Velveteen vs. the Junior Super Patriots (5 page)

At midnight exactly, the center of the shadow writhed, and a floating figure made of darkness shot through with blue glimmers of light shot up into the air.

The creature that had previously been Cyndi Davis, superhero wanna-be, looked down at itself and began to laugh hysterically. Then it turned, diving smoothly into the nearest unsecured wireless network, and was gone.

VELVETEEN

vs.

The Flashback Sequence

T
HE DRIVE FROM
R
ED
B
LUFF
to Eureka took several hours, largely because traffic slowed to an inexplicable crawl for almost fifty miles. Velma sat behind the wheel and fumed, trying to distract herself by coming up with more and more unlikely causes for the delay. She’d just reached “alien cows have landed and are demanding reparations for the slaughter of their colonists” when things started moving again. She hit the gas, all thoughts of colonist cattle forgotten in her urge to find a truck stop where she could get food, coffee, and a much-needed nap before continuing on toward Oregon.

She was still about fifteen miles outside the Eureka city limits when the Good Time Gas-n-Go truck stop appeared on the side of the highway in all its tacky neon glory like a gift from God. Truck stops always had the biggest portions at the smallest prices, largely due to supply and demand; truckers demanded a hell of a lot of food, and were willing to supply a minimal amount of cash for the privilege. At the same time, truckers generally didn’t demand high-quality or healthy meals, as long as the cooking was good and there was plenty of ketchup available. Velma pulled into one of the few open parking spaces and made her way inside, visions of giant cheeseburgers dancing in her head.

It wasn’t a surprise—a disappointment, maybe, but not a surprise—to see that the television behind the bar was turned to the results show for the latest Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division “talent search.” This was the official reveal, giving the viewing public their first look at the newest members of the team. Velma knew that the recorded announcements that accompanied their unveiling would be so much vapid official bullshit, all of it designed to make the people watching at home overlook the fact that they only needed new team members because they’d managed to break the old ones.

Rookie members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division only had about a fifty-two percent survival rate. Such was the life of the professional superhero. There was a reason that Velma had decided to get out of it. Several reasons, actually, only eight of which were related to the fact that she’d buried six people she actually sort of liked by the time she turned sixteen.

At least the sound on the television was turned off, and she wouldn’t have to listen to that god-awful theme song.

Velma ordered a stack of pancakes without syrup, a plate of country ham, coffee, and an overnight stay in the diner’s attached no-tell motel. Portland could wait long enough for her to get a nap. If it couldn’t, Portland could damn well take delivery of her corpse. She was on the road, she was out of Red Bluff, out of everywhere she’d ever been, and she was leaving everything—every scrap of spandex, every stupid theme song—behind her. Everything.

The pancakes were delicious.

*

The age of power manifestation varies from hero to hero, depending on their type of origin. A magical hero like the Princess could manifest at just about any time, depending on when they run afoul of whatever magical doo-dah decides it needs them to be its new best buddy. A scientific hero generally manifests after a crippling injury, or after they get their hands on some hypertech from the sixteenth dimension. Mutants manifest whenever they damn well feel like it. After subverting the human genome to your own surreal ends, slinging fireballs just sort of happens when it happens. (A surprising number of mutants manifest at their senior proms. Stephen King’s estate has thankfully thus far failed to sue.)

As a natural mutant who’d been exposed to still-unknown radiation
and
an exotic pathogen at the same time, Velma was officially classed as an “enhanced mutant,” that horrible middle step between “mutant” and “enhanced human.” With a freaky label and an effectively useless power, she’d never quite qualified for any of the legal help that the mutant and enhanced human political lobbies controlled. They just kept bouncing her between them like a funky-looking rubber ball stuffed into a pink and brown spandex super-suit. Eventually, she stopped trying to find someone who could help her.

Velma’s powers actually manifested for the first time at seven-sixteen in the morning on a Saturday when her father was in jail on yet another minor assault charge, and her mother was sleeping off the drinking binge to end all drinking binges. Velma was six, and not yet allowed to use the kitchen on her own, no matter how hungry she was. The Power Rangers were on TV, fighting a bad guy who could talk to lizards and make them attack people for him, which was wicked cool. After that would come the latest episode of
The Super Patriots
, where cartoons made from really real superheroes fought bad guys way worse than evil lizards. It was all totally enthralling, and Velma didn’t want to miss a second.

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t all that surprising that she didn’t notice when a stuffed bear brought her a bowl of cereal and some hot toast. She was, after all, six, and at six, everything seems entirely normal, even breakfast-by-bear. Velma and her teddy bear watched cartoons until Mommy woke up hungover and mean, and smacked Velma around for going in the kitchen without permission. That was the only time Velma tried to tell her mother she had superpowers—at least until the ill-fated field trip that would eventually tell the world. She couldn’t sit down for a week after the spanking she got for that one.

Once a superhuman has manifested their powers, they’re required to register with the government, and, should they wish to practice their powers outside the home, to obtain a hero license for the state in which they reside. Some states do require and enforce mandatory “civic service” time in exchange for licensing; in short, if you want to live in one of those states
and
be a licensed superhero, you’d better be willing to do your heroic duty. This doesn’t apply to child heroes, obviously enough. While superhumans under the age of eighteen are not subject to child labor laws in the exercise of their powers, they can’t be forced into heroic service.

In theory, anyway.

The reality of the matter is much simpler, if substantially more cold. Once a superhero team—especially a team connected with The Super Patriots, Inc.—has its claws into someone, their age doesn’t really matter. There are a thousand small, practically invisible ways to keep someone quiet, loyal, signing merchandising contracts, and generally standing up in front of the world with a smile. Most kid superheroes made kid stars look well-adjusted, sane, and absolutely well-socialized.

The glamorous world of the professional hero. There’s nothing like it. And, as Velma had been declaring since she turned sixteen, “Thank God for that.”

*

The rooms at the Good Time Gas-n-Go’s no-tell motel were small, dingy, spotlessly clean, and, most importantly of all, cheap. Finances were tight, and they kept on getting tighter every day that Velma stayed on the road. She tossed her backpack into the room’s one small chair and tossed herself across the bed, grabbing the TV remote off the nightstand in a gesture born purely of habit.

The credits were just starting to roll on the annual cattle-call for The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. That meant a photo opportunity for the new kids, where they could stand alongside the old guard trying to look cute, and clever, and cunning, and marketable. Trying to look like they weren’t scared out of their minds, like they were going to beat the odds and be in the business forever. They’d probably be in it for the rest of their lives; that much was certain. Those lives just weren’t likely to last as long as they might have wanted them to.

The Super Patriots, West Coast Division looked good positioned next to their newest junior heroes. Sparkle Bright in her rainbow costume, tiny rainbows decorating her hair with glints of brilliant light. Uncertainty, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking like he was afraid he’d left the iron on. Imagineer, tinkering with something she’d pulled out of her lab coat, while Mechamation flirted with one of the cameras. Not one of the cameramen; one of the cameras. Jack O’Lope, Spirit of the American West, chin jutting and chest puffed out, looking noble and heroic and only a little silly in his bright red cowboy hat.

And Action Dude. Aaron. In that iconic orange and blue costume that sold a million knock-offs every Halloween, with that little domino mask that Marketing said made his eyes pop—like they needed help—and that little wave in his surfer-boy blond hair. The American Dream in brightly-colored spandex. (No, wait; the American Dream was another hero. This was Action Dude. This was
Aaron
.) He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Sparkle Bright, their shoulders almost touching. Just enough to make the public wonder if everyone’s favorite on-again, off-again hero couple was on or off this week. Action Dude. Most popular hero on the West Coast.

“ ’member when we were on that stage, Aaron?” Velma murmured sleepily, and closed her eyes while the theme song played over the closing credits.

*

Thirteen years ago
. . .

Velma Martinez, age twelve, fledgling superheroine facing her very first battle against evil: the Marketing Department of The Super Patriots, Inc. They’d been called in by the local authorities after the class field trip to the museum, the one where—Velma’s cheeks burned again just thinking about it—the one where she’d finally been
so
tired, and
so
upset that she’d lost control of her powers completely, bringing the entire Natural History wing back to life. The dinosaurs had been so pretty when they started to jump around. But that didn’t matter now, because now she was In Big Trouble. The Biggest Trouble ever, maybe.

Both her parents had answered the corporate summons, and they were sitting there wearing their very best clothes (Daddy hadn’t worn that suit since Grandpapa’s funeral), with their hands folded just so, listening to every word the man from Marketing said.

“A power like Velma’s is, well, it’s a large blessing, Mr. and Ms. Martinez, and it’s also a large burden, especially for a family that’s never had to deal with the challenges of raising a superpowered child,” said the man from Marketing, his expression composed into one of utter sincerity. Velma hated him. Her parents, on the other hand, were nodding solemnly, looking for all the world like they believed Velma had acquired her powers the same day she lost control of them. They knew better. But they were still listening to him. “Now, we here at The Super Patriots believe in guiding young heroes—nurturing them to be the very best that they can be, and helping them learn the control and compassion that will be so important to them in their heroic lives.”

“You can’t make me be a hero,” Velma said, speaking up for the first time since the meeting started. All three of the adults turned to look at her, their expressions betraying the fact that they’d almost forgotten she was there. She was extraneous to the business that was happening, even though it would determine her entire future. “That’s illegal.”

“You hush,” hissed her mother, with surprising rancor. Her eyes were glittering bright with anger and excitement. Looking at those eyes, Velma felt her stomach sink as understanding that was far too old for her twelve years flooded through her. She was for sale. That was why they were here. She had super powers—not because she’d done anything to seek out or earn them—and that meant she wasn’t really a little girl anymore. She was something else, some pretty little toy that could be bought and sold by anyone who was willing to meet the price. “You just hush your mouth.”

“Sorry, Momma,” Velma said, sinking back in her seat. “I just—”

“I don’t care what you ‘just,’” said her father, sharply. “Quiet now.”

Wisely, Velma was quiet. She didn’t say another word. Not as the cost for her legal guardianship was agreed upon, not as they argued out a payment schedule, not as the lawyers came in with the papers that would transfer custody from her parents to the corporation. Not as her parents got up and left the room, effectively washing their hands of her. Not even when the woman with the plastic smile to match her plastic breasts stepped into the room, murmuring to her like she was a much younger child, and offered to take her to her new “special room.”

Velma wasn’t sure she’d ever say another thing ever again.

*

The home base of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, was split into three distinct sections. There was the public-facing area, where tour groups could come to ooh and aah at all the cute kiddie superheroes as they trained in their brightly-colored, theme park-esque “workout zones;” there were the team quarters, where the various official, auxiliary, and training members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, were housed; and then there were the bunkers.

“It’ll be just like going to camp with your very best friends!” gushed the woman from Marketing during Velma’s orientation. “You’ve always wanted to go to camp, haven’t you?”

“No,” said Velma.

If she’d been expecting her lack of enthusiasm to slow down the woman from Marketing, she was sorely mistaken. Her orientation continued to barrel full-speed ahead, rushing her through all the duties she’d be expected to perform as the newest member of The Junior Super Patriots family. Most of them involved submitting to endless tests of her powers, at least for the first few months.

“And if you’re very good, and you do
very
well on your tests, you may get the chance to try out for the team! Won’t that be wonderful?”

“No,” said Velma again, but her protests fell on deaf ears. The wheels of her future were turning all around her, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. They were going to have their way with her, whether she liked it or not. So she let herself be shown into a tiny white room that wouldn’t have been out of place in a hospital, them gushing promises of a bright tomorrow, her sullen and silent. She just stood there after they’d gone, head bowed, wishing she knew whether or not they were watching her.