Velveteen vs. The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division.
Title: Velveteen vs. The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division.
Summary: The life of a retired superhero is definitely refusing to get easier. Especially when you're just trying to get to Oregon already, and now people from your past that you've done your best to put behind you seem bent on tracking you down...
***
Velma Martinez had been driving for long enough that she was fairly sure her ass had developed calluses. Any wayward, unspoken desire she might have had to become a professional truck driver had died somewhere on the road between San Francisco and the California/Oregon border. She couldn't have said exactly what delivered the killing blow-was it the engine trouble? The wrong turn that stranded her in Isley during their annual crawfish festival? The traveling carnival whose rides were maintained in top condition through black magic and blood sacrifice? The conditions of the rest stop bathrooms? Whatever it was, she was done. If she never took another drive longer than the one between her next dead-end apartment and the nearest Starbucks, it would be way too soon.
Back when she was in the superhero business, there had been dozens of website forums devoted to discussing her admittedly unusual power set, debating what it was good for, and theorizing on what applications it might have in combat. She used to read them semi-religiously. At first for fun, then because she was so horrified by the things that people felt it was okay to say about her, and finally for the combat tips. The Super Patriots, Inc. training division really had nothing on a community of teenage geeks who'd been raised on real-time strategy games and epic Powers and Patriots RPG campaigns. They analyzed her moves in battle, cross-referenced the ways she'd been known to use her powers, and came up with suggestions that she promptly put into practice, all without them every knowing that they'd become her secret advisers.
(Maybe she would have felt bad about taking advantage of their strategy skills without sending them so much as a "thank you" card or an autographed photo, but these were also the people who'd described her second year bunny suit as "Playboy does Lolita" and "totally spankable bunny-babe." After the fifth piece of pornographic fan art and the real-person slash fanfic novella where she liked to "do it like a rabbit," she figured the strategy tips were sort of like protection money: as long as they stayed semi-useful, she wouldn't feel compelled to wipe them off the face of the planet.)
One of the common threads in those forums had been the geek version of dick-waving-the endless discussions with titles like "Action Dude vs. Majesty WHO WOULD WIN???" and "Velveteen vs. Sparkle Bright THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN." She lost more of those fantasy battles than she won, but that was understandable; she didn't have a power set that really lent itself to one-on-one combat. In the post-"battle" strategy discussions, her lack of flight capabilities was often cited as her largest disadvantage. If she could fly, her supporters argued, she could own the battleground. She'd mostly managed to laugh those threads off back then, because back then, she could pretty much go flying whenever she wanted to. All she had to do was ask Yelena nicely, or bat her eyes at Aaron and offer to sneak into his room after lights-out.
But that was a long time ago. That ship had sailed; that velvet domino mask had been thrown in the trash, atop the shredded remains of a hundred marketing contracts and a hundred thousand failed ideals. She didn't miss the life. That was true, or at least she told herself that it was true, and since she didn't have anyone else to ask, she basically believed it.
Still, sometimes-like times like this, when she was stuck at the end of a mile-long line of cars trying to get past an overturned tanker truck that had decided to block the entrance to Oregon-she missed flying. There was something to be said for being able to go up and over anything that wound up in her path with nothing more than a thought.
Flying was the only thing she missed. The convenience, the freedom of it. She didn't miss the people who'd been responsible for giving her that freedom. She didn't miss them at all.
Maybe if she told herself that enough, it would all be true.
Velma sagged in her seat and closed her eyes, listening to the horns that blared on all sides of her. She was almost home free, and soon she could put all this behind her again. Soon, and forever.
She was almost there.
*
An uncounted number of books have been written about the practical monopoly that The Super Patriots, Inc. hold over the superhero industry. Between the parent company and their dozens of divisions, sub-divisions, branches, training offices, charities, and other holdings, an estimated ninety-seven percent of the world's heroic superhumans answer in some way to The Super Patriots, Inc. The name on the checks may change, but the Board of Directors stays the same. Some of those books have even managed to see print, although none have stayed on the shelves for long. Most of them wind up shelved under "Fiction," and most of the authors responsible have quietly retired from the literary life not long after. Not that The Super Patriots, Inc. has anything to do with that. Oh, no.
Of course not.
Of the three percent of the world's heroic superhumans not employed by some division or sub-division of The Super Patriots, Inc., two percent have either failed to manifest or have manifested in some way that falls well below the increasingly well-honed super-spotter radar. Consider the case of Ms. Ethel Mattheson, whose super powers were discovered during a routine cancer screening when she was eighty-five years old. Most of her surviving family members believe that it was the shock of learning that her cookies had always been perfect not because she was a good baker, but because she was a very low-grade superhuman, which killed her. The tiny heroes, the everyday heroes, can go their entire lives without being spotted. They live and marry within the standard human population, the genes growing stronger with each generation, until full manifestation occurs.
Ms. Mattheson's granddaughter, Amy, graduated from The Junior Super Patriots, East Coast Division two years ago, proudly joining The Super Patriots in her role as The Baker. She has since gone on to lead up the world-renowned super-team's French chapter, and uses her powers for the good of all mankind. The tabloids adore her, since the caloric nature of her powers means than whenever the news gets thin on the ground, they can run another story about her radical diet plans.
And so it goes.
The remaining one percent of the world's heroes contains those individuals like Velveteen, Jolly Roger, the Unicorn Girl, and Mr. Tambourine Man. The ones who, when faced with the heroic life, its perks and its problems, shook their heads and said "no, thank you." Studies conducted by solemn, handsome scientists (all of whom receive their funding through The Super Patriots, Inc.-in a round-about way, of course, to make it more difficult to trace) show that this final one percent will almost always turn to super-villainy, joining the ranks of the fallen. They are to be pitied. They are to be saved from themselves, if at all possible. They are definitely to be reported to the authorities. After all, friends don't let friends destroy the planet with pin-point black holes just because they couldn't afford their pills anymore, now, do they?
No one has ever done a case study on the world's villainous superhumans, to determine exactly how many of them chose a life of crime and terror less out of a natural inclination toward evil than from the desire to make The Super Patriots, Inc. leave them alone already. The results might be interesting, if someone did.
*
The traffic jam started approximately eighteen miles from the California/Oregon border, on a stretch of highway that should rightfully have had no traffic jams at all. Several of the locals had hiked across their back fields to stand beside the road and gawk, further confirming Velma's suspicion that something strange was going on. Traffic lurched forward another six feet, bringing her window up parallel to a group of bored-looking teenagers out to see the show.
Velma hiked down the window-which took considerable effort; the handle had broken off months ago, and been replaced by a pair of rusty pliers-and stuck her head out, almost gagging on the taste of hot exhaust fumes. "Excuse me?" she shouted, once she could breathe again. "Could you come over here for a second?"
The group of teens eyed her suspiciously before taking a moment to murmur between themselves, no doubt assessing the likelihood that she was some sort of serial-killing freak. After a few seconds, they clearly came to the conclusion that she was too small to present any real threat, and came sauntering over to the side of the road.
"What do you want?" asked the one at the front of the pack. He was wearing an old black trenchcoat about three sizes too big for him, and his scrawny shoulders were hunched up in what was probably a habitually defensive posture. Not the big kids on the local campus, then. That was good-they were a lot more likely to answer questions without feeling like they needed to act cool and impress their friends. It was also bad, because it upped the odds of them being hero-chasers. The last thing she needed was an "aren't you...?" incident, especially when she was effectively held prisoner by the traffic.
"What's going on up there?" Velma waved a hand vaguely in the direction the cars were struggling to go. "I never knew this was a big traffic spot."
"It's not," said another of the teens, a girl dressed in the very latest Hot Topic chic. "They're doing some sort of car check up ahead."
"What, like checking to make sure no one's trying to smuggle redwood trees and oranges into Oregon?"
The group's leader shrugged expansively. "No clue. We tried hiking up and asking them, but they just waved us off. Said we weren't who we were looking for."
You can tear up contracts and take off costumes; you can quit teams and refuse reunions. But no one has ever mastered walking away so completely that they forget their training. Velma felt suddenly dizzy, as if all the blood had drained out of the top half of her body. Struggling to keep her composure, she leaned further out the window and said, "Look, I know this may sound a little weird, but...I really have to make it to Oregon in the next hour. If I miss my appointment, I'm basically screwed. Is there a way off this highway?"
The teens looked uncertain, exchanging glances amongst themselves. "Well..." said Miss Hot Topic, with obvious reluctance.
"I swear I just want to get on my way," said Velma. The teens exchanged another glance, and several of them took a step backward. Desperate now, she added, "I'd be happy to tip for a tip. Say twenty bucks if you can tell me where to find a frontage road?"
"This is my dad's field," said Trenchcoat, abruptly. "If you make it another fifteen feet up, I can open the gate for you. The farm road connects up to the surface streets. Normally, I'd say that was the slow way, but right now-"
"Right now, anything is better than this." Velma fumbled a twenty from her purse-almost the last of her money, but this wasn't the time to worry about that-and handed it out the window to Trenchcoat, hoping he wouldn't notice the way her hand was shaking.
To her relief, he either didn't notice, or he decided that twenty dollars was worth ignoring a little distress. "I'll have the gate open by the time you make it up there," he said, making the money disappear into a pocket.
"Thank you," said Velma, fervently, and cranked the window up again.
Fifteen minutes later, Velma cleared the gate and went roaring off down the farm road, passing fields of potatoes and parsnips and feeling her heartbeat slow with every inch she put between herself and the "car check" that had backed up traffic all the way to Oregon. Was she being paranoid? Just possibly. The more important question would have been "was that paranoia unfounded?" In her tragically vast experience, it almost never was.
"Fucked-up times five billion," Velma muttered, and hit the gas.
*
"Swallowtail to base, Swallowtail to base, come in, base."
"What is it, Swallowtail?"
"What sort of car did you say we were watching for again?" Swallowtail let herself drop a little lower in the hazy afternoon air, the excited molecules around her feet cooling just a few degrees as the stunt was performed. Anyone looking up would have seen her hovering there, a slim teenage girl surrounded by a corona of light that fanned out its gold and brown wings like a vast butterfly. She was technically classed as an energy manipulator, although her use of light and heat was limited to crafting swallowtail butterflies. They could be as small as a fingernail, or large enough to let her fly. Also, they were pretty. She didn't regret her power set, even if some people said it would never make her one of the big guns.
"According to the records we got off that repair shop in Red Bluff, it's a Saturn, medium blue-"
Excitement growing, Swallowtail interrupted, "Back bumper held on with duct tape?"
"Swallowtail, do you have eyes on the target?"
"A car matching that description is heading down one of the local frontage roads, moving west at approximately twenty miles per hour."
There was a pause as Handheld accessed his internal GPS, running through all available maps of the area. That useful little trick was why he always seemed to get stuck playing base. That, and he was the only one who ever remembered to recharge the headsets. "Swallowtail, withdraw. There's only one accessible border crossing on that route, and we can beat her there by ten minutes."
Swallowtail's breath caught. "You mean...?"
"I do." She heard the click as he changed frequencies, going from their private channel to the one that would reach the entire team. Voice echoing with authority, he said the words she'd been waiting to hear since this mission was announced, the words that meant they were finally going to prove themselves against a villain worthy of their time:
"JUNIOR SUPER PATRIOTS, WEST COAST DIVISION, THE PARTY'S ON!"
"Oh, you'll be sorry soon," she whispered gleefully, and turned, spreading light-display butterfly wings wide as she soared toward the place where the team would be assembling. Time to show that turn-coat that she chose the wrong side when she left The Super Patriots.
On the highway, traffic started to move again.
*
The last sign Velma had passed indicated that she was less than half a mile from the Oregon border, and she was finally starting to relax. Once she crossed the state border, she'd have a clean slate; there was no way Marketing could accuse her of unlicensed use of her powers, since those charges were only valid within the state where the crime occurred, and Oregon didn't believe in superhuman extradition. Oregon, Hawaii, Arizona, and Vermont: the last states where a superhuman could go to hide from their past sins. They still required licensing, but they wouldn't give you to Marketing unless you'd actually killed someone. Velma never had. Property damage, yes, but manslaughter, no.
Half a mile, and she'd be free forever.
She was so focused on planning for her new-found freedom that she didn't see the teenager standing in the road until she was almost on top of him. Shouting, she hauled on the wheel and sent herself into a spin, tires screeching on the road. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. The car came to a stop, almost completely turned around. Gasping for air, Velma clutched the wheel and blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head. She hadn't hit the kid. She was certain of that much. But where did he come from? How was he just standing there, in the middle of nowhere? What-
Someone was knocking on the window. Velma lifted her head, wincing as the movement was telegraphed down into her aching shoulders. The kid from the road was standing next to her car, peering in at her. He was dressed a little oddly, she saw, wearing a heavy ski coat buttoned all the way down. It was way too warm to be dressed like that. She blinked at him.
He knocked again.
Wincing even more, Velma undid her seat belt and opened the door, stepping unsteadily out of the car. Her knees were shaking, and she had to fight the urge to get down on all fours and kiss the ground. Thank you, ground, for being there. Thank you, God, for letting me miss that kid.
"Hi," said the kid, offering her a bright, toothpaste-endorsement smile. "Are you Velma Martinez?"
Under normal circumstances, that question would have set off so many alarm bells inside Velma's head that she would have been deafened by the sound. Now, shaken by her near miss and dizzy from endorphins, she just blinked at him again, and said, "Yeah. Who's asking?"
"Oh, I'm sorry-I forgot that we'd never been introduced." He unbuttoned his jacket in a quick, efficient motion and shrugged it off, revealing the purple and gray spandex costume that it had been concealing. Shining beetles the size of Velma's clenched fist rushed out of the abandoned jacket, swarming up his legs and clinging to his sides. More of those beetles scurried up his back, pulling a full-face mask over his head. He thrust a fist into the air, and announced, in a voice ringing with the tightly-controlled desire for justice, "I am...THE BEDBUG!"
Velma blinked. "Uh," she said, finally. "I bet you don't get many dates, do you?"
"Do you dare to mock my might?"
"Yup." Velma folded her arms. "So, is that insect control, or are they psychic projections?"
"Psychic pro-don't distract me!" The Bedbug sounded annoyed, although it was difficult to tell with that mask hiding his entire face. Velma had always hated trying to carry on a conversation with someone in a full-face mask. It was like talking to a wall. "Prepare to face your undoing, evil-doer!"
First rule of escaping an unwanted fight: keep them talking while you figure out a way to get out of the situation. Velma scanned the road around her, feeling her heart rate dropping steadily back toward "normal." It was sad when being poorly menaced by a teenage superhero was calming. "Okay, first, you've got the wrong girl, because I am not a doer of evil, nor am I really in the market for an undoing. If that's what you do...look, could you work the word 'do' into that sentence a few more times? Because seriously, you're abusing the language. I don't want to fight. I just want to get to Oregon."
"A pity, then, that cheaters finish last!" proclaimed a skinny brunette with blonde-streaked hair as she dropped out of the sky, wide yellow and brown butterfly wings spread behind her. They vanished when she touched down next to The Bedbug. Her costume, Velma saw with disgust, was the same yellow and brown as her wings. Even her mask had been cut to subtly resemble butterfly wings, open wide across her face. "Justice will be yours at last!"
"Do you guys have a bug theme this year or something?" asked Velma, distracted from her survey of possible escape routes by the sinking sensation in her stomach. The Bedbug was unfamiliar, but she recognized the girl. Swallowtail. She'd been on the cover of Secret Identity just a few months before, supposedly "speaking candidly" about her battle with anorexia. (As if an energy projector could have a battle with anorexia. They burned calories to create their light projections. If Swallowtail were anorexic, she wouldn't be able to use her powers. The article was just a ploy by Marketing, another way to get a young hero's face out in the public eye and build the feeling that superheroes were just like everybody else.)
If Swallowtail was here, this wasn't some random kid trying to prove himself against a retired hero. This was something much, much worse.
This was The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division.
*
There's one thing about the world's superhuman community that most people would realize, if they really stopped to think about it: there's really no way to control them if they don't want to be controlled. Oh, individual powers can generally be suppressed, but there's no way to un-mutate a mutant, disconnect a magical hero from the belief that fuels them, or somehow transform an alien into a human being. Lobotomies can be used on gadgeteers, but unless the gadgeteer in question has wiped out an elementary school, that's still classed as unnecessary cruelty. The superhumans police themselves. There's simply no other way to keep them from taking over the world.
The Super Patriots, Inc., controls ninety-seven percent of the world's superheroes. That gives them controlling interest in every superteam, every super-force, every organization of supers supposedly formed to "watch the watchers." With all that being simple fact, it stands to reason that there's one entity deciding who the heroes and the villains really are.
Marketing controls more than just what brand of cereal your children cry for. Marketing names the heroes and the villains, gives them primary colors, and tells you who to root for in the fight.
And Marketing doesn't take "no" for an answer.
*
Velma took a step backward, toward her car. She could feel her powers gathering, straining for release. That was what you did when you were surrounded by unfriendly supers: you broke out with everything you had, and you fought back. The Bedbug and Swallowtail were still in pose-and-bluster mode, trying to impress her with their color-coordinated outfits and perfect hair. It would have looked silly, if she hadn't recognized the maneuver. They were waiting for the rest of their team to arrive.
Current lineup, current lineup, Velma thought frantically, taking another step backward. She hadn't really been keeping track. Sure, she knew a few-Swallowtail was one, and then there was their current techie, what was his name, Blackberry or iPod or something like that-but beyond that, she'd done her best to put the team entirely out of her mind. She hadn't wanted to know. And now, what she hadn't wanted to know was preparing to have a genuine superhero throw-down with her on a frontage road half a mile from the Oregon border.
Sometimes the world really wasn't fair.
"If you come quietly, we can guarantee that will play a part in your sentencing," said The Bedbug, still posing heroically. "This doesn't have to be ugly."
"Guys, I really don't think you want to do this," said Velma, raising her hands, palms outward. "Whatever it is you think I did, whoever it is you think I am, I didn't do it, and I'm not that person. I'm just trying to get to Portland. Now can you please-"
"THE PARTY'S ON!" shouted a voice from behind her, barely audible over the roar of a motorcycle. Velma whipped around to see a teenage boy in black and orange racing toward her on a tricked-out bike in matching colors, three flying heroes right behind him. Three flying heroes, and-she had to blink to be sure she was seeing this right-a trio of girls riding what looked like a disk of flying peppermint.
"Fucked-up times fucking infinity," she groaned, and with that, the fight was on.
*
The membership of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, at the time of The Velveteen Incident (SPI Code vm049):
Handheld. Team leader, technopath. Machine control, ability to intercept wireless transmissions within a six-block radius of his current location. Hand-to-hand fighter, no physical powers of any sort. Powers originally acquired through an industrial accident in his father's special effects lab. Believed to be an altered human, although mutation has not been ruled out.
Swallowtail. Second-in-command, energy projector. Power limitation: all Swallowtail's energy forms conform in appearance to the Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, native to the West Coast of the United States. Powers originally acquired through exposure to irradiated bug spray released in the Indianapolis Science Museum during her junior entomology course. Of the six students exposed, four are now deceased.
The Bedbug. Energy projector. Power limitation: all Bedbug's energy forms conform in appearance to an unidentified form of scarab beetle. The Bedbug shares limited psychic communication with his bugs, and can be "stunned" by their destruction. Powers originally acquired through exposure to irradiated bug spray released in the Indianapolis Science Museum. Highly protective of Swallowtail, the only other survivor of the incident.
Super-Cool. Flight, limited invulnerability, super-strength. Powers originally acquired through exposure to irradiated maple syrup. His dose seems to have been more dilute than the doses to which Majesty and Action Dude were exposed; plans are in place to expose him again, hopefully increasing his power levels without further damaging his psyche. Super-Cool is only able to function in combat for an hour before becoming confused and unable to fight.
The Nanny. Psychic projection, limited flight, limited weather control. Power limitations: The Nanny can only fly when holding something which can appear to "catch" the wind (actual functionality not needed; umbrella is preferred, and seems to give her the highest speed). She is unable to fly at all indoors. Her psychic projection functions through control: her commands must be obeyed, provided she can first convince her target of their own "naughtiness." Definitely a magical hero.
Apex. Flight, super-speed. Mutant, no point of origin known for his powers. Power limitations: none yet identified.
The Candy Sisters: Candy Cane, Candy Corn, and Candy Apple. Mutant daughters of Trick and Treat. There is no known point of origin for their powers. All three are matter manipulators, level five, with no limitations yet identified beyond those imposed by their personas. Research believes these limitations to be self-imposed, and recommends further study when the opportunity presents itself. Should one of the sisters be rendered somehow surplus, it would be a great asset to the research division.
Nine super-teens against one out-of-shape, out-of-practice, essentially retired former teen superhero. The odds were clearly stacked in the favor of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. With this fact presented plainly, the question remains:
What went wrong?
*
Officially cornered, Velma finally gave in to the power that had been pleading to be unleashed, spreading her hands and closing her eyes as she heard the motorcycle racing closer. The toys in the car stirred, awakening to her command. The plush rabbit from the Isley Crawfish Festival. The action figures from the coffee shop. The stuffed frog she'd found abandoned in a gas station parking lot. Even a cartoony wind-up spider from some forgotten fast food special. They all awoke, scuttling and jumping out the open door to surround her in a loose semi-circle.
She heard Swallowtail laughing. "Is that a stuffed rabbit? Does she actually think she's going to defeat us with a stuffed bunny rabbit?"
"She walked away, remember? We knew she was crazy." At least Bedbug sounded uncertain. "I think we should try to take her."
"She's just standing there..."
Things fall out of cars all the time. Things get left beside the road and forgotten. Things are dropped in front yards, abandoned in fields, put in boxes behind the barn for the next big church rummage sale. Velma spread her hands wide, and spread her mind wider, letting herself forget about the superheroes who were closing in on her position, letting herself forget about everything but finding the lost ones and calling them to her aid.
She didn't feel it when Candy Apple spun sticky strands of caramel around her, tying her up in a sugar cocoon. She didn't notice when the Nanny commanded that she stop what she was doing. She was beginning to shake from the strain, a thin trickle of blood running from one nostril. Distantly, she heard screaming as her action figures swarmed the flying heroes, as the stuffed rabbit went at Handheld's eyes with a butcher knife it had managed to acquire somewhere. She concentrated. She called.
The sound of screaming. The sound of a zap gun being fired. Soft splattering sounds, like balls of sugar being dropped from a great height. Velma cast herself further, aware that she was no longer entirely sure where she'd left her body. It was a nice feeling. It was-
"RETREAT!" screamed a voice.
Velma opened her eyes.
The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, were a colorful blur receding down the road, back toward California. The road around her was covered in toys, most weathered, muddy, damaged. A few had "died" during the fight, their plastic limbs and dirty stuffing turning the pavement into a war zone. Velma blinked back tears, suddenly aware that she was aching, and exhausted, and almost there.
"If you have a home," she said, hoarsely, "go home, and thank you. If you don't..."
This meant she was admitting it. This meant she didn't get another out.
She sighed.
"If you don't, get in the car."
The back seat was cluttered with dirty dolls and damaged bears when Velma climbed inside, checking her reflection in the rear view mirror. Blood caked her upper lip, making her look like she'd been in a fistfight, and streaks of caramel were matted in her hair from before Candy Apple's loss of control. She studied herself for a moment, then sighed, and started the ignition. Oregon was waiting.
A quarter of a mile from the Oregon border Velma Martinez-aka "Velveteen," aka "one of the only superheroes to voluntarily and successfully quit The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, a wholly owned subsidiary of The Super Patriots, Inc."-finally passed out.
Fortunately for her, she had been traveling at barely ten miles per hour when her eyes slipped shut. Even more fortunately, there was no one else on the road. Her car was able to drift gently off to the left, finally coming to a sedate rest in the drainage ditch. Velma didn't notice. Velma's head was down on the steering wheel, eyes closed, one strand of hair sticking to the crust of blood that was drying on her lip. Velma was, for the first time in months, utterly at peace with herself, her place in the world, and the powers that had been making her life miserable for most of her life. Velma was, in short, down for the count.
Unfortunately, especially for Velma, she was really the only one in the area who was anything like "at peace." Even more unfortunately, any peace achieved under such circumstances was destined to have a short, violent life before coming to an anything-but-peaceful end.
*
Saying that the man from Marketing was lividly angry was an understatement on a par with saying "the ocean is slightly damp" or "the paparazzi has a mildly unnerving interest in what Sparkle Bright is having for breakfast." He'd been pacing back and forth for the past ten minutes, the heels of his glossy leather shoes clicking against the carrier's faux-hardwood floor. Every third step was punctuated by a tap of one toe, creating an irregular rhythm that was beginning to make Handheld's teeth hurt. It was bad enough that he and his team got their butts handed to them by the Island of Misfit Toys. Was there some cosmic law that said his day had to get even worse?
Apparently, the answer was a definite "yes." "Please remind me, if you would be so kind, of the current makeup of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division," said the man from Marketing, pronouncing the capital letters as clearly as if they'd been carved in stone. "If you would be so kind."
"Sir-" began Handheld.
"Current makeup, please, and no included exposition or excuses."
Anyone who'd spent more than ten minutes as an employee of The Super Patriots, Inc. knew that arguing with Marketing was a good way to waste a lot of time and wind up spending a few months getting the least-desirable interview and publicity assignments possible. Schooling his expression to one of earnest obedience, Handheld squared his shoulders and recited, "Handheld, team leader, technopath. Swallowtail, second-in-command, energy projection and self-powered flight. The Bedbug, energy projection. Super-Cool, limited invulnerability, super-strength and self-powered flight. The Nanny, team psychic, object-based flight, limited weather control. Apex, super-speed, self-powered flight. The Candy Sisters, thematic matter manipulation." After a pause, he added, "Sir."
"Excellent. You are aware of the nature of the team which you presently," and the stress on that word was impossible to ignore, "command. Now, tell me, Handheld, is your awareness of the makeup of past iterations of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, of equally high quality?"
"Sir?"
"He's asking if you should have known that the Energizer Dummy was going to kick our butts," said Candy Cane, pulling her ubiquitous peppermint stick out of her mouth just long enough to make her proclamation. "Duh."
The man from Marketing shot the Candy sisters a sharp look. The trio was standing together a few feet from the rest of the team, and were the only ones not showing any outward signs of their recent battle. Being matter manipulators, it was a small thing for them to repair their costumes, smooth out their hair, and plaster pancake makeup over any visible bruises. They looked distressingly undistressed at the idea of being lectured by the man from Marketing. Maybe -probably-because they understood that they were the only current members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, who were effectively immune to all casual punishments. Heritage heroes. They should never have been allowed to join the roster. But done is done, and spinning what's been done was one of Marketing's primary duties.
"As the young Ms. Cane has so...delicately stated, yes, that is precisely what I'm asking," said the man from Marketing, focusing his attention back on Handheld, a hero he could legitimately bully, terrify, and even (should circumstances demand it) effectively destroy. "One woman, with extremely limited recent combat experience, and powers generally regarded as earning her a level two rating. A level two rating at best. There are nine of you, three of whom are rated level five. How could she possibly, under any circumstances, have managed to get the best of you?"
Handheld and Swallowtail exchanged an anxious glance, followed by an almost imperceptible shake of Handheld's head. He was the leader of this team. If there was a fall to be taken, he was going to be the one to take it. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I honestly have no idea."
The man from Marketing narrowed his eyes. "Well, then," he said, briskly. "I hope you're all rested up."
"Sir?"
"Given the nature of your humiliation, it seems that a rematch is in order." And then the man from Marketing did something truly terrifying.
Then the man from Marketing began to smile.
*
The rating system applied to the world's superhumans was not, surprisingly enough, developed by The Super Patriots, Inc., or by any of their divisions, sub-divisions, branches, training offices, charities, or other holdings. It came out of a government lab during the period following the emergence of the first superheroes, but before those heroes had organized themselves into the entity that would come to be known as The Super Patriots. (The "Incorporated" would come even later, when Jolly Roger left, when Majesty died. But that is a story for another footnote.) The scientists responsible were not super-powered themselves, at least not when the experiments started. They were simply, in the way of scientists, curious. Curiosity, it has been argued, has done more to endanger the world than every supervillian who has ever lived.
After the initially suggested rating schemes had been abandoned-the somewhat stereotypical "alpha" through "omega" level powers, and the less formal, less socially acceptable "kinda cool" through "whoa fuck we're all gonna die"-it was decided to divide all the world's superhumans into five somewhat nebulous levels. (Had they been more precise, several grudge matches and the total destruction of Redding, California might have been avoided.) All known superhumans were labeled over the course of a single drunken weekend, and standards for grading future humans were set before the hangovers faded. This may also explain the difficulty of any future superhumans achieving the level five rating: by the time those standards were set, all the scientists involved simply wanted to stagger home and die.
Level one superhumans, aka, "the support staff": superhumans whose powers are distinct enough to distinguish them from the general populace, and yet provide them with no real advantages in either a combat or real-world situation. Examples include the first TiVo, who possessed the unerring capability to turn on the television just in time to catch his favorite shows, or Tip-Annie, who could convince even the stingiest of customers to leave her a fifteen percent tip in exchange for decent service.
Level two superhumans, aka, "the grunts": superhumans whose powers are pronounced enough to make them useful under specific circumstances, and to even qualify them for limited field work, without ever qualifying them for real starter status. Examples include the Electron, whose minor control over electrical devices made him useful for surveillance work, but lacked offensive capabilities unless located under a high-voltage line, and the Moose, who possessed all the heroic strengths and weaknesses of a moose. Also, antlers, and an inexplicable fondness for standing in the middle of highways destroying the cars of unsuspecting motorists.
Level three superhumans, aka, "the working men": superhumans whose powers give them a distinct inclination toward either good or evil, with the capacity to do a lot of damage if those inclinations are not properly channeled. Interestingly, most gadgeteers fall into this category, despite having no innate powers. Almost all of the world's working superhumans are initially rated as level three, and either rise or fall from there. Examples include Swallowtail, whose energy manipulation is severely limited by her own associations with the incident which gave her superpowers, and Mississippi Queen, who can do almost anything with her elemental manipulation...as long as she's surrounded by water. These are the safest superhumans, in some ways. Sure, they're powerful enough to do some serious damage if they really wanted to, but they're also powerful enough not to be insecure about their capabilities. Level three superhumans are generally regarded as the most stable, and the least likely to destroy the universe to prove a point.
Level four superhumans, aka, "the heavy hitters": superhumans whose powers have progressed to a level which truly sets them apart from most of their fellow men. Interestingly, these are the superhumans most likely to become unstable, trapped too solidly between "god" and "man." Many level four superhumans are told that they have been designated level three, a delusion which has been proven to preserve sanity, providing it can be maintained. Examples include Action Dude, whose invulnerability and super-strength are second only to Majesty, and Velveteen, whose capacities for spontaneous animation of the inanimate have yet to be fully charted, and may, if they continue to expand, eventually qualify her as a technical level five. Level four superhumans often have short, memorable careers.
Level five superhumans, aka, "the actual reason for anti-superhuman legislation" or possibly just "oh, fuck no": superhumans whose powers have reached the point where they are limited only by the superhuman's own expectations. For example, Trick and Treat-whose claims of originating in the sub-dimension of the Autumn Country have yet to be disproved-can manage almost any matter manipulation stunt within the limits of their own self-imposed Halloween-based delusions. Jolly Roger, Majesty, and Supermodel were also level five heroes, which goes a long way toward explaining what went wrong with the original lineup of The Super Patriots. When there is nothing more powerful than you, it can be difficult to keep a sense of scale.
When asked about the possibility of level six superhumans, the scientists involved in the rating system began to giggle (some with an intensity that bordered on hysteria), and said, "If they exist? If they exist? Well, if they exist, this was all for nothing. Pass me the tequila, would you?"
Government funding of The Super Patriots, Inc., was approved less than six weeks later, in an emergency Senate session.
*
Velma crawled back to consciousness like a shopping mall Santa the day after Christmas: slowly, painfully, and with the distinct fear that she'd managed to leave one or more of her essential internal organs lying in a parking lot somewhere. Her eyes were sticky. It was difficult to open them. She lifted her head from the steering wheel-also not particularly easy, also not something she enjoyed-and rubbed a hand across her eyes. It came away crusted with half-dried blood. She supposed she ought to be concerned, or possibly even panic, but it all seemed too much like work. Work could come later, possibly after the throbbing in her head had died down to a dull roar, or died down altogether. Dying altogether wouldn't be an issue for her.
Vaguely aware that she was still in danger, or something like that, Velma forced herself to sit fully upright and squinted at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. The blood that had gummed her eyes shut seemed to have come entirely from her bloody nose, as had the crust that covered her upper lip and chin. There didn't seem to be any actual external injuries, but that didn't mean she hadn't managed to burst a blood vessel or something. Maybe she was bleeding to death. Inside her brain. "That'd be a great way to go," she muttered, fumbling for the glove compartment. "'Velma Martinez, posthumously identified as the rogue superhuman known as 'Velveteen,' bled to death of a brain embolism today-aw, fuck." The tissues were gone. The tissues were never gone. But the tissues were gone because of that coffee spill back on I-5, and her head was pounding, and she suddenly just wanted to sit there and cry until The Junior Super Patriots came back to finish what they'd started. Taken down by the team she used to belong to. She didn't really give a crap about the poetic justice of it all. She was just too tired to care.
A napkin was pressed into her hand. She looked around, eyes widening, and blinked as she saw the battered plush rabbit, originally from the Isley Crawfish Festival, sitting alertly on the seat beside her. Another napkin was clutched clumsily in one paw, waiting for her to need it. One of its eyes was missing, probably torn loose during the most recent battle, and stuffing poked through a hole on its side.
Velma swallowed. "I'm not currently animating you," she said, somewhat accusingly. "I'd know."
The rabbit didn't answer her, merely inclined its head and offered the other napkin.
"Uh," said Velma. "Thanks." She could worry more about the unexpectedly animate rabbit later. Right now, she had napkins, she had a bloody face, and she had enough ground-in media training to know that sitting around covered in blood wasn't a good way to make herself feel better. Appearances mattered. Appearing to be rough and ready and prepared for anything would do a lot to make it true. Spitting into the napkin, she tilted her chin up toward the rear-view mirror and began wiping the blood from her face.
Once, there would have been someone to do this for her. Once, there would have been someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay (whether it was or not), that she was fighting on the side of justice (whether she was or not), and that whether she won or lost, she would always be a hero. Once, things were different.
But that was a very long time ago, in a very different world. One that she had walked away from voluntarily.
It took a surprisingly short time to clean all the blood from her face, the rabbit producing more napkins from between the seats as needed. Finally, Velma studied herself in the mirror, brushing her hair out of her eyes, and nodded. "Good enough for government work." She glanced to the rabbit. "Thanks."
The rabbit nodded gravely, its single remaining eye seeming to look directly at her before it slumped over sideways on the seat, becoming as naturally boneless as something plush was supposed to be. Velma started the engine, struggling slightly as she worked the car out of the ditch, and drove on. To Oregon; to the future; to freedom.
*
"I don't like this," said Swallowtail, uncertainly. She didn't like it; she didn't like any part of it. Didn't like the man from Marketing, who smelled like stiff leather and over-priced cologne. Didn't like the things he was telling them to do. Didn't like the way Handheld, who was supposed to be their fearless leader, stopped being anything but another well-trained dog waiting for his master's command. Most of all, didn't like the fact that this woman they were going after was...
Was...
She was one of them, once upon a time, a teen hero with a costume designed by committee and a back-story honed on focus groups and fairy tales. She was the other side of the Marketing machine, and just the fact that she was who she was made all the other villains out there a little bit harder to believe in for certain and for sure. She could have killed them all. Instead, she just stood there and let them escape. She was a villain because Marketing said she was a villain, and realizing that was a little bit like realizing that there was no such thing as Santa Claus.
"We don't have to like it, Shelly," said Handheld, unconsciously reverting to her real name under the stress-and how long had it been since she saw him actually stressed out over something? Over anything? This was the end of everything, and Bedbug was casting jealous glances in their direction, and she didn't have the energy to pretend she didn't see. Handheld reached for her hand, and she let him have it. "We just have to get through it."
"She's not getting within a mile of Oregon," said Super-Cool, posing like he thought the cameras were already in place.
Candy Corn shot him a disgusted look. "Uh, dude, she's already within a mile of Oregon. She was within a mile of Oregon when she kicked our butts the first time. Now she's within two hundred yards of Oregon. Can you maybe pretend to be playing on the same intellectual field as the rest of us for, like, fifteen minutes at a go?"
Super-Cool glared at her. Swallowtail sighed.
"So we're on for the fight?" she asked, squeezing Handheld's hand once before letting go. "Even with everything?"
"Even with everything," Handheld confirmed.
Behind them, the members of the press milled, waiting for the story they'd been promised. Several members of the Oregon police were also in place, just in case the 'dangerous supervillain' they'd been warned about managed to make it over the border and into their woefully unprotected state. The sound of tires approaching down the road called everyone to attention. The world held its breath.
Velma's car came around the curve.
*
Celia Morgan did not become Governor of Oregon by accident. No, she became Governor of Oregon by biting, kicking, and clawing her way up the political ladder, all with one goal held firmly in the forefront of her mind: she was going to keep her state safe. Not from terrorists. Not from horrible mutants dragging themselves out of the sea and devouring everything coastal. Not from global warming. No. She was going to keep state safe from the single greatest threat of the modern world, the one thing that needed the most guarding against:
The Super Patriots, Inc. And most of all, their Marketing Division.
The name "Jennifer Morgan" was nowhere to be found in the histories of The Super Patriots, Inc.; she was neither on their list of active nor fallen members. If mentioned at an official function, it would be met with either blank stares or polite excuses as the person to whom you were speaking suddenly needed to be somewhere else. Celia knew that to be a fact, because she'd mentioned Jennifer's name. She'd mentioned it several times, before she gave up the attempt. The name "Jory" might be met with slightly better results, if it was brought up in the right circles. Geologists would, of course, recognize it as a specific class of soil found commonly in Oregon. And superhero fanatics-the ones who'd learned to save their clippings in physical form, to prevent the data from "mysteriously" changing to fit the party line-might recognize it as the name of a second-string superheroine who'd served, all too briefly, with The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. "An elementalist, wasn't she?" one of them might say. "Some sort of earth control..."
"She was a level four earth manipulator!" Celia always wanted to scream. "She could make mountains by wiggling her fingers, and they gave her a stupid name and a little yellow mask and they sent her out to fight monsters! She was twelve years old!" Too young to have been where she was. Too young for any fights bigger than zits and boys and passing sixth grade. But they sent her out to fight monsters, and she never came home. Instead, there was a quick, quiet hush campaign, all her pictures airbrushed out of the magazines, all mentions of her typo-marked out of existence. Instead, there was money, blood money, enough to send Celia to the best colleges in the world, all with the face of her dead sister, her dead big sister, floating just out of the corner of her eye. Instead, there was this: Governor of Oregon, one of the last places in the country to believe that it was the human part of 'superhuman' that mattered, and not the super.
And now here was another god-damned supervillain making a run for her border, endangering everything she'd worked for, making The Super Patriots turn their eyes toward Oregon. Just another stupid fucking drop-out who-
The ringing of her phone startled her out of the spiral she'd been starting down; the old familiar anger, the old familiar hate. She turned toward the sound, and frowned slowly, brows drawing together. That was her private line. The emergency line, the one only her family was supposed to use.
She snatched the phone from the cradle before it had the chance to finish ringing for the second time. "Celia speaking," she said, voice kept tight to prevent the sudden fear from showing through. "What-"
"This connection's not secure: just listen." The voice that cut her off was light, feminine, and cold as steel. "We only have a few minutes. The 'supervillain' currently heading for your border has done nothing to warrant that label. She's violated none of the superhuman restrictions, and she hasn't actually committed any crimes serious enough to earn the punishment that she'll receive if they take her."
Celia's world went gray. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about an innocent woman whose parents handed her over to the Marketing division when she was just a little girl." The voice grew, if anything, even colder. "She was just like your sister, Ms. Morgan. She didn't know what she was doing, and she never had a choice."
"How do you know about-"
"If you want to hurt The Super Patriots, this is your chance to do it. This is your chance to take a story away from them and make it into your own. You decide from here." The line went dead.
Celia was running for the door before she had even fully processed the desire to do so. By the time the phone hit the desk, she was in the hall, yanking her coat on and shouting for her driver to prepare the car.
She had a battle to intercept.
*
Somewhere not very far away, a woman's black-gloved hand rested briefly on a disposable cellphone. It had been bought illegally, cloned twice, and made to make a single call. One that she'd hoped, right until that moment, she would manage to talk herself out of making.
"Fucked up times fifty-thousand, huh, Vel?" she whispered. A spray of golden sparks spread from her fingers, engulfing the phone and melting its circuitry into slag. "Well, it's up to you, now. Last favor. Last chance. It's up to you."
*
Velma pulled around the curve to find herself facing the full membership of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. All of them were standing straight and proud in what she recognized instantly as the official Standing Off Against A Supervillain pose: chests out (but not too out, in the case of the girls, who still needed to look believably virginal), legs apart, hands held with just that right amount of careful tension. Ready for the fight of their lives. And unfortunately, she was on the wrong side of the battle. What looked like an entire army of reporters was waiting behind them, news vans and camera crews and young, attractive, totally expendable talking heads. It was a familiar publicity stunt. It said "we have total faith in winning this battle." It said "you are completely safe with us."
It said "we have the entire membership of the adult team standing by, ready to sweep in if it looks like things are going to turn serious." It said "the junior team is no longer alone."
"It says 'you lose,'" whispered Velma, stopping her car about ten feet from the line of heroes. She was exhausted. She was injured. And most of all, she realized, she was angry. How dare they? All she ever wanted was to walk away. They couldn't even let her have that, could they?
Grabbing her plush rabbit by one grubby arm, she kicked open the car door and stormed toward the line of junior heroes, shoulders hunched, eyes blazing. She could practically feel the cameras zooming in on her as the army of reporters held their breath. She realized that she was turning herself, almost subconsciously, to present her best angles to the media. Good. If this was going to be her last stand, she was going to make it one that they'd remember.
"How dare you?" she demanded, gesturing toward the lineup with her free hand. Gesturing with the rabbit would probably be taken as a threat, and that would stop her monologue before she even got it started. She'd never given a supervillain speech before, and she wanted to make sure she reached the end. "I never asked for you to hunt me down! I was good! I played fair! I kept my head down, I didn't leak anything to the press, I didn't even hint at my identity! But you couldn't leave it alone, could you? You couldn't just let me fade away in peace."
Looking profoundly uncomfortable, Handheld took a step forward, and said, "By the authority of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, I order you to stand down, evil-doer!"
"What evil have I done, huh?" Velma took another step toward him, now pointing a finger squarely at his chest. "I flunked community college because there kept being 'accidents' in my apartment complex. 'Accidents' that always happened right after I turned down another offer from Marketing. I couldn't hold a job because these people wouldn't leave me alone. So I disappeared! So I went into hiding! I didn't do it because I was evil, I did it because I wanted to be left alone. They've probably told you that you can quit when you turn eighteen, haven't they? They've probably told you you're going to get a walk-away-free pass, that you can go back to the private sector. You're on the inside! You know what it's like! How many have quit? Huh?"
This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Handheld was standing transfixed, stunned less by what she was saying than by the sudden realization that none of this footage-not a single pixel-was actually getting out clean. Something was throwing static over the reports, removing essential words, until all the audience at home would see was Velma ne Velveteen, furiously screaming, and looking every inch the supervillain that Marketing claimed she was.
Something was very wrong.
Super-Cool started forward, snarling, "Lady, I don't care who you were, but you're about to be a footnote on my road to awesome."
Velma turned around, all but laughing in his face. "Footnote? Footnote? They already made me a footnote, you third-rate Majesty knock-off. Now they're making me a villain. I wonder what they're going to wind up making out of you?"
"Nanny, stop her," hissed Candy Apple. "She's moy loco."
"Yes," said the Nanny, "but she isn't naughty. She isn't being naughty at all..."
Super-Cool took another step toward Velma. Velma turned to him, raising her plush rabbit as if to block him from attacking her. After that, things got very complicated, very quickly. To make matters worse, not a single scrap of camera footage survived; as soon as the incident occurred, they all stopped transmitting. What everyone could agree on later was that a vast bolt of black light-not darkness, but actual light-came out of the trees and struck Velma from behind, lifting her off the ground, propelling her forward. Past the junior heroes that had been sent to stop her. Past the front tier of the media invasion.
Past the Oregon state line.
*
Velma opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by armed security guards, and a diminutive blonde woman in a dusky gray business suit standing about ten yards away, shouting-yes, openly shouting -- at...Velma squinted, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Shouting at two men from the Marketing department, flanked by Action Dude, Dewpoint, and Uncertainty. The sight of Action Dude was enough to make Velma close her eyes again, briefly. If she was going to get apprehended, she would have preferred it not be at the hands of her one and only ex-boyfriend.
Then the actual words of the woman in gray began to register. "-telling you, she's in Oregon, and you have no actual charges to bring against her! Now unless you can provide me with actual proof that this woman has been involved in a superheroic crime, I'm afraid that, by Oregon law, I cannot allow you to remove her from my custody."
"Harboring an unlicensed superhero is against national, not merely state, laws," said one of the men from Marketing. Velma didn't recognize his voice. She didn't need to. "Now, if you would just allow us to-"
"She's not unlicensed," said the woman.
"WHAT?!" said the man from Marketing.
"WHAT?!" said Action Dude.
"WHAT?!" demanded Velma, sitting up and opening her eyes.
"I told you this was a potential outcome," said Uncertainty, and yawned.
"Velveteen is a fully licensed and authorized Oregon superheroine," said Celia Morgan, smiling sweetly and imagining her fist grinding deep into the face of the man from Marketing. "Now, if you'll excuse me? My superhero appears to have been damaged. I want to get her to the hospital."
Smiling dizzily (as much from head trauma and blood loss as from actual delight), Velma offered a little wave to the men from Marketing, blew a kiss to a startled-looking Action Dude, and passed out cold.
Welcome to Oregon.
Summary: The life of a retired superhero is definitely refusing to get easier. Especially when you're just trying to get to Oregon already, and now people from your past that you've done your best to put behind you seem bent on tracking you down...
***
Velma Martinez had been driving for long enough that she was fairly sure her ass had developed calluses. Any wayward, unspoken desire she might have had to become a professional truck driver had died somewhere on the road between San Francisco and the California/Oregon border. She couldn't have said exactly what delivered the killing blow-was it the engine trouble? The wrong turn that stranded her in Isley during their annual crawfish festival? The traveling carnival whose rides were maintained in top condition through black magic and blood sacrifice? The conditions of the rest stop bathrooms? Whatever it was, she was done. If she never took another drive longer than the one between her next dead-end apartment and the nearest Starbucks, it would be way too soon.
Back when she was in the superhero business, there had been dozens of website forums devoted to discussing her admittedly unusual power set, debating what it was good for, and theorizing on what applications it might have in combat. She used to read them semi-religiously. At first for fun, then because she was so horrified by the things that people felt it was okay to say about her, and finally for the combat tips. The Super Patriots, Inc. training division really had nothing on a community of teenage geeks who'd been raised on real-time strategy games and epic Powers and Patriots RPG campaigns. They analyzed her moves in battle, cross-referenced the ways she'd been known to use her powers, and came up with suggestions that she promptly put into practice, all without them every knowing that they'd become her secret advisers.
(Maybe she would have felt bad about taking advantage of their strategy skills without sending them so much as a "thank you" card or an autographed photo, but these were also the people who'd described her second year bunny suit as "Playboy does Lolita" and "totally spankable bunny-babe." After the fifth piece of pornographic fan art and the real-person slash fanfic novella where she liked to "do it like a rabbit," she figured the strategy tips were sort of like protection money: as long as they stayed semi-useful, she wouldn't feel compelled to wipe them off the face of the planet.)
One of the common threads in those forums had been the geek version of dick-waving-the endless discussions with titles like "Action Dude vs. Majesty WHO WOULD WIN???" and "Velveteen vs. Sparkle Bright THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN." She lost more of those fantasy battles than she won, but that was understandable; she didn't have a power set that really lent itself to one-on-one combat. In the post-"battle" strategy discussions, her lack of flight capabilities was often cited as her largest disadvantage. If she could fly, her supporters argued, she could own the battleground. She'd mostly managed to laugh those threads off back then, because back then, she could pretty much go flying whenever she wanted to. All she had to do was ask Yelena nicely, or bat her eyes at Aaron and offer to sneak into his room after lights-out.
But that was a long time ago. That ship had sailed; that velvet domino mask had been thrown in the trash, atop the shredded remains of a hundred marketing contracts and a hundred thousand failed ideals. She didn't miss the life. That was true, or at least she told herself that it was true, and since she didn't have anyone else to ask, she basically believed it.
Still, sometimes-like times like this, when she was stuck at the end of a mile-long line of cars trying to get past an overturned tanker truck that had decided to block the entrance to Oregon-she missed flying. There was something to be said for being able to go up and over anything that wound up in her path with nothing more than a thought.
Flying was the only thing she missed. The convenience, the freedom of it. She didn't miss the people who'd been responsible for giving her that freedom. She didn't miss them at all.
Maybe if she told herself that enough, it would all be true.
Velma sagged in her seat and closed her eyes, listening to the horns that blared on all sides of her. She was almost home free, and soon she could put all this behind her again. Soon, and forever.
She was almost there.
*
An uncounted number of books have been written about the practical monopoly that The Super Patriots, Inc. hold over the superhero industry. Between the parent company and their dozens of divisions, sub-divisions, branches, training offices, charities, and other holdings, an estimated ninety-seven percent of the world's heroic superhumans answer in some way to The Super Patriots, Inc. The name on the checks may change, but the Board of Directors stays the same. Some of those books have even managed to see print, although none have stayed on the shelves for long. Most of them wind up shelved under "Fiction," and most of the authors responsible have quietly retired from the literary life not long after. Not that The Super Patriots, Inc. has anything to do with that. Oh, no.
Of course not.
Of the three percent of the world's heroic superhumans not employed by some division or sub-division of The Super Patriots, Inc., two percent have either failed to manifest or have manifested in some way that falls well below the increasingly well-honed super-spotter radar. Consider the case of Ms. Ethel Mattheson, whose super powers were discovered during a routine cancer screening when she was eighty-five years old. Most of her surviving family members believe that it was the shock of learning that her cookies had always been perfect not because she was a good baker, but because she was a very low-grade superhuman, which killed her. The tiny heroes, the everyday heroes, can go their entire lives without being spotted. They live and marry within the standard human population, the genes growing stronger with each generation, until full manifestation occurs.
Ms. Mattheson's granddaughter, Amy, graduated from The Junior Super Patriots, East Coast Division two years ago, proudly joining The Super Patriots in her role as The Baker. She has since gone on to lead up the world-renowned super-team's French chapter, and uses her powers for the good of all mankind. The tabloids adore her, since the caloric nature of her powers means than whenever the news gets thin on the ground, they can run another story about her radical diet plans.
And so it goes.
The remaining one percent of the world's heroes contains those individuals like Velveteen, Jolly Roger, the Unicorn Girl, and Mr. Tambourine Man. The ones who, when faced with the heroic life, its perks and its problems, shook their heads and said "no, thank you." Studies conducted by solemn, handsome scientists (all of whom receive their funding through The Super Patriots, Inc.-in a round-about way, of course, to make it more difficult to trace) show that this final one percent will almost always turn to super-villainy, joining the ranks of the fallen. They are to be pitied. They are to be saved from themselves, if at all possible. They are definitely to be reported to the authorities. After all, friends don't let friends destroy the planet with pin-point black holes just because they couldn't afford their pills anymore, now, do they?
No one has ever done a case study on the world's villainous superhumans, to determine exactly how many of them chose a life of crime and terror less out of a natural inclination toward evil than from the desire to make The Super Patriots, Inc. leave them alone already. The results might be interesting, if someone did.
*
The traffic jam started approximately eighteen miles from the California/Oregon border, on a stretch of highway that should rightfully have had no traffic jams at all. Several of the locals had hiked across their back fields to stand beside the road and gawk, further confirming Velma's suspicion that something strange was going on. Traffic lurched forward another six feet, bringing her window up parallel to a group of bored-looking teenagers out to see the show.
Velma hiked down the window-which took considerable effort; the handle had broken off months ago, and been replaced by a pair of rusty pliers-and stuck her head out, almost gagging on the taste of hot exhaust fumes. "Excuse me?" she shouted, once she could breathe again. "Could you come over here for a second?"
The group of teens eyed her suspiciously before taking a moment to murmur between themselves, no doubt assessing the likelihood that she was some sort of serial-killing freak. After a few seconds, they clearly came to the conclusion that she was too small to present any real threat, and came sauntering over to the side of the road.
"What do you want?" asked the one at the front of the pack. He was wearing an old black trenchcoat about three sizes too big for him, and his scrawny shoulders were hunched up in what was probably a habitually defensive posture. Not the big kids on the local campus, then. That was good-they were a lot more likely to answer questions without feeling like they needed to act cool and impress their friends. It was also bad, because it upped the odds of them being hero-chasers. The last thing she needed was an "aren't you...?" incident, especially when she was effectively held prisoner by the traffic.
"What's going on up there?" Velma waved a hand vaguely in the direction the cars were struggling to go. "I never knew this was a big traffic spot."
"It's not," said another of the teens, a girl dressed in the very latest Hot Topic chic. "They're doing some sort of car check up ahead."
"What, like checking to make sure no one's trying to smuggle redwood trees and oranges into Oregon?"
The group's leader shrugged expansively. "No clue. We tried hiking up and asking them, but they just waved us off. Said we weren't who we were looking for."
You can tear up contracts and take off costumes; you can quit teams and refuse reunions. But no one has ever mastered walking away so completely that they forget their training. Velma felt suddenly dizzy, as if all the blood had drained out of the top half of her body. Struggling to keep her composure, she leaned further out the window and said, "Look, I know this may sound a little weird, but...I really have to make it to Oregon in the next hour. If I miss my appointment, I'm basically screwed. Is there a way off this highway?"
The teens looked uncertain, exchanging glances amongst themselves. "Well..." said Miss Hot Topic, with obvious reluctance.
"I swear I just want to get on my way," said Velma. The teens exchanged another glance, and several of them took a step backward. Desperate now, she added, "I'd be happy to tip for a tip. Say twenty bucks if you can tell me where to find a frontage road?"
"This is my dad's field," said Trenchcoat, abruptly. "If you make it another fifteen feet up, I can open the gate for you. The farm road connects up to the surface streets. Normally, I'd say that was the slow way, but right now-"
"Right now, anything is better than this." Velma fumbled a twenty from her purse-almost the last of her money, but this wasn't the time to worry about that-and handed it out the window to Trenchcoat, hoping he wouldn't notice the way her hand was shaking.
To her relief, he either didn't notice, or he decided that twenty dollars was worth ignoring a little distress. "I'll have the gate open by the time you make it up there," he said, making the money disappear into a pocket.
"Thank you," said Velma, fervently, and cranked the window up again.
Fifteen minutes later, Velma cleared the gate and went roaring off down the farm road, passing fields of potatoes and parsnips and feeling her heartbeat slow with every inch she put between herself and the "car check" that had backed up traffic all the way to Oregon. Was she being paranoid? Just possibly. The more important question would have been "was that paranoia unfounded?" In her tragically vast experience, it almost never was.
"Fucked-up times five billion," Velma muttered, and hit the gas.
*
"Swallowtail to base, Swallowtail to base, come in, base."
"What is it, Swallowtail?"
"What sort of car did you say we were watching for again?" Swallowtail let herself drop a little lower in the hazy afternoon air, the excited molecules around her feet cooling just a few degrees as the stunt was performed. Anyone looking up would have seen her hovering there, a slim teenage girl surrounded by a corona of light that fanned out its gold and brown wings like a vast butterfly. She was technically classed as an energy manipulator, although her use of light and heat was limited to crafting swallowtail butterflies. They could be as small as a fingernail, or large enough to let her fly. Also, they were pretty. She didn't regret her power set, even if some people said it would never make her one of the big guns.
"According to the records we got off that repair shop in Red Bluff, it's a Saturn, medium blue-"
Excitement growing, Swallowtail interrupted, "Back bumper held on with duct tape?"
"Swallowtail, do you have eyes on the target?"
"A car matching that description is heading down one of the local frontage roads, moving west at approximately twenty miles per hour."
There was a pause as Handheld accessed his internal GPS, running through all available maps of the area. That useful little trick was why he always seemed to get stuck playing base. That, and he was the only one who ever remembered to recharge the headsets. "Swallowtail, withdraw. There's only one accessible border crossing on that route, and we can beat her there by ten minutes."
Swallowtail's breath caught. "You mean...?"
"I do." She heard the click as he changed frequencies, going from their private channel to the one that would reach the entire team. Voice echoing with authority, he said the words she'd been waiting to hear since this mission was announced, the words that meant they were finally going to prove themselves against a villain worthy of their time:
"JUNIOR SUPER PATRIOTS, WEST COAST DIVISION, THE PARTY'S ON!"
"Oh, you'll be sorry soon," she whispered gleefully, and turned, spreading light-display butterfly wings wide as she soared toward the place where the team would be assembling. Time to show that turn-coat that she chose the wrong side when she left The Super Patriots.
On the highway, traffic started to move again.
*
The last sign Velma had passed indicated that she was less than half a mile from the Oregon border, and she was finally starting to relax. Once she crossed the state border, she'd have a clean slate; there was no way Marketing could accuse her of unlicensed use of her powers, since those charges were only valid within the state where the crime occurred, and Oregon didn't believe in superhuman extradition. Oregon, Hawaii, Arizona, and Vermont: the last states where a superhuman could go to hide from their past sins. They still required licensing, but they wouldn't give you to Marketing unless you'd actually killed someone. Velma never had. Property damage, yes, but manslaughter, no.
Half a mile, and she'd be free forever.
She was so focused on planning for her new-found freedom that she didn't see the teenager standing in the road until she was almost on top of him. Shouting, she hauled on the wheel and sent herself into a spin, tires screeching on the road. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. The car came to a stop, almost completely turned around. Gasping for air, Velma clutched the wheel and blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head. She hadn't hit the kid. She was certain of that much. But where did he come from? How was he just standing there, in the middle of nowhere? What-
Someone was knocking on the window. Velma lifted her head, wincing as the movement was telegraphed down into her aching shoulders. The kid from the road was standing next to her car, peering in at her. He was dressed a little oddly, she saw, wearing a heavy ski coat buttoned all the way down. It was way too warm to be dressed like that. She blinked at him.
He knocked again.
Wincing even more, Velma undid her seat belt and opened the door, stepping unsteadily out of the car. Her knees were shaking, and she had to fight the urge to get down on all fours and kiss the ground. Thank you, ground, for being there. Thank you, God, for letting me miss that kid.
"Hi," said the kid, offering her a bright, toothpaste-endorsement smile. "Are you Velma Martinez?"
Under normal circumstances, that question would have set off so many alarm bells inside Velma's head that she would have been deafened by the sound. Now, shaken by her near miss and dizzy from endorphins, she just blinked at him again, and said, "Yeah. Who's asking?"
"Oh, I'm sorry-I forgot that we'd never been introduced." He unbuttoned his jacket in a quick, efficient motion and shrugged it off, revealing the purple and gray spandex costume that it had been concealing. Shining beetles the size of Velma's clenched fist rushed out of the abandoned jacket, swarming up his legs and clinging to his sides. More of those beetles scurried up his back, pulling a full-face mask over his head. He thrust a fist into the air, and announced, in a voice ringing with the tightly-controlled desire for justice, "I am...THE BEDBUG!"
Velma blinked. "Uh," she said, finally. "I bet you don't get many dates, do you?"
"Do you dare to mock my might?"
"Yup." Velma folded her arms. "So, is that insect control, or are they psychic projections?"
"Psychic pro-don't distract me!" The Bedbug sounded annoyed, although it was difficult to tell with that mask hiding his entire face. Velma had always hated trying to carry on a conversation with someone in a full-face mask. It was like talking to a wall. "Prepare to face your undoing, evil-doer!"
First rule of escaping an unwanted fight: keep them talking while you figure out a way to get out of the situation. Velma scanned the road around her, feeling her heart rate dropping steadily back toward "normal." It was sad when being poorly menaced by a teenage superhero was calming. "Okay, first, you've got the wrong girl, because I am not a doer of evil, nor am I really in the market for an undoing. If that's what you do...look, could you work the word 'do' into that sentence a few more times? Because seriously, you're abusing the language. I don't want to fight. I just want to get to Oregon."
"A pity, then, that cheaters finish last!" proclaimed a skinny brunette with blonde-streaked hair as she dropped out of the sky, wide yellow and brown butterfly wings spread behind her. They vanished when she touched down next to The Bedbug. Her costume, Velma saw with disgust, was the same yellow and brown as her wings. Even her mask had been cut to subtly resemble butterfly wings, open wide across her face. "Justice will be yours at last!"
"Do you guys have a bug theme this year or something?" asked Velma, distracted from her survey of possible escape routes by the sinking sensation in her stomach. The Bedbug was unfamiliar, but she recognized the girl. Swallowtail. She'd been on the cover of Secret Identity just a few months before, supposedly "speaking candidly" about her battle with anorexia. (As if an energy projector could have a battle with anorexia. They burned calories to create their light projections. If Swallowtail were anorexic, she wouldn't be able to use her powers. The article was just a ploy by Marketing, another way to get a young hero's face out in the public eye and build the feeling that superheroes were just like everybody else.)
If Swallowtail was here, this wasn't some random kid trying to prove himself against a retired hero. This was something much, much worse.
This was The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division.
*
There's one thing about the world's superhuman community that most people would realize, if they really stopped to think about it: there's really no way to control them if they don't want to be controlled. Oh, individual powers can generally be suppressed, but there's no way to un-mutate a mutant, disconnect a magical hero from the belief that fuels them, or somehow transform an alien into a human being. Lobotomies can be used on gadgeteers, but unless the gadgeteer in question has wiped out an elementary school, that's still classed as unnecessary cruelty. The superhumans police themselves. There's simply no other way to keep them from taking over the world.
The Super Patriots, Inc., controls ninety-seven percent of the world's superheroes. That gives them controlling interest in every superteam, every super-force, every organization of supers supposedly formed to "watch the watchers." With all that being simple fact, it stands to reason that there's one entity deciding who the heroes and the villains really are.
Marketing controls more than just what brand of cereal your children cry for. Marketing names the heroes and the villains, gives them primary colors, and tells you who to root for in the fight.
And Marketing doesn't take "no" for an answer.
*
Velma took a step backward, toward her car. She could feel her powers gathering, straining for release. That was what you did when you were surrounded by unfriendly supers: you broke out with everything you had, and you fought back. The Bedbug and Swallowtail were still in pose-and-bluster mode, trying to impress her with their color-coordinated outfits and perfect hair. It would have looked silly, if she hadn't recognized the maneuver. They were waiting for the rest of their team to arrive.
Current lineup, current lineup, Velma thought frantically, taking another step backward. She hadn't really been keeping track. Sure, she knew a few-Swallowtail was one, and then there was their current techie, what was his name, Blackberry or iPod or something like that-but beyond that, she'd done her best to put the team entirely out of her mind. She hadn't wanted to know. And now, what she hadn't wanted to know was preparing to have a genuine superhero throw-down with her on a frontage road half a mile from the Oregon border.
Sometimes the world really wasn't fair.
"If you come quietly, we can guarantee that will play a part in your sentencing," said The Bedbug, still posing heroically. "This doesn't have to be ugly."
"Guys, I really don't think you want to do this," said Velma, raising her hands, palms outward. "Whatever it is you think I did, whoever it is you think I am, I didn't do it, and I'm not that person. I'm just trying to get to Portland. Now can you please-"
"THE PARTY'S ON!" shouted a voice from behind her, barely audible over the roar of a motorcycle. Velma whipped around to see a teenage boy in black and orange racing toward her on a tricked-out bike in matching colors, three flying heroes right behind him. Three flying heroes, and-she had to blink to be sure she was seeing this right-a trio of girls riding what looked like a disk of flying peppermint.
"Fucked-up times fucking infinity," she groaned, and with that, the fight was on.
*
The membership of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, at the time of The Velveteen Incident (SPI Code vm049):
Handheld. Team leader, technopath. Machine control, ability to intercept wireless transmissions within a six-block radius of his current location. Hand-to-hand fighter, no physical powers of any sort. Powers originally acquired through an industrial accident in his father's special effects lab. Believed to be an altered human, although mutation has not been ruled out.
Swallowtail. Second-in-command, energy projector. Power limitation: all Swallowtail's energy forms conform in appearance to the Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, native to the West Coast of the United States. Powers originally acquired through exposure to irradiated bug spray released in the Indianapolis Science Museum during her junior entomology course. Of the six students exposed, four are now deceased.
The Bedbug. Energy projector. Power limitation: all Bedbug's energy forms conform in appearance to an unidentified form of scarab beetle. The Bedbug shares limited psychic communication with his bugs, and can be "stunned" by their destruction. Powers originally acquired through exposure to irradiated bug spray released in the Indianapolis Science Museum. Highly protective of Swallowtail, the only other survivor of the incident.
Super-Cool. Flight, limited invulnerability, super-strength. Powers originally acquired through exposure to irradiated maple syrup. His dose seems to have been more dilute than the doses to which Majesty and Action Dude were exposed; plans are in place to expose him again, hopefully increasing his power levels without further damaging his psyche. Super-Cool is only able to function in combat for an hour before becoming confused and unable to fight.
The Nanny. Psychic projection, limited flight, limited weather control. Power limitations: The Nanny can only fly when holding something which can appear to "catch" the wind (actual functionality not needed; umbrella is preferred, and seems to give her the highest speed). She is unable to fly at all indoors. Her psychic projection functions through control: her commands must be obeyed, provided she can first convince her target of their own "naughtiness." Definitely a magical hero.
Apex. Flight, super-speed. Mutant, no point of origin known for his powers. Power limitations: none yet identified.
The Candy Sisters: Candy Cane, Candy Corn, and Candy Apple. Mutant daughters of Trick and Treat. There is no known point of origin for their powers. All three are matter manipulators, level five, with no limitations yet identified beyond those imposed by their personas. Research believes these limitations to be self-imposed, and recommends further study when the opportunity presents itself. Should one of the sisters be rendered somehow surplus, it would be a great asset to the research division.
Nine super-teens against one out-of-shape, out-of-practice, essentially retired former teen superhero. The odds were clearly stacked in the favor of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. With this fact presented plainly, the question remains:
What went wrong?
*
Officially cornered, Velma finally gave in to the power that had been pleading to be unleashed, spreading her hands and closing her eyes as she heard the motorcycle racing closer. The toys in the car stirred, awakening to her command. The plush rabbit from the Isley Crawfish Festival. The action figures from the coffee shop. The stuffed frog she'd found abandoned in a gas station parking lot. Even a cartoony wind-up spider from some forgotten fast food special. They all awoke, scuttling and jumping out the open door to surround her in a loose semi-circle.
She heard Swallowtail laughing. "Is that a stuffed rabbit? Does she actually think she's going to defeat us with a stuffed bunny rabbit?"
"She walked away, remember? We knew she was crazy." At least Bedbug sounded uncertain. "I think we should try to take her."
"She's just standing there..."
Things fall out of cars all the time. Things get left beside the road and forgotten. Things are dropped in front yards, abandoned in fields, put in boxes behind the barn for the next big church rummage sale. Velma spread her hands wide, and spread her mind wider, letting herself forget about the superheroes who were closing in on her position, letting herself forget about everything but finding the lost ones and calling them to her aid.
She didn't feel it when Candy Apple spun sticky strands of caramel around her, tying her up in a sugar cocoon. She didn't notice when the Nanny commanded that she stop what she was doing. She was beginning to shake from the strain, a thin trickle of blood running from one nostril. Distantly, she heard screaming as her action figures swarmed the flying heroes, as the stuffed rabbit went at Handheld's eyes with a butcher knife it had managed to acquire somewhere. She concentrated. She called.
The sound of screaming. The sound of a zap gun being fired. Soft splattering sounds, like balls of sugar being dropped from a great height. Velma cast herself further, aware that she was no longer entirely sure where she'd left her body. It was a nice feeling. It was-
"RETREAT!" screamed a voice.
Velma opened her eyes.
The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, were a colorful blur receding down the road, back toward California. The road around her was covered in toys, most weathered, muddy, damaged. A few had "died" during the fight, their plastic limbs and dirty stuffing turning the pavement into a war zone. Velma blinked back tears, suddenly aware that she was aching, and exhausted, and almost there.
"If you have a home," she said, hoarsely, "go home, and thank you. If you don't..."
This meant she was admitting it. This meant she didn't get another out.
She sighed.
"If you don't, get in the car."
The back seat was cluttered with dirty dolls and damaged bears when Velma climbed inside, checking her reflection in the rear view mirror. Blood caked her upper lip, making her look like she'd been in a fistfight, and streaks of caramel were matted in her hair from before Candy Apple's loss of control. She studied herself for a moment, then sighed, and started the ignition. Oregon was waiting.
A quarter of a mile from the Oregon border Velma Martinez-aka "Velveteen," aka "one of the only superheroes to voluntarily and successfully quit The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, a wholly owned subsidiary of The Super Patriots, Inc."-finally passed out.
Fortunately for her, she had been traveling at barely ten miles per hour when her eyes slipped shut. Even more fortunately, there was no one else on the road. Her car was able to drift gently off to the left, finally coming to a sedate rest in the drainage ditch. Velma didn't notice. Velma's head was down on the steering wheel, eyes closed, one strand of hair sticking to the crust of blood that was drying on her lip. Velma was, for the first time in months, utterly at peace with herself, her place in the world, and the powers that had been making her life miserable for most of her life. Velma was, in short, down for the count.
Unfortunately, especially for Velma, she was really the only one in the area who was anything like "at peace." Even more unfortunately, any peace achieved under such circumstances was destined to have a short, violent life before coming to an anything-but-peaceful end.
*
Saying that the man from Marketing was lividly angry was an understatement on a par with saying "the ocean is slightly damp" or "the paparazzi has a mildly unnerving interest in what Sparkle Bright is having for breakfast." He'd been pacing back and forth for the past ten minutes, the heels of his glossy leather shoes clicking against the carrier's faux-hardwood floor. Every third step was punctuated by a tap of one toe, creating an irregular rhythm that was beginning to make Handheld's teeth hurt. It was bad enough that he and his team got their butts handed to them by the Island of Misfit Toys. Was there some cosmic law that said his day had to get even worse?
Apparently, the answer was a definite "yes." "Please remind me, if you would be so kind, of the current makeup of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division," said the man from Marketing, pronouncing the capital letters as clearly as if they'd been carved in stone. "If you would be so kind."
"Sir-" began Handheld.
"Current makeup, please, and no included exposition or excuses."
Anyone who'd spent more than ten minutes as an employee of The Super Patriots, Inc. knew that arguing with Marketing was a good way to waste a lot of time and wind up spending a few months getting the least-desirable interview and publicity assignments possible. Schooling his expression to one of earnest obedience, Handheld squared his shoulders and recited, "Handheld, team leader, technopath. Swallowtail, second-in-command, energy projection and self-powered flight. The Bedbug, energy projection. Super-Cool, limited invulnerability, super-strength and self-powered flight. The Nanny, team psychic, object-based flight, limited weather control. Apex, super-speed, self-powered flight. The Candy Sisters, thematic matter manipulation." After a pause, he added, "Sir."
"Excellent. You are aware of the nature of the team which you presently," and the stress on that word was impossible to ignore, "command. Now, tell me, Handheld, is your awareness of the makeup of past iterations of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, of equally high quality?"
"Sir?"
"He's asking if you should have known that the Energizer Dummy was going to kick our butts," said Candy Cane, pulling her ubiquitous peppermint stick out of her mouth just long enough to make her proclamation. "Duh."
The man from Marketing shot the Candy sisters a sharp look. The trio was standing together a few feet from the rest of the team, and were the only ones not showing any outward signs of their recent battle. Being matter manipulators, it was a small thing for them to repair their costumes, smooth out their hair, and plaster pancake makeup over any visible bruises. They looked distressingly undistressed at the idea of being lectured by the man from Marketing. Maybe -probably-because they understood that they were the only current members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, who were effectively immune to all casual punishments. Heritage heroes. They should never have been allowed to join the roster. But done is done, and spinning what's been done was one of Marketing's primary duties.
"As the young Ms. Cane has so...delicately stated, yes, that is precisely what I'm asking," said the man from Marketing, focusing his attention back on Handheld, a hero he could legitimately bully, terrify, and even (should circumstances demand it) effectively destroy. "One woman, with extremely limited recent combat experience, and powers generally regarded as earning her a level two rating. A level two rating at best. There are nine of you, three of whom are rated level five. How could she possibly, under any circumstances, have managed to get the best of you?"
Handheld and Swallowtail exchanged an anxious glance, followed by an almost imperceptible shake of Handheld's head. He was the leader of this team. If there was a fall to be taken, he was going to be the one to take it. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I honestly have no idea."
The man from Marketing narrowed his eyes. "Well, then," he said, briskly. "I hope you're all rested up."
"Sir?"
"Given the nature of your humiliation, it seems that a rematch is in order." And then the man from Marketing did something truly terrifying.
Then the man from Marketing began to smile.
*
The rating system applied to the world's superhumans was not, surprisingly enough, developed by The Super Patriots, Inc., or by any of their divisions, sub-divisions, branches, training offices, charities, or other holdings. It came out of a government lab during the period following the emergence of the first superheroes, but before those heroes had organized themselves into the entity that would come to be known as The Super Patriots. (The "Incorporated" would come even later, when Jolly Roger left, when Majesty died. But that is a story for another footnote.) The scientists responsible were not super-powered themselves, at least not when the experiments started. They were simply, in the way of scientists, curious. Curiosity, it has been argued, has done more to endanger the world than every supervillian who has ever lived.
After the initially suggested rating schemes had been abandoned-the somewhat stereotypical "alpha" through "omega" level powers, and the less formal, less socially acceptable "kinda cool" through "whoa fuck we're all gonna die"-it was decided to divide all the world's superhumans into five somewhat nebulous levels. (Had they been more precise, several grudge matches and the total destruction of Redding, California might have been avoided.) All known superhumans were labeled over the course of a single drunken weekend, and standards for grading future humans were set before the hangovers faded. This may also explain the difficulty of any future superhumans achieving the level five rating: by the time those standards were set, all the scientists involved simply wanted to stagger home and die.
Level one superhumans, aka, "the support staff": superhumans whose powers are distinct enough to distinguish them from the general populace, and yet provide them with no real advantages in either a combat or real-world situation. Examples include the first TiVo, who possessed the unerring capability to turn on the television just in time to catch his favorite shows, or Tip-Annie, who could convince even the stingiest of customers to leave her a fifteen percent tip in exchange for decent service.
Level two superhumans, aka, "the grunts": superhumans whose powers are pronounced enough to make them useful under specific circumstances, and to even qualify them for limited field work, without ever qualifying them for real starter status. Examples include the Electron, whose minor control over electrical devices made him useful for surveillance work, but lacked offensive capabilities unless located under a high-voltage line, and the Moose, who possessed all the heroic strengths and weaknesses of a moose. Also, antlers, and an inexplicable fondness for standing in the middle of highways destroying the cars of unsuspecting motorists.
Level three superhumans, aka, "the working men": superhumans whose powers give them a distinct inclination toward either good or evil, with the capacity to do a lot of damage if those inclinations are not properly channeled. Interestingly, most gadgeteers fall into this category, despite having no innate powers. Almost all of the world's working superhumans are initially rated as level three, and either rise or fall from there. Examples include Swallowtail, whose energy manipulation is severely limited by her own associations with the incident which gave her superpowers, and Mississippi Queen, who can do almost anything with her elemental manipulation...as long as she's surrounded by water. These are the safest superhumans, in some ways. Sure, they're powerful enough to do some serious damage if they really wanted to, but they're also powerful enough not to be insecure about their capabilities. Level three superhumans are generally regarded as the most stable, and the least likely to destroy the universe to prove a point.
Level four superhumans, aka, "the heavy hitters": superhumans whose powers have progressed to a level which truly sets them apart from most of their fellow men. Interestingly, these are the superhumans most likely to become unstable, trapped too solidly between "god" and "man." Many level four superhumans are told that they have been designated level three, a delusion which has been proven to preserve sanity, providing it can be maintained. Examples include Action Dude, whose invulnerability and super-strength are second only to Majesty, and Velveteen, whose capacities for spontaneous animation of the inanimate have yet to be fully charted, and may, if they continue to expand, eventually qualify her as a technical level five. Level four superhumans often have short, memorable careers.
Level five superhumans, aka, "the actual reason for anti-superhuman legislation" or possibly just "oh, fuck no": superhumans whose powers have reached the point where they are limited only by the superhuman's own expectations. For example, Trick and Treat-whose claims of originating in the sub-dimension of the Autumn Country have yet to be disproved-can manage almost any matter manipulation stunt within the limits of their own self-imposed Halloween-based delusions. Jolly Roger, Majesty, and Supermodel were also level five heroes, which goes a long way toward explaining what went wrong with the original lineup of The Super Patriots. When there is nothing more powerful than you, it can be difficult to keep a sense of scale.
When asked about the possibility of level six superhumans, the scientists involved in the rating system began to giggle (some with an intensity that bordered on hysteria), and said, "If they exist? If they exist? Well, if they exist, this was all for nothing. Pass me the tequila, would you?"
Government funding of The Super Patriots, Inc., was approved less than six weeks later, in an emergency Senate session.
*
Velma crawled back to consciousness like a shopping mall Santa the day after Christmas: slowly, painfully, and with the distinct fear that she'd managed to leave one or more of her essential internal organs lying in a parking lot somewhere. Her eyes were sticky. It was difficult to open them. She lifted her head from the steering wheel-also not particularly easy, also not something she enjoyed-and rubbed a hand across her eyes. It came away crusted with half-dried blood. She supposed she ought to be concerned, or possibly even panic, but it all seemed too much like work. Work could come later, possibly after the throbbing in her head had died down to a dull roar, or died down altogether. Dying altogether wouldn't be an issue for her.
Vaguely aware that she was still in danger, or something like that, Velma forced herself to sit fully upright and squinted at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. The blood that had gummed her eyes shut seemed to have come entirely from her bloody nose, as had the crust that covered her upper lip and chin. There didn't seem to be any actual external injuries, but that didn't mean she hadn't managed to burst a blood vessel or something. Maybe she was bleeding to death. Inside her brain. "That'd be a great way to go," she muttered, fumbling for the glove compartment. "'Velma Martinez, posthumously identified as the rogue superhuman known as 'Velveteen,' bled to death of a brain embolism today-aw, fuck." The tissues were gone. The tissues were never gone. But the tissues were gone because of that coffee spill back on I-5, and her head was pounding, and she suddenly just wanted to sit there and cry until The Junior Super Patriots came back to finish what they'd started. Taken down by the team she used to belong to. She didn't really give a crap about the poetic justice of it all. She was just too tired to care.
A napkin was pressed into her hand. She looked around, eyes widening, and blinked as she saw the battered plush rabbit, originally from the Isley Crawfish Festival, sitting alertly on the seat beside her. Another napkin was clutched clumsily in one paw, waiting for her to need it. One of its eyes was missing, probably torn loose during the most recent battle, and stuffing poked through a hole on its side.
Velma swallowed. "I'm not currently animating you," she said, somewhat accusingly. "I'd know."
The rabbit didn't answer her, merely inclined its head and offered the other napkin.
"Uh," said Velma. "Thanks." She could worry more about the unexpectedly animate rabbit later. Right now, she had napkins, she had a bloody face, and she had enough ground-in media training to know that sitting around covered in blood wasn't a good way to make herself feel better. Appearances mattered. Appearing to be rough and ready and prepared for anything would do a lot to make it true. Spitting into the napkin, she tilted her chin up toward the rear-view mirror and began wiping the blood from her face.
Once, there would have been someone to do this for her. Once, there would have been someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay (whether it was or not), that she was fighting on the side of justice (whether she was or not), and that whether she won or lost, she would always be a hero. Once, things were different.
But that was a very long time ago, in a very different world. One that she had walked away from voluntarily.
It took a surprisingly short time to clean all the blood from her face, the rabbit producing more napkins from between the seats as needed. Finally, Velma studied herself in the mirror, brushing her hair out of her eyes, and nodded. "Good enough for government work." She glanced to the rabbit. "Thanks."
The rabbit nodded gravely, its single remaining eye seeming to look directly at her before it slumped over sideways on the seat, becoming as naturally boneless as something plush was supposed to be. Velma started the engine, struggling slightly as she worked the car out of the ditch, and drove on. To Oregon; to the future; to freedom.
*
"I don't like this," said Swallowtail, uncertainly. She didn't like it; she didn't like any part of it. Didn't like the man from Marketing, who smelled like stiff leather and over-priced cologne. Didn't like the things he was telling them to do. Didn't like the way Handheld, who was supposed to be their fearless leader, stopped being anything but another well-trained dog waiting for his master's command. Most of all, didn't like the fact that this woman they were going after was...
Was...
She was one of them, once upon a time, a teen hero with a costume designed by committee and a back-story honed on focus groups and fairy tales. She was the other side of the Marketing machine, and just the fact that she was who she was made all the other villains out there a little bit harder to believe in for certain and for sure. She could have killed them all. Instead, she just stood there and let them escape. She was a villain because Marketing said she was a villain, and realizing that was a little bit like realizing that there was no such thing as Santa Claus.
"We don't have to like it, Shelly," said Handheld, unconsciously reverting to her real name under the stress-and how long had it been since she saw him actually stressed out over something? Over anything? This was the end of everything, and Bedbug was casting jealous glances in their direction, and she didn't have the energy to pretend she didn't see. Handheld reached for her hand, and she let him have it. "We just have to get through it."
"She's not getting within a mile of Oregon," said Super-Cool, posing like he thought the cameras were already in place.
Candy Corn shot him a disgusted look. "Uh, dude, she's already within a mile of Oregon. She was within a mile of Oregon when she kicked our butts the first time. Now she's within two hundred yards of Oregon. Can you maybe pretend to be playing on the same intellectual field as the rest of us for, like, fifteen minutes at a go?"
Super-Cool glared at her. Swallowtail sighed.
"So we're on for the fight?" she asked, squeezing Handheld's hand once before letting go. "Even with everything?"
"Even with everything," Handheld confirmed.
Behind them, the members of the press milled, waiting for the story they'd been promised. Several members of the Oregon police were also in place, just in case the 'dangerous supervillain' they'd been warned about managed to make it over the border and into their woefully unprotected state. The sound of tires approaching down the road called everyone to attention. The world held its breath.
Velma's car came around the curve.
*
Celia Morgan did not become Governor of Oregon by accident. No, she became Governor of Oregon by biting, kicking, and clawing her way up the political ladder, all with one goal held firmly in the forefront of her mind: she was going to keep her state safe. Not from terrorists. Not from horrible mutants dragging themselves out of the sea and devouring everything coastal. Not from global warming. No. She was going to keep state safe from the single greatest threat of the modern world, the one thing that needed the most guarding against:
The Super Patriots, Inc. And most of all, their Marketing Division.
The name "Jennifer Morgan" was nowhere to be found in the histories of The Super Patriots, Inc.; she was neither on their list of active nor fallen members. If mentioned at an official function, it would be met with either blank stares or polite excuses as the person to whom you were speaking suddenly needed to be somewhere else. Celia knew that to be a fact, because she'd mentioned Jennifer's name. She'd mentioned it several times, before she gave up the attempt. The name "Jory" might be met with slightly better results, if it was brought up in the right circles. Geologists would, of course, recognize it as a specific class of soil found commonly in Oregon. And superhero fanatics-the ones who'd learned to save their clippings in physical form, to prevent the data from "mysteriously" changing to fit the party line-might recognize it as the name of a second-string superheroine who'd served, all too briefly, with The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. "An elementalist, wasn't she?" one of them might say. "Some sort of earth control..."
"She was a level four earth manipulator!" Celia always wanted to scream. "She could make mountains by wiggling her fingers, and they gave her a stupid name and a little yellow mask and they sent her out to fight monsters! She was twelve years old!" Too young to have been where she was. Too young for any fights bigger than zits and boys and passing sixth grade. But they sent her out to fight monsters, and she never came home. Instead, there was a quick, quiet hush campaign, all her pictures airbrushed out of the magazines, all mentions of her typo-marked out of existence. Instead, there was money, blood money, enough to send Celia to the best colleges in the world, all with the face of her dead sister, her dead big sister, floating just out of the corner of her eye. Instead, there was this: Governor of Oregon, one of the last places in the country to believe that it was the human part of 'superhuman' that mattered, and not the super.
And now here was another god-damned supervillain making a run for her border, endangering everything she'd worked for, making The Super Patriots turn their eyes toward Oregon. Just another stupid fucking drop-out who-
The ringing of her phone startled her out of the spiral she'd been starting down; the old familiar anger, the old familiar hate. She turned toward the sound, and frowned slowly, brows drawing together. That was her private line. The emergency line, the one only her family was supposed to use.
She snatched the phone from the cradle before it had the chance to finish ringing for the second time. "Celia speaking," she said, voice kept tight to prevent the sudden fear from showing through. "What-"
"This connection's not secure: just listen." The voice that cut her off was light, feminine, and cold as steel. "We only have a few minutes. The 'supervillain' currently heading for your border has done nothing to warrant that label. She's violated none of the superhuman restrictions, and she hasn't actually committed any crimes serious enough to earn the punishment that she'll receive if they take her."
Celia's world went gray. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about an innocent woman whose parents handed her over to the Marketing division when she was just a little girl." The voice grew, if anything, even colder. "She was just like your sister, Ms. Morgan. She didn't know what she was doing, and she never had a choice."
"How do you know about-"
"If you want to hurt The Super Patriots, this is your chance to do it. This is your chance to take a story away from them and make it into your own. You decide from here." The line went dead.
Celia was running for the door before she had even fully processed the desire to do so. By the time the phone hit the desk, she was in the hall, yanking her coat on and shouting for her driver to prepare the car.
She had a battle to intercept.
*
Somewhere not very far away, a woman's black-gloved hand rested briefly on a disposable cellphone. It had been bought illegally, cloned twice, and made to make a single call. One that she'd hoped, right until that moment, she would manage to talk herself out of making.
"Fucked up times fifty-thousand, huh, Vel?" she whispered. A spray of golden sparks spread from her fingers, engulfing the phone and melting its circuitry into slag. "Well, it's up to you, now. Last favor. Last chance. It's up to you."
*
Velma pulled around the curve to find herself facing the full membership of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. All of them were standing straight and proud in what she recognized instantly as the official Standing Off Against A Supervillain pose: chests out (but not too out, in the case of the girls, who still needed to look believably virginal), legs apart, hands held with just that right amount of careful tension. Ready for the fight of their lives. And unfortunately, she was on the wrong side of the battle. What looked like an entire army of reporters was waiting behind them, news vans and camera crews and young, attractive, totally expendable talking heads. It was a familiar publicity stunt. It said "we have total faith in winning this battle." It said "you are completely safe with us."
It said "we have the entire membership of the adult team standing by, ready to sweep in if it looks like things are going to turn serious." It said "the junior team is no longer alone."
"It says 'you lose,'" whispered Velma, stopping her car about ten feet from the line of heroes. She was exhausted. She was injured. And most of all, she realized, she was angry. How dare they? All she ever wanted was to walk away. They couldn't even let her have that, could they?
Grabbing her plush rabbit by one grubby arm, she kicked open the car door and stormed toward the line of junior heroes, shoulders hunched, eyes blazing. She could practically feel the cameras zooming in on her as the army of reporters held their breath. She realized that she was turning herself, almost subconsciously, to present her best angles to the media. Good. If this was going to be her last stand, she was going to make it one that they'd remember.
"How dare you?" she demanded, gesturing toward the lineup with her free hand. Gesturing with the rabbit would probably be taken as a threat, and that would stop her monologue before she even got it started. She'd never given a supervillain speech before, and she wanted to make sure she reached the end. "I never asked for you to hunt me down! I was good! I played fair! I kept my head down, I didn't leak anything to the press, I didn't even hint at my identity! But you couldn't leave it alone, could you? You couldn't just let me fade away in peace."
Looking profoundly uncomfortable, Handheld took a step forward, and said, "By the authority of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, I order you to stand down, evil-doer!"
"What evil have I done, huh?" Velma took another step toward him, now pointing a finger squarely at his chest. "I flunked community college because there kept being 'accidents' in my apartment complex. 'Accidents' that always happened right after I turned down another offer from Marketing. I couldn't hold a job because these people wouldn't leave me alone. So I disappeared! So I went into hiding! I didn't do it because I was evil, I did it because I wanted to be left alone. They've probably told you that you can quit when you turn eighteen, haven't they? They've probably told you you're going to get a walk-away-free pass, that you can go back to the private sector. You're on the inside! You know what it's like! How many have quit? Huh?"
This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Handheld was standing transfixed, stunned less by what she was saying than by the sudden realization that none of this footage-not a single pixel-was actually getting out clean. Something was throwing static over the reports, removing essential words, until all the audience at home would see was Velma ne Velveteen, furiously screaming, and looking every inch the supervillain that Marketing claimed she was.
Something was very wrong.
Super-Cool started forward, snarling, "Lady, I don't care who you were, but you're about to be a footnote on my road to awesome."
Velma turned around, all but laughing in his face. "Footnote? Footnote? They already made me a footnote, you third-rate Majesty knock-off. Now they're making me a villain. I wonder what they're going to wind up making out of you?"
"Nanny, stop her," hissed Candy Apple. "She's moy loco."
"Yes," said the Nanny, "but she isn't naughty. She isn't being naughty at all..."
Super-Cool took another step toward Velma. Velma turned to him, raising her plush rabbit as if to block him from attacking her. After that, things got very complicated, very quickly. To make matters worse, not a single scrap of camera footage survived; as soon as the incident occurred, they all stopped transmitting. What everyone could agree on later was that a vast bolt of black light-not darkness, but actual light-came out of the trees and struck Velma from behind, lifting her off the ground, propelling her forward. Past the junior heroes that had been sent to stop her. Past the front tier of the media invasion.
Past the Oregon state line.
*
Velma opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by armed security guards, and a diminutive blonde woman in a dusky gray business suit standing about ten yards away, shouting-yes, openly shouting -- at...Velma squinted, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Shouting at two men from the Marketing department, flanked by Action Dude, Dewpoint, and Uncertainty. The sight of Action Dude was enough to make Velma close her eyes again, briefly. If she was going to get apprehended, she would have preferred it not be at the hands of her one and only ex-boyfriend.
Then the actual words of the woman in gray began to register. "-telling you, she's in Oregon, and you have no actual charges to bring against her! Now unless you can provide me with actual proof that this woman has been involved in a superheroic crime, I'm afraid that, by Oregon law, I cannot allow you to remove her from my custody."
"Harboring an unlicensed superhero is against national, not merely state, laws," said one of the men from Marketing. Velma didn't recognize his voice. She didn't need to. "Now, if you would just allow us to-"
"She's not unlicensed," said the woman.
"WHAT?!" said the man from Marketing.
"WHAT?!" said Action Dude.
"WHAT?!" demanded Velma, sitting up and opening her eyes.
"I told you this was a potential outcome," said Uncertainty, and yawned.
"Velveteen is a fully licensed and authorized Oregon superheroine," said Celia Morgan, smiling sweetly and imagining her fist grinding deep into the face of the man from Marketing. "Now, if you'll excuse me? My superhero appears to have been damaged. I want to get her to the hospital."
Smiling dizzily (as much from head trauma and blood loss as from actual delight), Velma offered a little wave to the men from Marketing, blew a kiss to a startled-looking Action Dude, and passed out cold.
Welcome to Oregon.