Velveteen vs. the Junior Super Patriots (12 page)

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!” shouted 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 —a.k.a. “Velveteen,” a.k.a. “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 have 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 unstressed 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 superpowered 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 supervillain 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, a.k.a., “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, a.k.a., “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 gangsters 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, a.k.a., “the actual reason for antisuperhuman 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 subdimension 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.