Velveteen vs. the Junior Super Patriots (16 page)

“You have bedtime and a bed, don’t you? Time for school and a school to go to? Every time has a place. It’s just that some of them are more abstract than others.” Hearing the word “abstract” come out of the mouth of a six-year-old was enough to make Velveteen’s head spin. “All four Seasons exist, and have their own problems. Trouble is, we get heroic turnover, and sometimes people don’t make sure that their jobs are going to be handled before they go gallivanting off to do something they think will be more ‘fun’.”

Something about the bitterness in his voice made Velveteen pause. “You mean Trick and Treat, don’t you? This is where they really come from.”

“Give the girl a candy apple,” said Scaredy Cat, and pointed toward a rickety gray-brown farmhouse in the distance. “We’re almost there. And yeah, they were our defenders, and they walked out on us without even making sure we had somebody to keep things going. Now Halloween’s in trouble, and if Halloween goes down, all of Autumn Land is in danger. We need help.”

“So why me? Why don’t you—I don’t know, why don’t you call Trick and Treat? Ask them to come back?” Velveteen’s training said not to treat this as a dream, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. It was too. . . iconic, too brightly, blatantly ghoulish. It was like walking into an amusement park version of a haunted house.

The trouble was, it was also scary. It was very, very scary. And if she admitted that, she’d have to admit that she
wanted
it to be a dream, she
wanted
it to be something she could wake up from. She was alone. She had no team. She had no toys. And if this was really real, well, then, she just wanted to go home.

The farmhouse door opened. “I’ve tried. They won’t take my calls,” said Hailey, stepping out and wiping her hands against the sides of her skirt. They left trails of green and orange glitter behind. It faded quickly. “Great Pumpkin knows, I’ve tried, but I never get past their first defenses. They left. They don’t want anything to do with us anymore. If we have problems, they’re our problems.”

“Then. . . then why are they my problems?” Velveteen lifted her chin, trying to look braver than she felt. “They’re
from
here. You just
brought
me here.”

“Here in the lands of the seasons, a holiday is only vulnerable to takeover when it’s actually happening,” said Scaredy Cat, stepping onto the porch next to Hailey. “One day a year, you can try to take it down, if that’s really what you want to do.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“I finally got your attention the twenty-first time Halloween happened,” said Hailey, in a voice that was almost devoid of emotion. “It’s happened twenty-three times so far.”

“Thirty-one’s the end,” said Scaredy Cat. “All they gotta do is run the holiday thirty-one times, and they can shatter its links to the season.”

“And then what happens?” Velveteen asked, eyes going wide.

“Halloween dies,” said Hailey. “All the Spirits of the Season with links to Halloween start to fade. The ones that survive, anyway. Or maybe Halloween doesn’t die. Maybe it just winds up under new management, and things get bad again.”

“So what am I here for?” Velveteen was starting to feel dizzy.

“Simple,” said Hailey, and smiled. Her expression wasn’t without sympathy. It also wasn’t without resolve. “You’re here to help us save Halloween.”

“Oh,” said Velveteen. “Right. So no biggie, then.”

Scaredy Cat crooked an eyebrow, once again looking briefly much older than a six-year-old in a cat suit should be capable of looking. “Girl, I can’t tell if you’re being flippant or if you’re just insane. I can’t say I’m pleased with either option.”

Velveteen’s dizziness was getting worse. She secretly hoped this was a sign that she was getting ready to wake up from this crazy, fun-house dream. Unfortunately, she’d passed the Alternate Reality Survival and Recognizing a Dreamscape in Ten Easy Steps units of Heroing 101 with flying colors, and the likelihood of this being “just a dream” was going down by the minute. Too much of what was going on didn’t fit with dreaming, even under the control of Mister Postman or Daydream Believer. For one thing, she wasn’t in her underwear, and no one was laughing at her. Not yet, anyway.

There was one test left that might determine whether this was part of a particularly vivid fantasy that had somehow managed to trick her mind into thinking she’d lived through the same day several times in succession. “Hold that thought, okay?” she said chipperly, holding up one finger in the universal “wait just one moment” gesture used by parents, teachers, and annoying babysitters the world over.

Hailey and Scaredy Cat exchanged a glance.

“I hate this part,” said Hailey, looking pained.

“Ha,” replied Scaredy Cat, spitting out the syllable so that it was less a laugh than an expression of scorn. “I remember when
you
insisted on going through this little dumb-show.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’ll be right back with you,” said Velveteen, turning to scan the area. The rickety old farmhouse was surrounded by what she recognized as the “standard” horror movie farm accessories—a water barrel filled almost to the top with greenish fluid, some moldy hay bales, an axe driven deep into a tree stump, a small, fenced-off garden patch filled with ripe orange pumpkins, a creepy old tree. The fact that she could recognize everything around her just encouraged her hope that she was dreaming; she was a city kid, and she’d never seen a real farm in her life. If this were a real farm, it wouldn’t have been so familiar. Right?

Right?

Even if this
was
a dream, she wasn’t going to risk it by messing around with the axe, and she didn’t trust the looks of the water barrel. After taking another quick look around, she turned and walked decisively toward the creepy old tree. Not letting herself pause long enough to think about what she was doing, she put her hands to either side of the rough trunk and leaned as far back as she could before slamming her forehead, hard, into the tree.

Pain exploded behind her eyes. Before she lost consciousness, she sent a swift, silent prayer to whoever might be listening that she was going to wake up in her own bed, safe, sound, and not surrounded by crazy, creepy Halloween people. Then the blackness chased away the pain, and she crumpled mercifully to the ground.

Hailey and Scaredy Cat waited until she hit the ground before walking over to stand to either side of her crumpled body, looking down. Hailey nudged her with the tip of one boot. Velveteen didn’t respond.

“Well,” said Scaredy Cat, finally. “Guess we’d better get her inside before the scarecrows get here. You mind?”

“Just bring her,” said Hailey. With a sigh, she turned around and walked back toward the farmhouse, trying to close her ears to the squelching noises coming from behind her.

“This used to be so much
simpler
,” she muttered, and stepped inside.

*

The files on the so-called “Spirits of the Season” are relatively thin when compared to the files of their better-known heroic counterparts. Some of the Spirits of the Season are believed to be nothing more than standard heroes, taking the by-now-traditional route of naming themselves for pre-existing archetypes. Does anyone truly believe that the jolly fat man who dwells at the North Pole is the Santa Claus of song and story, choosing to reveal himself to the world now that we have heroes enough to make his magical nature easier for the public to comprehend? And what of his companions, Mrs. Claus, Jack Frost, and The Snow Queen? Is it better to believe them just another side-effect of the introduction of superheroes to our world, or ageless beings connected by unbreakable bonds to the spiritual power of the seasons themselves?

The file on Hailey Ween, the Halloween Princess, consists purely of the report given by the child hero known as Velveteen (secret identity withheld in accordance with federal superheroic protection regulations). According to Velveteen, Hailey displayed an elemental connection to the very nature of the holiday, and was one day to ascend to the position of Pumpkin Queen, assuming she could retain control of Halloween until she came of age. Also according to Velveteen, Hailey was originally human, but had been “claimed” by Halloween through some undetailed ritual, and never returned to the place of her birth.

To date, no concrete information on Hailey Ween’s original identity has been found, despite extensive searches conducted through a hundred and fifty years of personal records. Because of this, and other discrepancies in Velveteen’s story, it is impossible to tell whether Velveteen’s information was accurate, or merely a junior hero’s attempt at justifying truancy.

It remains impossible to determine the truth of Velveteen’s disappearance ( JSP Incident File #1,715) at this time. It is the recommendation of the Psychiatric Division that Velveteen be monitored for signs of instability. . . and that her quarters be secured at all times during the month of October, as it is impossible to fully rule out the possibility that she was telling the truth.

End report.

*

For the second time in under six hours, Velveteen found herself waking up in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed, wearing her costume, and in the company of strangers. As an added bonus, she now had a pounding headache to accompany her disorientation. “. . . ow,” she mumbled, pushing herself into a seated position with one hand as she rubbed her forehead with the other. “If this is a dream, it’s the worst one I’ve ever had.”

There was at least one major difference between this return to consciousness and the previous one: she was alone this time, with no Halloween girls or weird kids in cat costumes to be seen. Still wincing slightly, Velveteen dropped her hand and scanned the room, looking for exits and possible dangers.

She couldn’t tell from where she was sitting whether she was in the weird gray farmhouse or not. She definitely wasn’t in the room she’d woken up in originally. The bed was another four-poster, but this one was heavy oak, the posts carved in an intricate pattern that started at the bottom with pumpkin vines, worked its way up through a surprisingly cheery tombstones- and-skulls motif, and ended with bats and stars. Gargoyles topped the bedposts, and the bed was curtained with black lace in a cartoony cobweb pattern. The walls were a cheery orange trimmed with a thin border of black, purple, and green squares, matching the four-color checkerboard rug. The dresser, bookshelves, rocking chair, and vanity mirror looked like they’d been made as a set to go with the bed; each was carved with a different series of patterns, but all the patterns interlocked, creating an odd Halloween puzzle-box effect.

There was a window behind the mirror. Velveteen pushed back the quilt that had been pulled up to cover her (Halloween-print patchwork with squares of velvet; they were definitely consistent in their decorating) and stood, starting toward it. The mirror caught her attention before she could reach her destination. She stopped, and simply stared.

The seasonal costumes were Marketing’s idea, naturally. They were designed to be decorative, not functional—no one was going to go charging into battle wearing their holiday gear if they could help it, since the temporary costumes didn’t have nearly as much armor in their default specs—and they did their job very well, keeping the heroes iconic without making them clash with whatever was currently dominant in the world’s decor. Seeing herself decked out in black and orange rather than her usual brown and burgundy was a little odd, but it shouldn’t have been surprising. It was just that she didn’t remember her costume being quite so, well,
witchy
.

And she was pretty sure it was supposed to have actual sleeves, not weird torn cloth strips and fingerless gloves. And the random patches sewn onto her leotard and tights gave her an interesting sort of ragdoll look, but that wasn’t the sort of thing Marketing usually went for. And her rabbit ears were supposed to have a visible headband attached, since Marketing said that made them “less like a cheap special effect and more like a dress-up accessory that every little girl in the country will kill for in a year.”

And they definitely weren’t supposed to
twitch
.

Moving with slow, deliberate care, Velveteen reached up and took hold of the warm, furry tips of the ears protruding from the top of her head. Trying as hard as she could to reject what she was already feeling, she yanked sharply downward. Her scream echoed all the way across the Great Pumpkin Patch.

*

Hailey and Scaredy Cat remained seated on the couch, faces turned toward the stairs. Velveteen’s screams were dying down, making it easier for them to resume their conversation.

“She’s got good lungs, I’ll give her that,” said Scaredy Cat. “Still, she’s not here to audition for Scream Queen’s part. I really don’t think—”

“You flunked out of this gig a hundred and fifty years ago,” said Hailey. She continued looking at the stairs, but there was ice in her tone. “Do I need to remind you? How you were reduced? How much of yourself I’ve helped you slip back into the cracks of this holiday?” The air around her was starting to take on a faint refractive quality, tossing off glints of black and orange light. “Should I re-think my forbearance?”

Scaredy Cat went pale. “No, no,” he said hurriedly. “I get it. Don’t give the kid any shit. I just . . . look, are you sure she’s even ready for this?”

Hailey shrugged, the glitter in the air fading away as she twisted in her seat to face him. “I wasn’t,” she said. “But it didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. Halloween needs her. She’ll do her duty.”

Scaredy Cat sighed. “Hope you’re right.”

“Trick or treat and hope to die,” said Hailey, and turned back toward the stairs.

*

Velveteen slowly managed to get herself back under control, although not before her throat felt raw from all the screaming. She forced herself to let go of the—of her—ears, watching with an almost clinical detachment as they sprang back upright again, the hairless skin on the inside going from bloodless white to an angry red. All right; fine. She’d confirmed that the ears were, in fact, a part of her, and wouldn’t be coming off without surgical intervention. What came next?