacts with the fighting community. He might know of someone out of the way who can use him." He paused as a thought struck him. "You know, if he's willing to relocate, there are some up-and-coming martial arts schools in Southeast Asia who might be able to use him. He could probably make some decent money in Thailand or Viet Nam or the Philippines as a sparring partner."
Dave took the card. "Thanks. I dunno if Hank's willing to go halfway around the world, but I'll at least give him the chance." He left.
Tom yelled at his departing back. "Don't forget to turn in the costume for dry cleaning!"
