Velveteen vs. The Ordinary Day.
Title: Velveteen vs. The Ordinary Day.
Summary: What is there for a formerly retired superheroine who's managed to find herself in the state she was aiming for -- good -- and somehow thrust back into the public eye (bad) at the very same time? More importantly, now that she's in Oregon, what is there to do?
Originally sponsored for Soren's birthday. Happy birthday!
***
Velma woke up slowly, resisting the process every inch of the way. There were extremely valid reasons not to regain consciousness, argued her sleeping mind. The fact of the matter was that waking up had very rarely led to anything pleasant -- not for years. Waking up usually just provided additional proof that the world was trying to make her as miserable as possible. From the day Sparks had attacked her in the training facility locker room to the minute she was flung across the Oregon state border and--
Wait. An emergency conference of the various parts of Velma's semi-aware mind was called to abrupt order, with each individual fragment presenting their recollections of the past few days. The sheer improbability of it all was pointed out by one of the more logical pieces, and just as immediately dismissed; as the mind of a super-powered child star and disgruntled media drop-out, Velma's brain had long since learned that probability wasn't good for much of anything.
After the comparisons had been drawn and the continuity had been carefully reviewed, the reality of the situation was simply too insane to ignore. She'd made it; she was in Oregon, where the state's Governor had inexplicably announced that she was a fully licensed and authorized state superheroine; she was never going to have to go back to California again. Which was probably a good thing, since the odds were reasonably high that she was now a criminal under California law. She was in Oregon. She was finally, after years of running from her parents, her contemporaries, and her own past, finally free.
Velma opened her eyes, shocked fully into wakefulness by the sudden realization that she was really, genuinely, and unquestionably free, outside the reach of everyone she'd been running away from for her entire adult life.
And she had absolutely no idea whatsoever of what she was going to do with herself.
*
The representative from Marketing was well into...Aaron risked a sideways glance at the clock on the wall. The representative from Marketing was well into the thirteenth hour of his infuriated rant. He had turned a charming shade of purple, and kept waving his arms around like that would somehow miraculously make everyone else understand the gravity of the situation. Aaron understood perfectly well. He understood that the representative from Marketing was well on his way to screaming himself into a heart attack.
He was trying to remember his long-forgotten CPR course when he noticed the sudden silence, and looked up to find the rest of The Super Patriots, Inc., staring in his direction. Aaron reddened. "Uh..." he said, finally. "Did I miss something? Sorry. Didn't sleep much."
"I was simply wondering, Action Dude, whether the subject had mentioned anything about claiming sanctuary in Oregon when you encountered her before," said the representative from Marketing. His voice was smooth as buttered snakes, which probably meant he was getting ready to do some serious damage. Years of dealing with the Marketing department had left Aaron way too aware of the signs of impending doom. "After all, you were her closest confidant before she decided to abandon the path of righteousness."
"Uh," said Aaron, for the second time in as many minutes. "Not really. Mostly she just said, y'know, she wasn't going to come back. And that I should go away. She was pretty firm on that whole 'you should go away' point, really."
"Did she, by any chance, make threats? Suggest that things might go poorly if you failed to agree to her wishes?"
The rest of The Super Patriots, Inc., looked intently in his direction, clearly waiting for his answer. All his training told him to say that yes, she'd threatened him; yes, he'd been afraid of what would happen if he failed to do as he was told; yes, she was definitely enough of a threat to justify petitioning the Superhuman Affairs Commission for a special order of extradition from the state where she'd gone to ground. All he had to do was say the word, and her short sanctuary would end.
But he remembered her in the Chevron parking lot; remembered how run-down she'd looked, how beaten. How beautiful. God, he had the prettiest women in and out of the hero world ready to hang off his arm at the snap of his fingers, and his heart skipped a beat for a sweaty, sunburned brunette in cheap Old Navy cargo pants. "If you ever loved me, don't." That was what she said to him. If you ever loved me, don't. And he'd loved her for so long that he really had no idea how to stop.
"No, sir," he said, with perfect honesty. His expression was as guileless as he could make it. He had a lot of practice at looking guileless. Vel used to say that Marketing had no idea how smart he really was, and he was more than happy to play off their ignorance whenever he could. "She said she was done with the whole superhero thing. I think she just had some bad luck getting to Oregon. That's all."
The representative from Marketing glared at him through narrowed eyes, clearly displeased with his answer. "Are you quite sure she made no threats against you?"
Aaron scoffed. "I can make origami out of steel plates. She can bring stuffed bunny rabbits to life. What was she going to do, hold the North Pole for ransom?" He was quoting her again. He couldn't help it. "Besides, Santa likes her. He'd probably just offer her a job or something." Velma in green velvet, making the teddy bears dance around the workshop before they went out into the world. He could picture it. He could even picture her happy there, outside the reach of the Marketing department forever.
Maybe then she'd forgive him. Maybe then she'd take him back.
The representative from Marketing continued to glare, but there was nothing he could say. You didn't accuse the protectors of truth, justice, and the freedoms of Man of lying; it simply wasn't done. Not unless you were absolutely certain that there were no cameras anywhere in the vicinity.
"This isn't over," he said, through gritted teeth. "You are all dismissed."
*
The case of Whippoorwill vs. the State of New Hampshire was a groundbreaking piece of superheroic legislation, not only because Whippoorwill refused to divulge her secret identity during the proceedings. "If I lose, I'll serve time as a civilian," she said, "but if I win, I refuse to put my family in danger because somebody thought it would be fun to challenge my credentials." No one had a viable objection to her position. The mask stayed on until the jury's verdict was returned.
At the time, New Hampshire's laws against superhuman activity were among the strictest in the nation. Whippoorwill, as a licensed superheroine for the state of Maine, had been patrolling over a portion of her territory when a storm-based supervillain attacked her, blowing her over the state line. As her trespass had not been intentional, she argued, she was not violating state law when she flew back to her state of residence. As she was in New Hampshire at the time, replied the prosecution, she could damn well have taken a taxi.
During the eighteen month trial, Whippoorwill's heroing license was suspended, and she was grounded -- a short-term punishment she took to with what the prosecution called "unholy glee." Once it became clear that the trial was going to extend past a year, she proudly announced her impending pregnancy. A grounded superheroine was, after all, a safe superheroine, fully capable of taking her prenatal vitamins without worrying about accidental irradiation.
In the end, the verdict was returned in favor of Whippoorwill, stating that any licensed hero was bound by the laws specific to their state of license, providing their trespass had been accidental, against their will, or during the course of active pursuit of a known supervillain. Whipporwill thanked them kindly, reclaimed her heroing license, and returned to Maine, where, government records indicate, she gave birth to a healthy, hollow-boned baby girl with an initial wingspan more than twice the length of her body.
The state of New Hampshire petitioned to have the ruling overturned, but were denied -- a decision which some believe was influenced by the unexplained, anonymous donations made to the fund sponsoring the anti-hero legal team. It was noted that The Super Patriots, Inc. was paying an unusual amount of attention to a state with no superhumans to speak of...and more, that licensed members of the only nationally recognized superhuman organization were immune to state-specific restrictions. In a world where all states outlawed superhumans, only The Super Patriots, Inc. would control the hero population.
Whippoorwill retired from active hero duty after more than twenty years on the job, finally revealing her secret identity as Elise Michaels, a mild-mannered ornithologist whose powers had been granted to her by the spirit of the great Raven, first among the psychopomps. Her daughter, who also goes by the name "Whippoorwill," has now been protecting the state of Maine for almost eight years.
Neither of them has ever applied for membership to The Super Patriots, Inc., nor expressed any interest in seeking a place outside the state of Maine.
As of this report, all types of superhuman activity are legal in the state of New Hampshire, and several of the state's own superhumans have applied for membership to The Super Patriots, Inc. at one time or another.\
And so it goes.
*
The first thing Velma did, once she had determined that she was alone in the spacious hotel suite, was take a long, hot shower -- the first really good shower she'd had in longer than she cared to think about.
When she turned the water up as high as it would go, it was actually loud enough to drown out the sound of her sobbing.
She was making coffee in the suite's small but serviceable kitchen, wrapped in the plush white robe she'd found in the bathroom, when there was a knock at the balcony door. That was odd. The oddity was only enhanced by the fact that the evacuation plan on the wall indicated that her room was on the tenth floor. "If I have to fight a massive superhero battle before I have coffee, somebody's going to die today," she muttered, and walked towards the sound.
The knocking proved to be, not a person, but a dozen pigeons slamming themselves against the glass in a measured rhythm that managed to mimic a person knocking quite nicely. Velma stopped, blinking at the pigeons. The pigeons continued to body-slam the glass. "What. The. Fuck?"
The pigeons kept slamming.
Realizing that they were going to continue their feathery attack on the glass until they killed themselves or she answered, Velma sighed deeply and walked over to open the balcony doors. Much to her relief, the pigeons did not immediately flood the room. Instead, a single bird flapped inside -- not a member of the attacking flock, she noted -- with an envelope clasped firmly in its beak. It landed on the back of a chair, fluffing out its feathers in a bid for attention.
"If this explodes, you're going to be one sorry fucking excuse for a miniature Thanksgiving turkey," Velma cautioned the pigeon, and took the envelope from its beak. Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And don't crap on the furniture."
The pigeon cooed, sounding almost offended.
"Same to you," said Velma, opening the envelope. Inside, there was a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it.
Ornate calligraphic letters read: LOOK DOWN.
"I'm walking into a trap," she said, sing-song, and walked out onto the balcony. Putting her hands carefully against the ledge, she leaned forward, looking down towards street level...
...and screamed.
*
The valet at the downtown Portland Embassy Suites had been working for the hotel chain long enough to know that it was never appropriate to comment on the vehicles which paying customers, or their guests, chose to drive. Stretch limos, Harley-Davidsons, and dissolving Toyotas, their money spent the same, and the owners of the stranger cars were often among the best tippers.
Still, he'd never been faced with a coach-and-four before. Especially not a coach-and-four where the "coach" portion appeared to have been crafted from an unnaturally over-sized pumpkin. He was eyeing the contraption warily, praying he wouldn't be asked to park it, when a brown-haired, brown-skinned woman in cargo pants and a black tank top came racing out the hotel doors at a truly indecorous speed, arms thrust straight up into the air.
"PRINCESS!" she shrieked.
Was it a battle cry? An invocation? Some sort of personal name? He was willing to bet on the last, as the owner of the coach popped out the door as soon as the brunette appeared, shrieking back, just as loudly, "VEL!"
She wasn't altogether what he'd been expecting. Oh, the peaches-and-cream complexion went nicely with the enchanted coach motif, as did the enormous blue eyes and the flaxen yellow hair. Still, he was willing to wager that most women who answered to "Princess" and drove around in giant mutant pumpkins didn't wear sleeveless black T-shirts with "NASTY EVER AFTER" written across the front. Her breasts were doing an excellent job of distorting the letters, but they were still legible.
The second woman to pop out of the coach was even less expected: white-haired, blue-skinned, faintly glowing, and wearing a sparkly red miniskirt with a shirt that read "THE NICE LIST IS FOR LOSERS." "What am I, chopped liver?" she demanded, planting glowing hands on sparkling hips and grinning at the blonde and the brunette, who were caught in an enthusiastic embrace.
The valet, who was starting to feel like he'd fallen into the world's strangest lesbian porn film, really wished he had some popcorn.
"You guys!" The brunette extricated herself from the brunette, flinging herself at the glowing girl. "What are you doing here? How are you here? I just got here!"
"You showed up on Mom's mirror every time you used your powers, you goof," said the glowing girl, giving the brunette a tight hug. "When she saw you hit Oregon, she finally clued me in on where to find you, since that blew your secret identity but good. National news, not good for anonymity."
"She called me about five minutes after you got knocked over the state line," confirmed the blonde. "And I said that maybe you'd been meaning to call us for the last few years, and just hadn't gotten around to it. So maybe we ought to come and give you a chance to apologize."
"Over breakfast, naturally," said the glowing girl. "Princess is paying."
"Naturally," said the blonde, rolling her eyes. "Come on, you freeloaders. The crepes are calling." Grabbing a girl by each arm, she towed them back to the coach and pushed them inside. They didn't resist.
As the coach began pulling out of the hotel driveway -- without, the valet noted, any sign of a driver -- the blonde leaned out of the window, blew him a kiss, and flipped a large gold coin in his direction. "Don't spend it all in one place," she called. The glowing girl leaned out the window behind her, waving frantically. Then they were gone, leaving the valet to stare down at the coin in his hand.
"How am I supposed to spend this at all?" he asked.
*
"Oh my Claus, will you look at your hair." Jackie Frost -- daughter of the Snow Queen and Jack Frost, and current best candidate to inherit the Winter Country when her parents either died or stepped down, something that thankfully showed no signs of happening any time soon -- tweaked a lock of Velma's hair between her fingers, wrinkling her nose. "Newsflash, sweetie: the rabbit code name doesn't mean you need to nail a dead bunny to your head."
"Stop it," said Velma, laughing as she swatted Jackie's hand away. "I've been on the run from the Marketing Department. That leaves very little time for hair care."
"There's always time for hair care," said Jackie, sounding affronted.
The Princess just laughed. "Will you listen to the pair of you? Disney, but you're like shaking cats in a sack." Here, among friends, her natural Alabama accent came straight to the front, drowning every syllable in honey. "You should've come back years ago, Vel. I've been dealing with Jackie here all on my own."
"I'm her penance," Jackie confessed.
Velma raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Fabulousness," deadpanned the Princess.
The sound of laughter followed the enchanted pumpkin down the street and into the heart of Portland.
*
Six crepes, three espressos, and a plate of waffles with sliced strawberries later, Velma was feeling better than she'd felt in years. Jackie and the Princess had kept up a constant stream of merry chatter all the way through breakfast, filling her in on all the gossip she'd missed during her time away from the superhuman community. She leaned back in her chair, resisting the urge to undo the button on her pants, and listened as Jackie spun a completely improbable story involving Leading Lady, Dotty Gale, and a bachelorette party gone entirely out of control. The three of them were making enough noise to wake the dead, but no one had said a thing about it. The Princess was, after all, the sweetheart of America's youth, and if she wanted to hang out in their restraunt joking with her friends, the publicity it gained them would be well worth any immediate business they happened to lose.
Not that they were losing much. The place had been almost empty when they arrived, but now it was packed. Only the fact that the Princess had thoughtfully reserved the surrounding tables was preventing them from being seated at the heart of a mob. Flashes kept going off from a discrete distance, and Velma realized, through her digestive haze, that she was automatically turning her chin to keep her face in the best possible light. Some skills, it seemed, never went away. No matter how much you might wish that they would.
Jackie's story finished, and neither of them seemed inclined to launch into another. Velma felt the sudden urge to begin telling them about Isley, or the coffee shop, or...well, or anything that would keep things from going serious on her. It had been so long since she'd had friends that she wasn't entirely sure what to do, but she was certain that she didn't want things to turn serious.
"Vel..." said Jackie, much more quietly than she'd been speaking a moment before.
Too late. "Yeah?" asked Velma, wishing she had a piece of toast to crumble, or a napkin to shread, or, well, just about anything.
Jackie and the Princess exchanged a glance. Finally, the Princess said, "We were just wondering, now that you're here, in Oregon, and licensed and everything, well. What are your plans? What are you going to do from here?"
"I can't leave the state," Velma said, looking frantically around for a waiter. For the first time since their arrival, the staff seemed to have deserted them. "The Super Patriots would have me under arrest the second I crossed a border."
"Untrue," said Jackie. "You're welcome at the North Pole any time. Santa'd be thrilled to see you again. He's really missed you."
"I noticed." Every Christmas since she'd left The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, she'd gone to sleep on Christmas Eve in a dingy, undecorated apartment, and woken up to tinsel, tree, and piles of presents. There were years when selling the things that Santa gave her was all that let her keep eating. She'd never seen the Big Guy herself on those Christmas mornings, but she'd been leaving him thank you notes since the first year. "Guess I never dropped off the nice list."
"Unlike those vipers in Marketing," snarled the Princess. Velma looked at her in surprise. The Princess shook her head. "Sweetie, you think we don't know what they did to you? There's a reason neither of us never went to work for them. And it's not because I could make more money in the private sector."
"Right." Velma sighed. "I'll get a job, I guess. I can wait tables. I've been a barrista. If it's low-paying and doesn't require a college degree to do, I'm actually pretty good at it. Years of temping have honed me into a mean, lean, filing machine."
The others stared at her. Jackie was the one to finally say what they were both thinking, asking, slowly, "And you'll be happy doing that for the rest of your life? Pouring coffee and microwaving scones for minimum wage?"
"I'm not trained to do anything else."
"That's not true," said the Princess. "You possess a rare and carefully nurtured skill set that has a lot of applications in your current situation. One that could be used to improve your quality of life, as well as the lives of the people around you."
Now it was Velma's turn to stare. "You're not saying what I think it sounds like you're saying. If you were saying it, you'd be crazy. You're not crazy, are you? Please don't be crazy."
"I'm saying you could be a superhero, Vel."
Velma sighed. "That's what I was afraid you were saying."
*
Velma's new costume fit her like a second skin and held her stomach in like the world's most ambitious pair of control-top pantyhose. Not that she was fat, per se, but she definitely hadn't been doing the "no carbs shall ever pass these lips" diet recommended for superheroines whose powers didn't include a hyper-efficient metabolism. It was even in the right colors, chocolate brown and a deep burgundy red. "How did you get one of these made so fast?" she asked, tugging on one of the gloves. "And I haven't said yes yet. Agreeing to put on the costume and go for one patrol is so not the same as saying yes. You know that, right?"
"As to how we got your costume done so fast, Princess here controls an army of mice. Apparently mice can sew." Jackie shrugged, making the tiny icicles that ringed her costume's neckline chime. She looked like she was about to go and compete in Olympic figure skating -- even down to the skates. Being able to make your own ice came in handy when she needed to increase her speed of movement.
"They're very good with button holes," agreed the Princess. "We know you're not necessarily back in the business, Vel, but we've missed you, and we just want you to be sure you've explored all your options."
"Besides, you pretty much owe the governor one patrol. She did keep you from getting arrested and turned over to the Marketing Department to be their new R-and-D bitch."
Velma sighed. "Right. Okay. Let's go fight some crime."
"Least inspiring battle cry ever," said Jackie.
They went.
*
Things that are unobtrusive: masked avengers of the night silently lurking on rooftops, using gothic gargoyles as camouflage as they watch over their chosen cities.
Things that are not unobtrusive: blonde women in pink taffeta riding flying carpets, followed by massive flocks of pigeons, crows, and one profoundly confused escaped parakeet. Glowing blue women traveling by means of anchoring ice slides to rooftops and skating along them, singing off-key Christmas carols all the while. And, of course, screaming brunettes clinging for dear life to the back of the carpet, occasionally pausing the spew invective that would make a supervillain blush.
"Relax!" called the Princess, pitching her voice to be heard above the rushing of the wind. "It's just a flying carpet!"
"I DON'T FLY!"
"Relax or I'll start a musical number!"
Velveteen didn't relax, but she did stop screaming. A small blessing, made bigger when the reduced noise levels let them hear the sirens coming from the streets below.
"Hey, Vel!"
"WHAT?!"
"You know how you said you don't fly?"
Realization struck Velveteen across the face like a flung flounder cold-cocking a fisherman. "No! No, that's okay! I like flying! Flying is good! Let's keep on flying for a little while lo--"
The doppler effect distorted her screams into something almost musical as the carpet dropped out of the sky.
*
The valet at the downtown Portland Embassy Suites was getting ready for the end of his shift when the pumpkin-slash-carriage made its second appearance, rattling up the driveway, still without any visible means of locomotion. Laughter and the occasional squeal were coming from inside the conveyance. Not for the first time, the valet seriously asked himself whether it might not be time to pursue another line of work.
"--don't believe we did that!" said the brunette from before, now wearing a velvet-looking body suit, a rabbit-ear headband, and something that looked unnervingly like a tool belt. A bright pink plush bunny rabbit spilled out of the pumpkin after her. "It was all wham! Pow! Victory!"
"Totally old-school," agreed the blue one, who was still glowing, but was wearing a sparkly, spangly, insufficiently street-legal ice skating costume with -- were those skates? Those were skates. Apparently, she traveled with her own personal small field of ice. "They felt the justice of Portland today."
"Especially the one who pissed himself," said the blonde, stepping down from the carriage with a marginally more decorous air. She had changed her clothes along with the others, and the cotton candy pink dress she was wearing wouldn't have looked out of place in a production of Wicked. She even had a tiara.
"Definitely time for a new line of work," muttered the valet.
The blonde patted the pumpkin-coach-thing lightly on the side as she closed the door, saying, "Okay, sweetie. Thanks for the lift, but it's time to park for a little bit, if you don't mind." The coach was immediately surrounded by a swirl of glitter, which closed in, expanded out, and burst, leaving a novelty-sized pumpkin in its place. "Thank you, dearest," said the blonde, before picking up the pumpkin and tucking it into her purse. She looked back towards the others. "All done."
"All right, team!" said Jackie. "To the mini-bar!"
"FOR JUSTICE!" shouted the other two, and followed the blue girl inside.
*
Three hours and several kamikaze runs on the mini-bar later, all three of the girls were pleasantly plastered, lolling around Velveteen's hotel room and occasionally giggling at each other. Jackie was wearing Velveteen's rabbit ears; Velveteen was wearing her own uniform top with the Princess's skirt; the Princess herself was wearing a bathrobe. None of them were entirely clear on which the exchange had happened, but as they weren't planning to go anywhere unless they ran out of alcohol, it didn't really seem to matter.
"But why," declaimed Jackie, "is the rum gone? There's the real question."
"Because you drank it," said Velveteen solemnly. The room dissolved into giggles once again.
When things calmed down -- after several more drinks, a pillow fight, and all the candy in the mini-bar -- Velveteen was sprawled on the floor with her head on Jackie's knees, idly directing a small flock of origami birds in formations that flew around the room. "I missed you guys," she said, yawning. "I really, really did."
"We missed you, too, Vel," said the Princess, before finishing her drink. "You hadda...hadda...it was time to take a break. But this is what you're good at. This is what you should be doing."
"Yeah," agreed Jackie. "Drinking heavily with your friends in a hotel room that somebody else is paying for."
"Yeah," said Vel, yawning.
The others waited until she was fully asleep before sneaking out. The Princess closed the hotel room before humming eight bars of a peppy little song which rendered them both perfectly sober. Jackie cast her a sidelong look.
"Nobody expects a drunken fairy tale princess," she explained.
They walked to the end of the hall, and were waiting for the elevator when Jackie asked, "So...do you think we helped?"
"I don't think we hurt," said the Princess. "If she decides to stay civilian, at least she knows that she's still got friends who care about her. That's worth a lot."
"Yeah. It is."
*
Velveteen woke up alone, with only the empty bottles, bruises, and glittery pools to commemorate the fact that anybody had been there at all. Squinting sleepily, she sat up. "Guys?" No answer. "Guys, did you go back to the Crystal Glitter Unicorn Cloud Castle?" No answer. "I guess so."
Yawning, she slid off the couch and made her way to the bathroom. She was midway through her shower when she realized, without fanfare, that she'd made up her mind.
Besides. It was really going to get under Marketing's skin.
*
"--and bearing this in mind, it is my pleasure, as Governor of the State of Oregon, to announce that Velveteen, formerly of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, has chosen to come out of retirement and turn her powers towards protecting this, her new chosen homeland." Celia Morgan looked entirely at home under the glaring lights of the gathered media. Velveteen gave serious thought to turning tail and running for the hills. Early training in how to behave during a press conference forbade her from doing so. It didn't remove the temptation. "Velveteen will be operating out of Portland for the time being, but will be available for rescues, team-ups, and public events anywhere in the state."
Still smiling, Celia ceded the microphone to an uneasy-looking Vel, who cleared her throat, leaned forward, and said the first thing that came to mind:
"Uh. Hi."
The applause was thunderous.
*
Several hundred miles away, in the headquarters of The Super Patriots, Inc., an emergency meeting of the Marketing team was called to order. Field agents were recalled, leaving junior teams unchaperoned for the first time in living memory. Secretaries were brought back from vacation. Husbands and wives were informed that they wouldn't be seeing their loved ones for the foreseeable future.
The little bitch wanted to have herself a war?
Well, she was going to get one.
Summary: What is there for a formerly retired superheroine who's managed to find herself in the state she was aiming for -- good -- and somehow thrust back into the public eye (bad) at the very same time? More importantly, now that she's in Oregon, what is there to do?
Originally sponsored for Soren's birthday. Happy birthday!
***
Velma woke up slowly, resisting the process every inch of the way. There were extremely valid reasons not to regain consciousness, argued her sleeping mind. The fact of the matter was that waking up had very rarely led to anything pleasant -- not for years. Waking up usually just provided additional proof that the world was trying to make her as miserable as possible. From the day Sparks had attacked her in the training facility locker room to the minute she was flung across the Oregon state border and--
Wait. An emergency conference of the various parts of Velma's semi-aware mind was called to abrupt order, with each individual fragment presenting their recollections of the past few days. The sheer improbability of it all was pointed out by one of the more logical pieces, and just as immediately dismissed; as the mind of a super-powered child star and disgruntled media drop-out, Velma's brain had long since learned that probability wasn't good for much of anything.
After the comparisons had been drawn and the continuity had been carefully reviewed, the reality of the situation was simply too insane to ignore. She'd made it; she was in Oregon, where the state's Governor had inexplicably announced that she was a fully licensed and authorized state superheroine; she was never going to have to go back to California again. Which was probably a good thing, since the odds were reasonably high that she was now a criminal under California law. She was in Oregon. She was finally, after years of running from her parents, her contemporaries, and her own past, finally free.
Velma opened her eyes, shocked fully into wakefulness by the sudden realization that she was really, genuinely, and unquestionably free, outside the reach of everyone she'd been running away from for her entire adult life.
And she had absolutely no idea whatsoever of what she was going to do with herself.
*
The representative from Marketing was well into...Aaron risked a sideways glance at the clock on the wall. The representative from Marketing was well into the thirteenth hour of his infuriated rant. He had turned a charming shade of purple, and kept waving his arms around like that would somehow miraculously make everyone else understand the gravity of the situation. Aaron understood perfectly well. He understood that the representative from Marketing was well on his way to screaming himself into a heart attack.
He was trying to remember his long-forgotten CPR course when he noticed the sudden silence, and looked up to find the rest of The Super Patriots, Inc., staring in his direction. Aaron reddened. "Uh..." he said, finally. "Did I miss something? Sorry. Didn't sleep much."
"I was simply wondering, Action Dude, whether the subject had mentioned anything about claiming sanctuary in Oregon when you encountered her before," said the representative from Marketing. His voice was smooth as buttered snakes, which probably meant he was getting ready to do some serious damage. Years of dealing with the Marketing department had left Aaron way too aware of the signs of impending doom. "After all, you were her closest confidant before she decided to abandon the path of righteousness."
"Uh," said Aaron, for the second time in as many minutes. "Not really. Mostly she just said, y'know, she wasn't going to come back. And that I should go away. She was pretty firm on that whole 'you should go away' point, really."
"Did she, by any chance, make threats? Suggest that things might go poorly if you failed to agree to her wishes?"
The rest of The Super Patriots, Inc., looked intently in his direction, clearly waiting for his answer. All his training told him to say that yes, she'd threatened him; yes, he'd been afraid of what would happen if he failed to do as he was told; yes, she was definitely enough of a threat to justify petitioning the Superhuman Affairs Commission for a special order of extradition from the state where she'd gone to ground. All he had to do was say the word, and her short sanctuary would end.
But he remembered her in the Chevron parking lot; remembered how run-down she'd looked, how beaten. How beautiful. God, he had the prettiest women in and out of the hero world ready to hang off his arm at the snap of his fingers, and his heart skipped a beat for a sweaty, sunburned brunette in cheap Old Navy cargo pants. "If you ever loved me, don't." That was what she said to him. If you ever loved me, don't. And he'd loved her for so long that he really had no idea how to stop.
"No, sir," he said, with perfect honesty. His expression was as guileless as he could make it. He had a lot of practice at looking guileless. Vel used to say that Marketing had no idea how smart he really was, and he was more than happy to play off their ignorance whenever he could. "She said she was done with the whole superhero thing. I think she just had some bad luck getting to Oregon. That's all."
The representative from Marketing glared at him through narrowed eyes, clearly displeased with his answer. "Are you quite sure she made no threats against you?"
Aaron scoffed. "I can make origami out of steel plates. She can bring stuffed bunny rabbits to life. What was she going to do, hold the North Pole for ransom?" He was quoting her again. He couldn't help it. "Besides, Santa likes her. He'd probably just offer her a job or something." Velma in green velvet, making the teddy bears dance around the workshop before they went out into the world. He could picture it. He could even picture her happy there, outside the reach of the Marketing department forever.
Maybe then she'd forgive him. Maybe then she'd take him back.
The representative from Marketing continued to glare, but there was nothing he could say. You didn't accuse the protectors of truth, justice, and the freedoms of Man of lying; it simply wasn't done. Not unless you were absolutely certain that there were no cameras anywhere in the vicinity.
"This isn't over," he said, through gritted teeth. "You are all dismissed."
*
The case of Whippoorwill vs. the State of New Hampshire was a groundbreaking piece of superheroic legislation, not only because Whippoorwill refused to divulge her secret identity during the proceedings. "If I lose, I'll serve time as a civilian," she said, "but if I win, I refuse to put my family in danger because somebody thought it would be fun to challenge my credentials." No one had a viable objection to her position. The mask stayed on until the jury's verdict was returned.
At the time, New Hampshire's laws against superhuman activity were among the strictest in the nation. Whippoorwill, as a licensed superheroine for the state of Maine, had been patrolling over a portion of her territory when a storm-based supervillain attacked her, blowing her over the state line. As her trespass had not been intentional, she argued, she was not violating state law when she flew back to her state of residence. As she was in New Hampshire at the time, replied the prosecution, she could damn well have taken a taxi.
During the eighteen month trial, Whippoorwill's heroing license was suspended, and she was grounded -- a short-term punishment she took to with what the prosecution called "unholy glee." Once it became clear that the trial was going to extend past a year, she proudly announced her impending pregnancy. A grounded superheroine was, after all, a safe superheroine, fully capable of taking her prenatal vitamins without worrying about accidental irradiation.
In the end, the verdict was returned in favor of Whippoorwill, stating that any licensed hero was bound by the laws specific to their state of license, providing their trespass had been accidental, against their will, or during the course of active pursuit of a known supervillain. Whipporwill thanked them kindly, reclaimed her heroing license, and returned to Maine, where, government records indicate, she gave birth to a healthy, hollow-boned baby girl with an initial wingspan more than twice the length of her body.
The state of New Hampshire petitioned to have the ruling overturned, but were denied -- a decision which some believe was influenced by the unexplained, anonymous donations made to the fund sponsoring the anti-hero legal team. It was noted that The Super Patriots, Inc. was paying an unusual amount of attention to a state with no superhumans to speak of...and more, that licensed members of the only nationally recognized superhuman organization were immune to state-specific restrictions. In a world where all states outlawed superhumans, only The Super Patriots, Inc. would control the hero population.
Whippoorwill retired from active hero duty after more than twenty years on the job, finally revealing her secret identity as Elise Michaels, a mild-mannered ornithologist whose powers had been granted to her by the spirit of the great Raven, first among the psychopomps. Her daughter, who also goes by the name "Whippoorwill," has now been protecting the state of Maine for almost eight years.
Neither of them has ever applied for membership to The Super Patriots, Inc., nor expressed any interest in seeking a place outside the state of Maine.
As of this report, all types of superhuman activity are legal in the state of New Hampshire, and several of the state's own superhumans have applied for membership to The Super Patriots, Inc. at one time or another.\
And so it goes.
*
The first thing Velma did, once she had determined that she was alone in the spacious hotel suite, was take a long, hot shower -- the first really good shower she'd had in longer than she cared to think about.
When she turned the water up as high as it would go, it was actually loud enough to drown out the sound of her sobbing.
She was making coffee in the suite's small but serviceable kitchen, wrapped in the plush white robe she'd found in the bathroom, when there was a knock at the balcony door. That was odd. The oddity was only enhanced by the fact that the evacuation plan on the wall indicated that her room was on the tenth floor. "If I have to fight a massive superhero battle before I have coffee, somebody's going to die today," she muttered, and walked towards the sound.
The knocking proved to be, not a person, but a dozen pigeons slamming themselves against the glass in a measured rhythm that managed to mimic a person knocking quite nicely. Velma stopped, blinking at the pigeons. The pigeons continued to body-slam the glass. "What. The. Fuck?"
The pigeons kept slamming.
Realizing that they were going to continue their feathery attack on the glass until they killed themselves or she answered, Velma sighed deeply and walked over to open the balcony doors. Much to her relief, the pigeons did not immediately flood the room. Instead, a single bird flapped inside -- not a member of the attacking flock, she noted -- with an envelope clasped firmly in its beak. It landed on the back of a chair, fluffing out its feathers in a bid for attention.
"If this explodes, you're going to be one sorry fucking excuse for a miniature Thanksgiving turkey," Velma cautioned the pigeon, and took the envelope from its beak. Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And don't crap on the furniture."
The pigeon cooed, sounding almost offended.
"Same to you," said Velma, opening the envelope. Inside, there was a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it.
Ornate calligraphic letters read: LOOK DOWN.
"I'm walking into a trap," she said, sing-song, and walked out onto the balcony. Putting her hands carefully against the ledge, she leaned forward, looking down towards street level...
...and screamed.
*
The valet at the downtown Portland Embassy Suites had been working for the hotel chain long enough to know that it was never appropriate to comment on the vehicles which paying customers, or their guests, chose to drive. Stretch limos, Harley-Davidsons, and dissolving Toyotas, their money spent the same, and the owners of the stranger cars were often among the best tippers.
Still, he'd never been faced with a coach-and-four before. Especially not a coach-and-four where the "coach" portion appeared to have been crafted from an unnaturally over-sized pumpkin. He was eyeing the contraption warily, praying he wouldn't be asked to park it, when a brown-haired, brown-skinned woman in cargo pants and a black tank top came racing out the hotel doors at a truly indecorous speed, arms thrust straight up into the air.
"PRINCESS!" she shrieked.
Was it a battle cry? An invocation? Some sort of personal name? He was willing to bet on the last, as the owner of the coach popped out the door as soon as the brunette appeared, shrieking back, just as loudly, "VEL!"
She wasn't altogether what he'd been expecting. Oh, the peaches-and-cream complexion went nicely with the enchanted coach motif, as did the enormous blue eyes and the flaxen yellow hair. Still, he was willing to wager that most women who answered to "Princess" and drove around in giant mutant pumpkins didn't wear sleeveless black T-shirts with "NASTY EVER AFTER" written across the front. Her breasts were doing an excellent job of distorting the letters, but they were still legible.
The second woman to pop out of the coach was even less expected: white-haired, blue-skinned, faintly glowing, and wearing a sparkly red miniskirt with a shirt that read "THE NICE LIST IS FOR LOSERS." "What am I, chopped liver?" she demanded, planting glowing hands on sparkling hips and grinning at the blonde and the brunette, who were caught in an enthusiastic embrace.
The valet, who was starting to feel like he'd fallen into the world's strangest lesbian porn film, really wished he had some popcorn.
"You guys!" The brunette extricated herself from the brunette, flinging herself at the glowing girl. "What are you doing here? How are you here? I just got here!"
"You showed up on Mom's mirror every time you used your powers, you goof," said the glowing girl, giving the brunette a tight hug. "When she saw you hit Oregon, she finally clued me in on where to find you, since that blew your secret identity but good. National news, not good for anonymity."
"She called me about five minutes after you got knocked over the state line," confirmed the blonde. "And I said that maybe you'd been meaning to call us for the last few years, and just hadn't gotten around to it. So maybe we ought to come and give you a chance to apologize."
"Over breakfast, naturally," said the glowing girl. "Princess is paying."
"Naturally," said the blonde, rolling her eyes. "Come on, you freeloaders. The crepes are calling." Grabbing a girl by each arm, she towed them back to the coach and pushed them inside. They didn't resist.
As the coach began pulling out of the hotel driveway -- without, the valet noted, any sign of a driver -- the blonde leaned out of the window, blew him a kiss, and flipped a large gold coin in his direction. "Don't spend it all in one place," she called. The glowing girl leaned out the window behind her, waving frantically. Then they were gone, leaving the valet to stare down at the coin in his hand.
"How am I supposed to spend this at all?" he asked.
*
"Oh my Claus, will you look at your hair." Jackie Frost -- daughter of the Snow Queen and Jack Frost, and current best candidate to inherit the Winter Country when her parents either died or stepped down, something that thankfully showed no signs of happening any time soon -- tweaked a lock of Velma's hair between her fingers, wrinkling her nose. "Newsflash, sweetie: the rabbit code name doesn't mean you need to nail a dead bunny to your head."
"Stop it," said Velma, laughing as she swatted Jackie's hand away. "I've been on the run from the Marketing Department. That leaves very little time for hair care."
"There's always time for hair care," said Jackie, sounding affronted.
The Princess just laughed. "Will you listen to the pair of you? Disney, but you're like shaking cats in a sack." Here, among friends, her natural Alabama accent came straight to the front, drowning every syllable in honey. "You should've come back years ago, Vel. I've been dealing with Jackie here all on my own."
"I'm her penance," Jackie confessed.
Velma raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Fabulousness," deadpanned the Princess.
The sound of laughter followed the enchanted pumpkin down the street and into the heart of Portland.
*
Six crepes, three espressos, and a plate of waffles with sliced strawberries later, Velma was feeling better than she'd felt in years. Jackie and the Princess had kept up a constant stream of merry chatter all the way through breakfast, filling her in on all the gossip she'd missed during her time away from the superhuman community. She leaned back in her chair, resisting the urge to undo the button on her pants, and listened as Jackie spun a completely improbable story involving Leading Lady, Dotty Gale, and a bachelorette party gone entirely out of control. The three of them were making enough noise to wake the dead, but no one had said a thing about it. The Princess was, after all, the sweetheart of America's youth, and if she wanted to hang out in their restraunt joking with her friends, the publicity it gained them would be well worth any immediate business they happened to lose.
Not that they were losing much. The place had been almost empty when they arrived, but now it was packed. Only the fact that the Princess had thoughtfully reserved the surrounding tables was preventing them from being seated at the heart of a mob. Flashes kept going off from a discrete distance, and Velma realized, through her digestive haze, that she was automatically turning her chin to keep her face in the best possible light. Some skills, it seemed, never went away. No matter how much you might wish that they would.
Jackie's story finished, and neither of them seemed inclined to launch into another. Velma felt the sudden urge to begin telling them about Isley, or the coffee shop, or...well, or anything that would keep things from going serious on her. It had been so long since she'd had friends that she wasn't entirely sure what to do, but she was certain that she didn't want things to turn serious.
"Vel..." said Jackie, much more quietly than she'd been speaking a moment before.
Too late. "Yeah?" asked Velma, wishing she had a piece of toast to crumble, or a napkin to shread, or, well, just about anything.
Jackie and the Princess exchanged a glance. Finally, the Princess said, "We were just wondering, now that you're here, in Oregon, and licensed and everything, well. What are your plans? What are you going to do from here?"
"I can't leave the state," Velma said, looking frantically around for a waiter. For the first time since their arrival, the staff seemed to have deserted them. "The Super Patriots would have me under arrest the second I crossed a border."
"Untrue," said Jackie. "You're welcome at the North Pole any time. Santa'd be thrilled to see you again. He's really missed you."
"I noticed." Every Christmas since she'd left The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, she'd gone to sleep on Christmas Eve in a dingy, undecorated apartment, and woken up to tinsel, tree, and piles of presents. There were years when selling the things that Santa gave her was all that let her keep eating. She'd never seen the Big Guy herself on those Christmas mornings, but she'd been leaving him thank you notes since the first year. "Guess I never dropped off the nice list."
"Unlike those vipers in Marketing," snarled the Princess. Velma looked at her in surprise. The Princess shook her head. "Sweetie, you think we don't know what they did to you? There's a reason neither of us never went to work for them. And it's not because I could make more money in the private sector."
"Right." Velma sighed. "I'll get a job, I guess. I can wait tables. I've been a barrista. If it's low-paying and doesn't require a college degree to do, I'm actually pretty good at it. Years of temping have honed me into a mean, lean, filing machine."
The others stared at her. Jackie was the one to finally say what they were both thinking, asking, slowly, "And you'll be happy doing that for the rest of your life? Pouring coffee and microwaving scones for minimum wage?"
"I'm not trained to do anything else."
"That's not true," said the Princess. "You possess a rare and carefully nurtured skill set that has a lot of applications in your current situation. One that could be used to improve your quality of life, as well as the lives of the people around you."
Now it was Velma's turn to stare. "You're not saying what I think it sounds like you're saying. If you were saying it, you'd be crazy. You're not crazy, are you? Please don't be crazy."
"I'm saying you could be a superhero, Vel."
Velma sighed. "That's what I was afraid you were saying."
*
Velma's new costume fit her like a second skin and held her stomach in like the world's most ambitious pair of control-top pantyhose. Not that she was fat, per se, but she definitely hadn't been doing the "no carbs shall ever pass these lips" diet recommended for superheroines whose powers didn't include a hyper-efficient metabolism. It was even in the right colors, chocolate brown and a deep burgundy red. "How did you get one of these made so fast?" she asked, tugging on one of the gloves. "And I haven't said yes yet. Agreeing to put on the costume and go for one patrol is so not the same as saying yes. You know that, right?"
"As to how we got your costume done so fast, Princess here controls an army of mice. Apparently mice can sew." Jackie shrugged, making the tiny icicles that ringed her costume's neckline chime. She looked like she was about to go and compete in Olympic figure skating -- even down to the skates. Being able to make your own ice came in handy when she needed to increase her speed of movement.
"They're very good with button holes," agreed the Princess. "We know you're not necessarily back in the business, Vel, but we've missed you, and we just want you to be sure you've explored all your options."
"Besides, you pretty much owe the governor one patrol. She did keep you from getting arrested and turned over to the Marketing Department to be their new R-and-D bitch."
Velma sighed. "Right. Okay. Let's go fight some crime."
"Least inspiring battle cry ever," said Jackie.
They went.
*
Things that are unobtrusive: masked avengers of the night silently lurking on rooftops, using gothic gargoyles as camouflage as they watch over their chosen cities.
Things that are not unobtrusive: blonde women in pink taffeta riding flying carpets, followed by massive flocks of pigeons, crows, and one profoundly confused escaped parakeet. Glowing blue women traveling by means of anchoring ice slides to rooftops and skating along them, singing off-key Christmas carols all the while. And, of course, screaming brunettes clinging for dear life to the back of the carpet, occasionally pausing the spew invective that would make a supervillain blush.
"Relax!" called the Princess, pitching her voice to be heard above the rushing of the wind. "It's just a flying carpet!"
"I DON'T FLY!"
"Relax or I'll start a musical number!"
Velveteen didn't relax, but she did stop screaming. A small blessing, made bigger when the reduced noise levels let them hear the sirens coming from the streets below.
"Hey, Vel!"
"WHAT?!"
"You know how you said you don't fly?"
Realization struck Velveteen across the face like a flung flounder cold-cocking a fisherman. "No! No, that's okay! I like flying! Flying is good! Let's keep on flying for a little while lo--"
The doppler effect distorted her screams into something almost musical as the carpet dropped out of the sky.
*
The valet at the downtown Portland Embassy Suites was getting ready for the end of his shift when the pumpkin-slash-carriage made its second appearance, rattling up the driveway, still without any visible means of locomotion. Laughter and the occasional squeal were coming from inside the conveyance. Not for the first time, the valet seriously asked himself whether it might not be time to pursue another line of work.
"--don't believe we did that!" said the brunette from before, now wearing a velvet-looking body suit, a rabbit-ear headband, and something that looked unnervingly like a tool belt. A bright pink plush bunny rabbit spilled out of the pumpkin after her. "It was all wham! Pow! Victory!"
"Totally old-school," agreed the blue one, who was still glowing, but was wearing a sparkly, spangly, insufficiently street-legal ice skating costume with -- were those skates? Those were skates. Apparently, she traveled with her own personal small field of ice. "They felt the justice of Portland today."
"Especially the one who pissed himself," said the blonde, stepping down from the carriage with a marginally more decorous air. She had changed her clothes along with the others, and the cotton candy pink dress she was wearing wouldn't have looked out of place in a production of Wicked. She even had a tiara.
"Definitely time for a new line of work," muttered the valet.
The blonde patted the pumpkin-coach-thing lightly on the side as she closed the door, saying, "Okay, sweetie. Thanks for the lift, but it's time to park for a little bit, if you don't mind." The coach was immediately surrounded by a swirl of glitter, which closed in, expanded out, and burst, leaving a novelty-sized pumpkin in its place. "Thank you, dearest," said the blonde, before picking up the pumpkin and tucking it into her purse. She looked back towards the others. "All done."
"All right, team!" said Jackie. "To the mini-bar!"
"FOR JUSTICE!" shouted the other two, and followed the blue girl inside.
*
Three hours and several kamikaze runs on the mini-bar later, all three of the girls were pleasantly plastered, lolling around Velveteen's hotel room and occasionally giggling at each other. Jackie was wearing Velveteen's rabbit ears; Velveteen was wearing her own uniform top with the Princess's skirt; the Princess herself was wearing a bathrobe. None of them were entirely clear on which the exchange had happened, but as they weren't planning to go anywhere unless they ran out of alcohol, it didn't really seem to matter.
"But why," declaimed Jackie, "is the rum gone? There's the real question."
"Because you drank it," said Velveteen solemnly. The room dissolved into giggles once again.
When things calmed down -- after several more drinks, a pillow fight, and all the candy in the mini-bar -- Velveteen was sprawled on the floor with her head on Jackie's knees, idly directing a small flock of origami birds in formations that flew around the room. "I missed you guys," she said, yawning. "I really, really did."
"We missed you, too, Vel," said the Princess, before finishing her drink. "You hadda...hadda...it was time to take a break. But this is what you're good at. This is what you should be doing."
"Yeah," agreed Jackie. "Drinking heavily with your friends in a hotel room that somebody else is paying for."
"Yeah," said Vel, yawning.
The others waited until she was fully asleep before sneaking out. The Princess closed the hotel room before humming eight bars of a peppy little song which rendered them both perfectly sober. Jackie cast her a sidelong look.
"Nobody expects a drunken fairy tale princess," she explained.
They walked to the end of the hall, and were waiting for the elevator when Jackie asked, "So...do you think we helped?"
"I don't think we hurt," said the Princess. "If she decides to stay civilian, at least she knows that she's still got friends who care about her. That's worth a lot."
"Yeah. It is."
*
Velveteen woke up alone, with only the empty bottles, bruises, and glittery pools to commemorate the fact that anybody had been there at all. Squinting sleepily, she sat up. "Guys?" No answer. "Guys, did you go back to the Crystal Glitter Unicorn Cloud Castle?" No answer. "I guess so."
Yawning, she slid off the couch and made her way to the bathroom. She was midway through her shower when she realized, without fanfare, that she'd made up her mind.
Besides. It was really going to get under Marketing's skin.
*
"--and bearing this in mind, it is my pleasure, as Governor of the State of Oregon, to announce that Velveteen, formerly of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, has chosen to come out of retirement and turn her powers towards protecting this, her new chosen homeland." Celia Morgan looked entirely at home under the glaring lights of the gathered media. Velveteen gave serious thought to turning tail and running for the hills. Early training in how to behave during a press conference forbade her from doing so. It didn't remove the temptation. "Velveteen will be operating out of Portland for the time being, but will be available for rescues, team-ups, and public events anywhere in the state."
Still smiling, Celia ceded the microphone to an uneasy-looking Vel, who cleared her throat, leaned forward, and said the first thing that came to mind:
"Uh. Hi."
The applause was thunderous.
*
Several hundred miles away, in the headquarters of The Super Patriots, Inc., an emergency meeting of the Marketing team was called to order. Field agents were recalled, leaving junior teams unchaperoned for the first time in living memory. Secretaries were brought back from vacation. Husbands and wives were informed that they wouldn't be seeing their loved ones for the foreseeable future.
The little bitch wanted to have herself a war?
Well, she was going to get one.