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A Spotty Record	By : keithcompany Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Crossovers Views: 1772 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or setting of the Marvel Universe. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
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Sometime after Amy's Dream, Stark was back in the office. "Good work," he said, sliding one exquisitely tailored pant leg up onto my desk.
"On what?" I asked.
"On everything you've done!" He tapped his watch. Two holograph images floated over my desk, headlines for Amy and Kevin's Dreams. "Those two, plus I hear nice things about payroll." He lowered his voice a bit. I'm pretty sure Marcia, who was pretending not to listen in, couldn't have heard him. "And on hiding your accident. I assume it was an accident. You had your leg at your arrest. You didn't have it at your parole board. It could be a really intense form of prison tattoo…" He left that hanging.
I didn't take the bait. "I didn't do any of that, not with the tattoo," I said. "That was someone else's cover-up."
"Okay," he said. "Second tier information collection and obfuscation penetration." He sounded happy. Well, he had a problem and not a single reason to doubt he'd solve it. He started to walk out. Over his shoulder, he said, "And give yourself a raise. You're Payroll AND you're the Evil-Doer Dream Contact for the Foundation."
"Yeah, that's what I want to tell my parole officer," I muttered. But I added that collateral duty to my file and bumped my pay up a bit. Not too much, still under Marcia's compensation. Didn't want her to think I was after her job.
----------
The Jester was a tough guy to find. Three or four people had used the identity for their crimes. Slightly different powers, slightly different goals, and completely different people. But where I thought the search would be like finding the Lost City of Opar, it took three Scenes. I mentioned who I was looking for to two bartenders (starting at Sammy's, for luck).
I didn't even get inside the third one, some guy on the sidewalk saw me, told my cab driver an address, and waved me on. I ended up at a Scene I'd never even heard of. Inside, a guy was doing a headstand on the bar, spinning a razor-sharp yo-yo with one hand, drinking, upside down, from a pitcher of beer with the other. Other patrons cheered. I waited until he was finished, then slid to the bar and bought a round of drinks for the house.
"You sure?" the bartender asked. She looked worried. "We got some heavy drinkers in here, tonight, and you can't see all of them." I knew that. This place had track lighting rather than spotlights, but it had a LOT of track lights, for the usual effect.
"I'm not buying enough to get anyone drunk, but I'll buy one drink for everyone here," I said. She shrugged and started pulling on the taps.
"What do you want for the free booze?" someone asked rather suspiciously.
"Just some help finding someone calling themselves The Jester," I said. There was a weird zipping sound by my ear, then hair was falling around me. I glimpsed the yo-yo go back past me, clipping more hair. Well, I had needed a haircut.
"What are you gonna do if you find him?" someone asked with a high-pitched laugh. "Assuming you survive finding him?"
As I turned to face the Jester, someone else put a hand on his shoulder. "Nah, man, this is the Dream Guy. He's cool."
"I'll be the judge of that."
Another patron stepped towards Jester, shaking his head. "Kingpin says he's cool."
"That's the Kingpin's business," Jester said. "Now he's poking his nose into MY business." He pulled out a gun. Looked like a toy. Which meant it was probably pretty lethal. "You got ten seconds."
"A class clown committed a prank in his AP History class. Burned off all his hair, damaged his lungs, scarred his nostrils. He wants to talk to you."
"Me?" he was stunned. "What the fuck for?"
"You don't hurt yourself with your pranks. Ever. He wants to know how to stage pranks without harming anyone."
"I'm not sure I'm the one to-" Jester demurred.
"Or," the guy next to Jester said, "without hurting anyone except your target."
"Oh. Sure. That makes sense." His voice had dropped an octave by now. His cackle was just a chuckle. He lowered the gun and started talking. "Yeah, you gotta understand, really understand the physics and chemistry you're working with, anticipate any possible complications. You have to stay in complete control, then it's a prank. Without control, without KNOWING who could even possibly get hurt, it's terrorism."
"Could you tell Jason?" I asked. "I'm not much of a prankster." I knocked my cane against my leg. "Too hard to run away from critics."
"Sure, you gotta read the room, too," Jester said with a serious nod. Then he grabbed a stool mounted by the bar, ripped it up off the bolts in the floor, and twisted it into a pretzel. "And it helps to be able to beat the critics like little bitches." They all laughed at that, raising my beers to toast beating up critics.
----------
Jester was not quite a free man at that time. There were warrants out. So we got sneaky. I scouted the burn unit of Metro-General Hospital for cops or any other suspicious idlers. You can't just walk around the hospital like you own the place, but if you have an obvious disability, people assume you're on your way to or from an appointment. I wasn't asking for directions so people concentrated on their own work.
I went back and found Jester. He had put on a few bandages and stole a wheelchair. Again, no one noticed us as we moved down the hall. Jason was inside an oxygen tent, a zillion tubes going in and out of him. The TV was on. He glanced at us, then dismissed us from his attention. Back to watching the TV.
Jester stood, took off his coat, yanked the gauze, put on his mask/hat and boom! He was in costume. I made the introductions between a stunned high schooler and a suddenly self-conscious Jester. Then I closed the blinds and went out into the hall. Standing sentry once more.
A nurse walked up to me, glanced to the room. She didn't seem surprised that the windows were blocked. We hard a pop and Jester's cackle. "Thought that was you," she mused. I realized she was the therapist from Kevin's Dream.
"Oh! Hey, hi!"
"Is mister Tuttle going to get any lethal gadgets?" she asked.
"Jester promised not," I shrugged. She relaxed a bit.
"You know there's a reward out for him?" I shrugged again. "Getting him away might be more difficult than getting in was."
"He's not leaving in the wheelchair," I said.
"Hope not," she smiled. She hefted a stack of manila folders. "I have enough work already." And off she went to do some of that.
After a while, four cops came around the corner, led by hospital security. I tapped on the window. A few seconds later, Jester popped into the hallway. He looked left, looked right, then threw a bucket of rubber coins in the cops' direction. Then ran the other way.
The disks bounced all over the hall, scattering like confetti. The cops started to charge after Jester. Under the feet of the cops, though, the disks popped up into balls. They rolled, cops fell, and the balls flatted back to coins. Nurses and patients in the hall were unaffected. "That's CONTROL!" Jester cackled as he got to the stairwell.
One cop managed to make it to his feet and shuffled across the floor, never lifting his foot off the floor. I clapped him on the shoulder. "That's brilliant!" I yelled, giving him just enough of a shove to screw up his balance. His foot shifted, stomped down on a disk…
I went inside to assure Jason that Jester was probably going to make it out alright. I also hit the call button. The nurse arrived at the same time two cops came in. I promised them I could answer all of their questions and they didn't have to interrogate the patient. The nurse thought that was a simply marvelous idea and shooed all of us out into the hall.
"What were your and the Jester's goals in your crime, here?" one cop started. I explained about the Foundation, Jason's dream, Jester's willingness to cooperate, stated that no laws were broken.
"Not entirely true," the other cop said. "You helped him escape."
"That seemed only fair," I shrugged. "He wouldn't have been in the hospital if I hadn't asked, so it was my fault he had to defend himself."
"Doesn't work that way," they said, pulling out the zip-tie. I showed them my wooden leg. They allowed that I could have both hands for balance until we got to the squad car downstairs, then I'd be restrained and seated. But they took the cane.
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I got it back when bail was made. Dara was in the lobby. "You have some messages at the Foundation. One from a Mrs. Tuttle, four from your parole officer. And the Director wants to talk to you."
"Better see him, first," I guessed. "Officer Penn is definitely going to ask if I still have a job." We stepped out and she waved for a cab.
"Oh, that's safe," she said. "Fifteen Captain America visits to the pediatric cancer ward don't get the Foundation as much press as you do with one kid."
"But Rabin's concerned with the nature of the press." I held the door for her to get in. I hoped it looked like chivalry. I just cannot scoot across a bench seat.
"Dad's a city councilman," she told me. "There's almost no such thing as bad publicity." She gave the address to the cabbie and we went home.
Where I got grounded.
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We were in Rabin's office. Besides the director, there was me, Marcia, Dara, and Dara's assistant, Rodney. Rabin was not pleased with my latest dream effort. He went on and on for a bit, with Marcia reminding him of one offense or another.
I just waited. I couldn't tell if he was justifying firing me or trying to calibrate me. I kept thinking I could wash glasses at Sammy's. I knew important people at Sammy's. Then everything stopped. I noticed the silence. And everyone was looking at me. "Well?" Rabin asked.
"I'm afraid I didn't quite hear that, Director," I said. I guess that in his head, what he heard was 'I don't understand why you would do that.' Because rather than simply repeating himself, he further explained whatever it was he'd just said.
"Well, we have no complaints about your work on Payroll," he started. Actually, he had no complaints about me doing all of their accounting at this point, he just didn't know it. And printing. And transportation. And utilities. All the admin that wasn't specifically assigned to an employee. "But," he went on, "it seems that the Dreams you coordinate keep getting weirder and wilder. Someone's going to get hurt."
"Sir, if these men wanted to HURT anyone, there'd be bodies stacking in the hallways."
"So far, yes, but we're looking ahead. That's why Rodney."
"Why Rodney what?" I asked.
"I'm going to be the criminal wrangler, not you," Rodney said. I laughed. He glowered. So cute, a yuppie trying to intimidate a fucking ex-con who'd met supervillains.
"What're the four things you need to know about a bar when you enter it?" I asked Rodney.
"Well, the wine list is probably the most important thing to-" I interrupted him by laughing. I noticed Marcia also laughed. We made eye contact. The only two native New Yorkers in the room, we had an inside joke between us. I didn't, you know, 'like' her any more than I had a moment ago, but we shared common ground for that second. We both won a round of 'spot the tourist.' And I knew she could explain it to Rabin. Maybe now, or maybe after he got the phone call from Rodney, crouching under a table, hiding from the forced debriefing of uncooperative henchmen.
"You do that, then," I said. "Is there anything else?"
"You have to understand," Rabin went on explaining. Didn't need it. It was his decision to make, his Foundation to manage. I waved off his rationalization and got up to go home.
Rodney skipped into the hall behind me. "I'll need your phone numbers, Ray."
"I promised actual killers that I'd keep their secrets," I said without turning. "Develop your own contacts. I need a shower." And to get shouted at by my parole officer.
Penn instructed me that people on parole do not help wanted criminals escape arrest. He threatened all sorts of changes to our relationship and my continued freedoms. I was apologetic. He did not try to get me to give up the Jester's current location. I thought that was nice of him. I would go back to prison before ratting on someone that did one of our kids a favor. Maybe Officer Penn realized that.
Whatever reason, he didn't. And he informed me that any and all charges were dropped because the Commissioner had a nephew. Turns out Dara had introduced him to The Human Torch. "You got one freebie," Penn growled. "One."
"Understood," I promised. Then he hung up on me. I wondered if I would get my old room at Ryker's.
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Rodney's first case was the Black Cat. A terminal kid from Empire State University had a crush on her, and wanted a kiss before he died. I was tempted to sell tickets to watch Rodney's effort.
My contacts wouldn't have helped, anyway. A skilled cat burglar, The Black Cat was too sophisticated to hang out at the bars I'd been using up to now. And to happen along to where she was going to be, I'd have had to get the Kingpin to either identify her next target, or give the location of her fence.
But credit where due, Rodney thought up something. He followed the gossip rags a lot more than I did, and knew that The Black Cat had an on-again/off-again relationship with Spider-Man. And the Foundation already had a contact with Spider-Man. Kids were all-the-time wanting to meet the wallcrawler. And with a four-day lead on contacting him, he was usually up for the Dream.
So, he contacted Spider-Man and asked for an introduction to his maybe-girlfriend. Gotta admit, I never would have thought of that.
Five days later, Dara called me at home. "How far are you from 9100 South Oak Meadow Street?"
"Ten minutes," I said. "Give or take traffic at…" A glance to my phone. "Two A.M."
"You wanna be the one that rescues Rodney? Or shall I?"
"I got it," I said.
"Let me know what happened?" she begged.
The taxi got me to the address, but wouldn't wait for me. I stepped out and looked around. Everything was closed, dark, and uninhabited. Half the street lights were out. When the taxi was out of sight, I was alone.
I started pacing up and down at the address I was given, looking for any sign of the man. And looking at windows to see if there was a bar or a store he might have hidden in. After a bit, I stepped on something on the sidewalk. I looked down to find a cell phone.
I took a step back and looked up. Rodney was hanging upside-down from a fire escape. His jacket and shirt were dangling down in shreds. I looked back down again. I couldn't see a pool of blood beneath him, but the lighting was poor. I looked back up and called his name. He didn't respond to the maximum volume I was willing to use on a dark NYC street, so I stopped.
As a teen, I had managed to climb up to a few fire escapes in search of adventures, but that was not possible now. I was going to have to call the fire department. I got out my phone and headed for a streetlight.
"He's not dead." I turned to see the source of this statement. A very good-looking woman stepped out of the shadows beside me. Platinum blonde, dressed in a black costume, white highlights. I noticed the fingers of her gloves ended in claws, shining now and then with the slightest touch from the available light.
"Thank you, then," I said.
"I wouldn't kill him," she said forcefully. "I'm not that kind of bad girl."
"I never suspected you would," I said. If she was, not likely that Spider-Man would even team up with her, much less date. "You're a very skilled thief, not a murderess."
"Damn straight!" she nodded.
"I take it that it was tempting, though?"
She made a slashing motion with the claws of one hand. "He SAID, he could help me do one, single good thing in my miserable, crime-ridden life."
"Ass," I muttered. "We want a favor from someone, we need to show them that we realize they deserve respect."
"Yeah," she agreed. She looked me up and down. "Yeah," she said more slowly.
"Ms. Cat," I said.
"Oh, you can call me Kitten," she said with a mischievous smile.
"Kitten, I apologize for Rodney's behavior. I would leave it at that, but there is a young man…"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she said. "Where do you want me?"
"Shit," I spat. "I'm forbidden to make such arrangements." I pulled out my card. "Can you call me in, um, three days? I'll probably be reinstated by then." We both looked up to the fire escape. "Maybe sooner." She slid my card into a hidden pocket on her sleeve, then turned and strut away down the street. There were plenty of shadows to slip into, but she stayed in the lit area, maximizing my view of her walking away. I sighed. Then a thought struck me. "Do you have Rodney's wallet?"
She turned and walked back to me. Standing just inside my personal space, she reached deep into her cleavage and pulled out a billfold. I thanked her for it. "I'm keeping the cash," she said.
"I think you deserve it," I told her.
A voice came from above us, Dopplering rapidly as the speaker swooped down. "What did you do to him?" Spider-Man landed silently on the sidewalk beside us, Rodney over his shoulder. "He just wanted to talk!"
"We did talk!" Kitten shouted back. "You shoulda heard what he said!" She fired some sort of grapple up towards the roof and flew up into the air. Spidey lowered Rodney and followed on his webbing. "You can't assault people for TALKING!" he shouted. The argument continued, fading in the distance.
I stood above Rodney and considered my options. A shared witness appealed. Plus, she was probably waiting to hear the story anyway, so I called Dara. "Hey, I can't get a taxi to come pick me up down here. Can you grab a cab and come get us? Yeah, both of us." I moved Rodney's foot with my shoe. It was limp. "May need some help getting him into the cab…"
Rodney lost the criminal wrangler position, and didn't put up much of a fight. Dara wouldn't stop smiling on the cab ride to the Emergency Room, but sobered up a bit in the office. She actually asked if I'd mind if she put him on a Dream involving Thor.
"Why would I mind?" I asked.
"He's really good at finding a way to contact people, so I don’t want to lose him. But you saved his last case, so-"
"I don't care about Rodney," I said. "And he is good at contacting people we need. Do whatever we have to, to keep him." I gave her a thumbs-up and went back to work.
The Black Cat called the next day. But not to coordinate. Turned out she had stolen the folder from Rodney and just went and kissed the kid the night before. Midnight visit, so no parents. Kid probably was half-sure he dreamed it. But a nurse captured a pic with her cell, sold it to the papers.
The next fifteen applications that made it to my desk, I had to call, ask, "Are you really, really, really terminal?" Most hung up, the rest tried to lie, but eventually begged off.
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A Spotty Record