Velveteen vs. The Junior Super Patriots Read online

  “Hi,” Velveteen said, and pulled back the cape in invitation. “Come on. I’m lonely under here.”

  “I’m sweaty,” he cautioned.

  “I like you sweaty,” she said. After that there was nothing but giggling and snuggles, and feather-light touches under the safety orange Kevlar weave of his cape, where even the in-room security cameras wouldn’t be able to record the location of their hands. They’d been going a little further all the time, feeling out one another’s boundaries as their relationship got more secure. A hand under a uniform strap. A foot hooked around a knee. Fingers slipped beneath utility belts.

  Velveteen’s power set was one that kept her grounded, and she’d always liked it that way. But as Action Dude lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, her breath caught, and for just a moment, she believed that she could fly.

  *

  Velma pulled into the Starbucks parking lot approximately seventeen minutes after leaving the Chevron. Locking the car doors, she jammed her keys into her pocket and stalked toward the coffee shop. He won’t be there, she told herself sternly. That was a warning, and they thought you’d play nice if they sent Aaron, but you didn’t. He’s gone back to headquarters by now to report his failure. Yelena’s laughing. She’s saying that she told them so. She’s saying that they were idiots to even try. He won’t be there. Don’t you dare hope, because he won’t be there, just wait. He won’t—

  He was there.

  Like so many career superheroes, Aaron really had no idea how “normal” people dressed when they went out for things like coffee, the newspaper, or donuts. He was dressed like he was on his way to a job interview or a funeral, in a suit that was such a studiedly nondescript gray that it actually demanded further study, just to determine whether or not the wearer was in mourning. His tousled blond curls were slicked into what he clearly thought was a “normal” haircut, and black-framed glasses hid his eyes. Not well. She would have known them anywhere. Behind sunglasses or implanted in a cybernetic killing machine, she would have known them.

  There was a cup in front of his table’s other seat, and a slice of blueberry coffee cake. Velma’s eyes started tearing up again. Wiping them with the back of her hand, she ordered herself firmly not to cry, and stepped into the Starbucks.

  Aaron had been gazing anxiously around, but his attention focused on the door as she entered, his shoulders suddenly going rigid. He half-stood, nearly knocking over his chair, then seemed to think better of the gesture, and slammed himself back into a sitting position. Velma saw the small pile of shredded napkins on the table in front of him as she approached. She wasn’t the only one that was nervous. That might have been reassuring, if she’d known what he was nervous about. After all, people tend to display signs of guilt when they’re in the process of setting traps for their former teammates and ex-girlfriends. Especially when those two people happen to be one and the same.

  “Aaron,” she said coolly, sliding herself into the open seat and picking up the waiting mocha. “I’m going to assume that you’re here on good faith, and that you haven’t poisoned my coffee. Is that a safe assumption?”

  He flushed. “Vel—”

  “I know you’re here on company time, and that makes it a fair question. Is it okay for me to drink the coffee?”

  “Yeah,” he said, doing his best impression of a big blond Eeyore. “You can eat the coffee cake, too. I got it for you.”

  Despite herself, Velma smiled. “Yeah, well. I figured that you hadn’t suddenly developed a thing for blueberries.”

  “I could be a clone.”

  “You’d have the same allergies.”

  “Parallel dimension.”

  “Wouldn’t have known I’d want it.”

  Now Aaron was smiling, too, tension briefly forgotten in the face of their favorite of the old, odd games: How Would You Know If I Got Replaced? “Shapechanging alien.”

  “Possible.” She sipped her mocha. “But would a shapechanging alien have remembered the extra sugar?”

  “Probably not,” said Aaron. “Your game.” Sobering, he picked up his own cup and rolled it between his hands, saying, “You look good, Vel.”

  “Oh, please.” Velma shook her head. “I’m in road pants, I need a haircut, and I’ve put on like eight pounds in the last month and a half. This has been the trip from hell. I’m starting to think I’ll never get where I’m going.” She paused. “But it was nice of you to say. You look just like I expected you to.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I saw this year’s trials.” Seeing the sudden hope in his eyes, she shook her head. “Accidentally. They were on TV at the coffee shop where I was working.”

  “You mean the place that got shunted off into a world of eternal shadow?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s . . . sort of why I’m here,” said Aaron, regret coloring every word. Velma tensed. “See, the thing is, we were doing the mop-up, and some of the people in town, they said you were the only survivor. And one of them said—”

  “Aaron, don’t.”

  “—said they’d seen you being carried back to the place where you were staying. Carried by something about six inches tall. That was just before the place got shunted off into a world of eternal shadow, so you can see where they’d remember it. And—”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “—it sort of has a few people wondering whether—”

  “If you ever loved me, don’t.”

  He stopped, looking at her with wide, injured blue eyes. “You know that’s not fair. You know I loved you.”

  “Yeah?” She wiped her hand across her eyes again, harder this time. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  *

  Seven years ago. Velveteen was coming out of the gym, leotard sweaty and sticking to her sides. Working out in tights had never been her favorite way to spend an afternoon, but with the chance that training could be filmed at any time, all heroes with non-public secret identities were required to wear variants of their standard costumes while exercising. It was an annoying, inconvenient rule, but unlike so many of the annoying, inconvenient rules at The Super Patriots, Inc., it actually made sense.

  At least they weren’t allowed to film in the showers. As soon as she was in the locker room, she removed her rabbit ears and domino mask, wiping the worst of the sweat out from her eyes. Temporarily blinded by the gesture, she didn’t realize that she wasn’t alone until she turned, and nearly walked straight into Sparkle Bright.

  “Wha—oh!” She pressed her free hand to her chest, laughing a little to cover her surprise. “You startled me. I thought you weren’t working out until Updraft got back from field exercises. What’s up?” Sparkle Bright didn’t answer. Velveteen paused, realizing for the first time just how cold the look on the other girl’s face was. “Sparky? What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Sparkle Bright, a note of obvious disdain in her voice. “I don’t take diminutives from heroes that aren’t in my power class.”

  “But . . . but the nickname was your idea. Yelena? What’s wr—”

  An older, more cynical Velma would have told her teenage self that she should have seen the blow coming; would have said that it was telegraphed in every inch of Sparkle Bright’s imperious, angry pose. But the teenage Velveteen had never expected her best friend and former roommate to lash out at her that way; would never in a million years have said that her sweet, silly, sentimental roommate was capable of such a thing. Apparently, the teenage Velveteen was the one who was in the wrong. Sparkle Bright’s rainbow whip cracked crimson and ebony fury across the locker room, catching Velveteen squarely in the chest and sending her smashing back against the wall. Only years of physical conditioning and training in the ways to safely take a fall saved her from serious injury.

  Rolling with the momentum as much as she could, Velveteen wound up in a crumpled heap at the base of the wall, blood already starting to well from a cut the tile had opened in her cheek. Eyes
gone terribly wide, and terribly hurt, she stammered, “Y-Yelena, what—”

  “DON’T CALL ME THAT!” The whip this time was barely red at all, just a lash of pure, furious black, catching Velveteen in the side of the head and slamming her back against the wall. In the moments before she lost consciousness, she saw Sparkle Bright stalking toward her, hands balled tightly into fists. “I thought you were different,” she hissed. “Now I see that you’re just another two-bit hero with useless powers, trying to exploit me to stay in the spotlight. You stay away from me, Velveteen, and I might do you the same favor. You got that?”

  Velveteen didn’t answer. Velveteen was no longer aware enough to participate in the conversation.

  They found her passed out in the locker room almost two hours later; she was diagnosed with a severe concussion, and suspended from field activities for ninety days. When she came off her bed rest, Sparkle Bright was suddenly the team’s second-in-command, and Velveteen found herself grounded, working with all the other second-string heroes while the more “useful” powers took to the skies, and took to the spotlight.

  Remembering a whip made of light, and an anger she still didn’t understand, Velveteen couldn’t say she really minded.

  *

  “Here.” Aaron offered her a napkin across the table, looking awkward. “C’mon, Vel, don’t cry. I just need to talk to you, that’s all. Just talk. I mean, yes, I’m here because the . . . company . . . told me to be here. They said that you’d probably listen to me, even if you wouldn’t listen to anybody else. But I could’ve said no. When they asked me, I could’ve said no.”

  “So why didn’t you?” Velma demanded, taking the napkin and using it to wipe her eyes. It worked better than her hand. More absorbent, for one thing. “They could have sent somebody, I don’t know, who was less of a lying snake.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Neither is what you did to me, so hey, I guess we’re even. Why are you here, Aaron?”

  He went quiet, sitting silent for a long moment while he gathered his thoughts. Finally, raising his head just enough that their eyes met, he said, “Marketing didn’t know where you were until just recently, Vel. You left the team, and you dropped off the radar entirely. I know you probably won’t believe this, but when they seal the records, it’s for real. No monitoring, no check-ins. They treat you just like everybody else. Unless . . .”

  Feeling suddenly sick to her stomach, Velma said, “Unless we display superhuman abilities in a public setting. Is that it?” He didn’t answer. “Aaron. Is that it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But if they weren’t monitoring my movements, then how—”

  “Dave called us.” Seeing the shocked look on her face, Aaron raised his hands, palms toward her. “Hey. You’d just used superhuman abilities to stop his weird little shellfish army from. . . doing whatever weird little shellfish armies do. He was pissed off. And he was worried about you. We all were, when you left. I guess he thought he was doing you a favor. People like us, they’re not heroes, well . . . they tend to go the other way. He’s living that life. I don’t think he’d wish it on anybody else.”

  “He really did become a supervillain,” said Velma, shaking her head. “I’m fine, Aaron. Honest. I’m not planning to go crazy and level a city. I doubt I could, unless the city had sixteen toy factories or something. I could probably hold the North Pole for ransom, except Santa likes me. He’d just offer me a job.”

  “Vel, please. This is serious.”

  “Right. I’m supposed to believe that Marketing pulled their most popular hero—the hero who just happens to be my one and only ex-boyfriend—out of the field because my former teammates were ‘worried’ about me. A concept which requires me to believe that Yelena was worried about me. Or did you forget that she tried to kill me before I left the team? Yeah, from the look on your face, I guess you tried to put all that behind you. Well, I’m not buying it. Why are you here, Aaron?”

  “You know why.”

  “Say it.”

  “Marketing wants you back,” he said.

  Velma closed her eyes.

  *

  Six years ago. Six days before Velveteen’s eighteenth birthday. Six days before Velma Martinez stood up and took her life back. But in that moment, she was still Velveteen, still a well-trained, thoroughly-brainwashed company girl, sitting polite and puzzled in the Marketing office. She’d been in the middle of a training session when they called for her, testing her powers to see how broken toys could be before she lost the ability to call them back to life. She was reasonably sure she’d be dreaming of zombie teddy bears out for brains for the next week, but it had still been educational. She was definitely improving. Action Dude would be so proud of her.

  The man from Marketing smiled magnanimously, his hands folded together on the desk between them. She had a vague idea that she was meant to take his position as comforting and fatherly. Maybe it would have worked if she’d ever had the sort of father she took comfort in. “Now, Velveteen. We’ve all been very impressed with your dedication to your teammates, and to The Super Patriots. You can bet that the people upstairs are all very impressed, and very much hoping that you’ll consider taking at least an auxiliary position with one of the adult teams after your birthday.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, still puzzled, still striving to be polite. She’d learned over the years that understanding Marketing was nowhere near as important as avoiding upsetting them. “That’s very good to hear.”

  “There’s just one little thing that we’ve been wanting to discuss with you. It’s minor, but it could have a fairly major impact on the salability and image of the team. Since you’re such a team player, we know that you’ll understand.”

  Her confusion growing, Velveteen frowned. “Sir?”

  “We here at The Super Patriots, Inc. have worked hard to maintain a good relationship with the various publications focusing on the heroes in our employ, especially those beneath the age of identity revelation. It’s for the protection of everyone’s interests. Consequentially, we often find ourselves in possession of early issues. For review, you understand. So that we can settle any. . . disagreements . . . with a minimum of fuss.” Unfolding his hands, he pulled a magazine from beneath the desk and offered it to her. “I believe this will answer all your questions.”

  Velveteen had no precognitive abilities on record, but in that moment, as she reached for the magazine with inexplicably shaking hands, she felt a sense of dread fall over her; the sense that everything she thought she knew was about to change. She noted that the masthead read Secret Identity; that the date was just one week away. No time for “corrections” or “disagreements.” It had already gone to press.

  The cover photo was of Action Dude, Sparkle Bright snuggled up against his chest, looking just as dewy and innocent as a teen sweetheart could wish. “The Truth Is Out,” read the caption. Beneath it: “Teen Sensations Reveal What’s Really Been Going On Behind Their Masks.”

  Hands shaking in earnest now, Velveteen flipped the magazine, found the article, and read a whole new version of her life. A version where she and Action Dude had always been “just friends,” providing a cover for his clandestine relationship with Sparkle Bright, whose conservative parents might have endangered her life by revealing her secret identity if they’d known she was dating. “Val’s a great girl,” said the article—said her boyfriend—“but she’s more one of the guys than girlfriend material. Sparks was never threatened. She knew it was just what we had to do to keep her safe.”

  Sometime between that quote and the end of the article, Velveteen started crying. She never really stopped. It was Velma who looked up, offered back the magazine, and said, “I understand, sir. Is that all?”

  The man from Marketing smiled broadly. “We knew you’d be a trooper.”

  “I try my best, sir,” she said, and stood, and walked out of the office, back into a life that she didn’t want any part of anymore. Six days. That
was all she had to get through. Just six days, and then she’d be free.

  The urge was strong, but she somehow managed not to punch anyone before she left.

  *

  “You tell them,” she said, slowly, “that they are never, ever going to get me back on their team. Not the main team, not the auxiliary teams, not the super-special alumni team that they only break out of retirement when the universe is about to end. I have walked that walk, I have talked that talk, and I have learned that there are some things that are simply not worth it.”

  “Please,” he said, very softly.

  Velma opened her eyes, looking across the table at the one and only man she’d ever loved, the one and only man she’d ever allowed to get close enough to betray her. The one and only man that she was never going to find it in her to forgive. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, a thousand questions she wanted to ask him, starting with “Why?” and getting more and more painful from there. Some wounds never heal. Some cuts never stop bleeding.

  “Thanks for the mocha,” she said, and picked up cup and coffee cake, stood up from her chair, and left the Starbucks behind.

  Aaron Frank—also known as “Action Dude,” also known as the only man on the planet dumb enough to have Velma Martinez in his hands and let her slip away on the orders of a man from Marketing—watched her go. Once he was sure she was gone, he picked up a napkin, wiped his eyes, and stood to make his own departure.

  Sometimes there’s just not a happy ending. Sometimes there’s not really an ending at all.

  VELVETEEN

  vs.

  The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division

  VELMA MARTINEZ HAD BEEN DRIVING for long enough that she was fairly sure her ass had developed calluses. Any wayward, unspoken desire she might have had to become a professional truck driver had died somewhere on the road between San Francisco and the California/Oregon border. She couldn’t have said exactly what delivered the killing blow—was it the engine trouble? The wrong turn that stranded her in Isley during their annual crawfish festival? The traveling carnival whose rides were maintained in top condition through black magic and blood sacrifice? The conditions of the rest stop bathrooms? Whatever it was, she was done. If she never took another drive longer than the one between her next dead-end apartment and the nearest Starbucks, it would be way too soon.