Snippets From the Superhero Files
Six 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 funera), 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 Mrs. 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 a 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 into 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 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," Velma said 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.
Until she knew, she didn't dare break down and cry.
~*~
"This is just a fascinating hero name we've picked for you, Velma," said the man from Marketing, smiling benevolently over his clipboard. Velma squashed the urge to send her Barbie to law the eyes out of his smiling face. "And why do you think we chose that name for you?"
"'Cause I bring toys to life, and they said that 'The Puppeteer' and 'Bride of Chucky' had negative connotations," she said.
The man from Marketing laughed. "No, silly! You bring toys to life with love."
That was the exact moment when Velma knew that the man from Marketing was an idiot.
~*~
"Always remember that people can love you and fear you in the same breath," that was what the woman from Legal had said, when Marketing brought her in during Vel's second year. "The want to worship you. They also want to see you fall. Never given them an opening, because if you do, they will take you all the way down, and they'll tell themselves that you deserve it. And so you're aware..." Her smile had contained too many teeth, like a shark in a three-piece suit and sensible heels. "If you give them that opening, as far as the company is concerned, you will will deserve whatever you get. We may bail you out, because you represent a substantial investment. But we will never forget that you failed us."
The woman from legal turned and walked away, leaving Vel's tiny class of budding superheroes staring after her in stunned, terrified silence. Maybe that had been the goal.
~*~
Three years ago...
Velma Martinez, age fifteen, better known to the world as Velveteen, mistress of the toy box, holder of no fewer than six global spokes0kid contracts with various toy shops and manufacturerers. Velveteen was the one who'd been invited to participate in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, waving from her place on Santa's sleigh. Velveteen was the one whose action figures were distributed as an intentional rarity, due to their 'awesome power' over the rest of the set (more crap from Marketing, but oh, how the public loved their crap...), leading to an incredible price tag on the collector's market. Velveteen was the one that they wanted. Not Velma.
Velveteen Martinez, aged fifteen, wearing an itchy, formal version of her usual costume--itchy, formal, and made entirely out of black and gray--and wishing like hell that there was a way for her to actually step aside and let Velveteen to run the show. She'd never been to a funeral before, had always managed to be out of the dimension or in the infirmary when they happened. She didn't know how you were supposed to act or what you were supposed to say. The media was bound to be in attendance. The media was always in attendance for something like this.
She wasn't even sure whether she was allowed to cry.
Velma Martinez, age fifteen: still standing frozen in front of her mirror, wondering if she needed to adjust her ears, wondering if it was too late to claim that she was sick, or frozen in time, or stranded in the Inverse Dimension, when the door to her bedroom opened and Action Dude stuck his head inside, looking like his own ego twin in his black and gray costume.
"Vel? They said to come and get you."
Velma didn't answer.
Sighing, Action Dude came into the room and walked up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "There has to be a funeral, Vel," he said gravely. "All the precogs looked forward, and she's not slated for a return in the current timeline. Unless there's another cosmic event, Diva's gone for good."
"I never liked her," Velma mumbled, glancing down at her hands. Anything was better than meeting Action Dude's eyes in the mirror.
"What?"
"Diva. I never liked her. They said she was what, Supermodel's little sister? Only smarter and in control of her powers? Supermodel died twenty years ago and her parents were dead. That origin story didn't even make sense, but everybody believed it. And she was such a stuck-up, nasty, snotty little--"
"Clone."
Velma blinked, looking up. "Really?"
"Uh-huh." Aaron nodded solemnly. "They made her from a mix of Supermodel and Majesty's DNA. They were going to 'reveal' her parentage when she moved up to The Super Patriots. Only she went and got herself killed first and now they have to bury her under that stupid cover story. She's not even old enough for them to blow her secret identity and bury her under her real name."
"What was her real name?" Velma asked, curious despite herself.
"Heidi."
"Seriously?"
"The scientist who made her liked the classics."
"How do you--"
"The scientist who made her was David's father." Aaron offered her a tiny smile. "C'mon, Vel. Just come to the funeral. For me?"
Velma took a deep breath, held it; let it slowly out again. "For you," she said, only a little sullenly.
"There's the most awesome heroine I know," he said, smile broadening to become that ear to ear grin that made her heart turn over in her chest, and he led her out of the room and she didn't stop him.
~*~
Velveteen and Action Dude kissed for the first time the night of Diva's funeral, after the services were done, while the Super Patriots--all five adult branches and all five Junior Divisions--posed for pictures and offered solemn sound-bytes about what a tragedy it all was. It was raining. It always rained for superhero funerals. Dewpoint and Flash Flood were on duty for this one, standing at their stations with heads bowed in what looked like grief but was really deep concentration. Appearances must be maintained, after all, and appearances said that it always rained at superhero funerals.
Velveteen had managed to stay still through the endless eulogies and stories of Diva's heroism, but fled before the media could catch up with her, taking shelter in the shade of Majesty's crypt. Her ears were soaked and sagging, making her look almost like a lop. She was trying to decide how much she'd get docked for breaking costume if she took them off when a hand tapped her shoulder, and she turned, and Action Dude was kissing her, and she really didn't care about the ears anymore.
He'd had about as much practice as she had, which was to say 'really none to speak of.' He made up for it with enthusiasm, and with earnestness. Velveteen felt her knees going weak, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders to keep herself standing. That just seemed to encourage him, and he kept on kissing her, kept on kissing her until they were both dizzy and gasping for breath.
The pair were so involved in their kissing that they didn't notice the paparazzi flashbulbs going off, photographers tipped off to the chance to capture some 'unrehearsed young romance' by the folks in Marketing. Photographers and unwanted candid pictures were just a part of their daily experience now; they'd learned to tune them out....They didn't notice the photographers at all. And they didn't notice the small figure who sparkled with a corona of rainbow glitter, standing in the shadows of the nearby trees. Tiny, furious rainbows danced in her eyes, lighting them from side to side in a constant shimmer of color.
If anyone had asked Sparkle Bright, or Yelena, she would have said that was the beginning of the end.
But no one ever did.
~*~
One year 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 tell her teenage self that she should have seen the blow coming; would say that it was telegraphed in every inch of Sparkle Bright's imperious, angry pose. But the still-sixteen 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 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 a 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, ehat--"
"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 towards 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 the whip made of light, and an anger she still didn't understand, Velveteen couldn't say she really minded.
~*~
Several months ago...
Six days before Velveteen's eighteenth birthday. Six days before Velma Martinez stood up and took back her life. 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 reasonable 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 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 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 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 everybody'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 sate was just one week away. No time for 'corrections' or 'disagreements.' It had already gone to press.
The cover photo was 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. "Vel'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.
[Establishy. Taken directly from Velveteen vs. The Junior Super-Patriots, by Seanan McGuire, chapters "Velveteen vs. The Isley Crawfish Festival", "Velveteen vs. The Flashback Sequence", and "Velveteen vs. The Old Flame."]
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 funera), 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 Mrs. 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 a 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 into 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 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," Velma said 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.
Until she knew, she didn't dare break down and cry.
~*~
"This is just a fascinating hero name we've picked for you, Velma," said the man from Marketing, smiling benevolently over his clipboard. Velma squashed the urge to send her Barbie to law the eyes out of his smiling face. "And why do you think we chose that name for you?"
"'Cause I bring toys to life, and they said that 'The Puppeteer' and 'Bride of Chucky' had negative connotations," she said.
The man from Marketing laughed. "No, silly! You bring toys to life with love."
That was the exact moment when Velma knew that the man from Marketing was an idiot.
~*~
"Always remember that people can love you and fear you in the same breath," that was what the woman from Legal had said, when Marketing brought her in during Vel's second year. "The want to worship you. They also want to see you fall. Never given them an opening, because if you do, they will take you all the way down, and they'll tell themselves that you deserve it. And so you're aware..." Her smile had contained too many teeth, like a shark in a three-piece suit and sensible heels. "If you give them that opening, as far as the company is concerned, you will will deserve whatever you get. We may bail you out, because you represent a substantial investment. But we will never forget that you failed us."
The woman from legal turned and walked away, leaving Vel's tiny class of budding superheroes staring after her in stunned, terrified silence. Maybe that had been the goal.
~*~
Three years ago...
Velma Martinez, age fifteen, better known to the world as Velveteen, mistress of the toy box, holder of no fewer than six global spokes0kid contracts with various toy shops and manufacturerers. Velveteen was the one who'd been invited to participate in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, waving from her place on Santa's sleigh. Velveteen was the one whose action figures were distributed as an intentional rarity, due to their 'awesome power' over the rest of the set (more crap from Marketing, but oh, how the public loved their crap...), leading to an incredible price tag on the collector's market. Velveteen was the one that they wanted. Not Velma.
Velveteen Martinez, aged fifteen, wearing an itchy, formal version of her usual costume--itchy, formal, and made entirely out of black and gray--and wishing like hell that there was a way for her to actually step aside and let Velveteen to run the show. She'd never been to a funeral before, had always managed to be out of the dimension or in the infirmary when they happened. She didn't know how you were supposed to act or what you were supposed to say. The media was bound to be in attendance. The media was always in attendance for something like this.
She wasn't even sure whether she was allowed to cry.
Velma Martinez, age fifteen: still standing frozen in front of her mirror, wondering if she needed to adjust her ears, wondering if it was too late to claim that she was sick, or frozen in time, or stranded in the Inverse Dimension, when the door to her bedroom opened and Action Dude stuck his head inside, looking like his own ego twin in his black and gray costume.
"Vel? They said to come and get you."
Velma didn't answer.
Sighing, Action Dude came into the room and walked up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "There has to be a funeral, Vel," he said gravely. "All the precogs looked forward, and she's not slated for a return in the current timeline. Unless there's another cosmic event, Diva's gone for good."
"I never liked her," Velma mumbled, glancing down at her hands. Anything was better than meeting Action Dude's eyes in the mirror.
"What?"
"Diva. I never liked her. They said she was what, Supermodel's little sister? Only smarter and in control of her powers? Supermodel died twenty years ago and her parents were dead. That origin story didn't even make sense, but everybody believed it. And she was such a stuck-up, nasty, snotty little--"
"Clone."
Velma blinked, looking up. "Really?"
"Uh-huh." Aaron nodded solemnly. "They made her from a mix of Supermodel and Majesty's DNA. They were going to 'reveal' her parentage when she moved up to The Super Patriots. Only she went and got herself killed first and now they have to bury her under that stupid cover story. She's not even old enough for them to blow her secret identity and bury her under her real name."
"What was her real name?" Velma asked, curious despite herself.
"Heidi."
"Seriously?"
"The scientist who made her liked the classics."
"How do you--"
"The scientist who made her was David's father." Aaron offered her a tiny smile. "C'mon, Vel. Just come to the funeral. For me?"
Velma took a deep breath, held it; let it slowly out again. "For you," she said, only a little sullenly.
"There's the most awesome heroine I know," he said, smile broadening to become that ear to ear grin that made her heart turn over in her chest, and he led her out of the room and she didn't stop him.
~*~
Velveteen and Action Dude kissed for the first time the night of Diva's funeral, after the services were done, while the Super Patriots--all five adult branches and all five Junior Divisions--posed for pictures and offered solemn sound-bytes about what a tragedy it all was. It was raining. It always rained for superhero funerals. Dewpoint and Flash Flood were on duty for this one, standing at their stations with heads bowed in what looked like grief but was really deep concentration. Appearances must be maintained, after all, and appearances said that it always rained at superhero funerals.
Velveteen had managed to stay still through the endless eulogies and stories of Diva's heroism, but fled before the media could catch up with her, taking shelter in the shade of Majesty's crypt. Her ears were soaked and sagging, making her look almost like a lop. She was trying to decide how much she'd get docked for breaking costume if she took them off when a hand tapped her shoulder, and she turned, and Action Dude was kissing her, and she really didn't care about the ears anymore.
He'd had about as much practice as she had, which was to say 'really none to speak of.' He made up for it with enthusiasm, and with earnestness. Velveteen felt her knees going weak, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders to keep herself standing. That just seemed to encourage him, and he kept on kissing her, kept on kissing her until they were both dizzy and gasping for breath.
The pair were so involved in their kissing that they didn't notice the paparazzi flashbulbs going off, photographers tipped off to the chance to capture some 'unrehearsed young romance' by the folks in Marketing. Photographers and unwanted candid pictures were just a part of their daily experience now; they'd learned to tune them out....They didn't notice the photographers at all. And they didn't notice the small figure who sparkled with a corona of rainbow glitter, standing in the shadows of the nearby trees. Tiny, furious rainbows danced in her eyes, lighting them from side to side in a constant shimmer of color.
If anyone had asked Sparkle Bright, or Yelena, she would have said that was the beginning of the end.
But no one ever did.
~*~
One year 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 tell her teenage self that she should have seen the blow coming; would say that it was telegraphed in every inch of Sparkle Bright's imperious, angry pose. But the still-sixteen 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 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 a 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, ehat--"
"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 towards 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 the whip made of light, and an anger she still didn't understand, Velveteen couldn't say she really minded.
~*~
Several months ago...
Six days before Velveteen's eighteenth birthday. Six days before Velma Martinez stood up and took back her life. 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 reasonable 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 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 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 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 everybody'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 sate was just one week away. No time for 'corrections' or 'disagreements.' It had already gone to press.
The cover photo was 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. "Vel'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.
[Establishy. Taken directly from Velveteen vs. The Junior Super-Patriots, by Seanan McGuire, chapters "Velveteen vs. The Isley Crawfish Festival", "Velveteen vs. The Flashback Sequence", and "Velveteen vs. The Old Flame."]