Velveteen vs. the Junior Super Patriots (6 page)

Until she knew, she didn’t dare break down and cry.

*

Her solitude didn’t last for long. Velma hadn’t been in her cell—sorry, “guest quarters”—more than a day when the door opened, allowing, not a company scientist, but a girl about her own age to step inside. The newcomer was willowy and blonde, with huge blue eyes that seemed to make up the bulk of her face. She looked, in short, nothing at all like Velma, except in the tears that were still running down her cheeks.

Catching sight of the small, dark bundle of sullen that was Velma, the new girl wiped her nose with the back of her hand, sniffled, and said, “They said this was going to be my room.”

Velma didn’t respond.

“Are you my new roommate?”

Velma didn’t respond.

“My name’s Yelena. What’s yours?”

Velma didn’t respond.

Yelena sighed, walking over to the room’s other bed and putting her tiny suitcase down next to the pillow. “I guess your parents sold you, too, huh?” She kept her head bent as she opened the suitcase, beginning to remove a few shabby articles of clothing. “They’ve known I had powers for years. Wasn’t ever a problem until somebody said they’d give them money for me.”

“What do you do?” asked Velma, actually focusing on her roommate for the first time.

Yelena looked back, offering a small, anxious smile before waving one hand through the air. A trail of rainbow glitter followed the gesture, shimmering in place for just a moment before dissolving.

“Cool,” said Velma, and smiled.

*

Six months had passed since her acquisition. Velma squirmed, still uncomfortable in her new “uniform,” even more uncomfortable in the bright lights of the studio. They’d only received their trial costumes that morning, the supposedly home-sewn and kid-designed attire that would be the first thing the nation ever saw of them. She wasn’t sure what sort of girl would voluntarily accessorize a brown leotard with Halloween-costume rabbit ears and a puffy tail, but that was apparently the sort of girl she was supposed to be. Yelena was even worse off. They’d shoved her into a pair of rainbow-striped tights and a white sequined leotard that made her look like she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to be a figure skater or a circus clown.

The boys in their “class” were in a little better condition, largely because they were supposed to look “tough” and “manly.” Privately, Velma wasn’t sure that David Mickelstein could look tough or manly if his life depended on it. Mostly, he just looked miserable. She supposed she’d look miserable, too, if her father had decided to genetically meld her with a lobster. Although since he would have died without the treatment, it was sort of a good thing. Aaron, on the other hand, looked dreamy in his blue jeans and his white shirt with the big red “A” painted across the chest. Aaron always looked dreamy. He probably would’ve looked dreamy in Yelena’s costume.

Well. Maybe that was going a little bit far.

According to the people from Marketing, there were four slots open on the team, and twenty kids just their age trying out for them. Velma wasn’t so sure about their numbers. She didn’t recognize any of the other people “auditioning” from the compound, but a few of them looked familiar, like she might have seen them as extras on her favorite shows back before she spent all her time training and didn’t get to watch television. The way they kept failing their challenges was even stranger. They’d be flying or fighting or phasing just fine, and then they’d lose their concentration just seconds before time ran out. The longer she watched, the more convinced she was that everything was fixed.

Yelena caught her eye and offered an anxious smile across the electrified field that represented their shot at the semi-finals. With two flying candidates and two candidates whose powers fell into the “unique” classification, their last challenge was one of teamwork and communication. All they had to do was make it to the door, together, unshocked, and they’d be almost in.

“NEXT UP,” boomed the announcer, his amplified words almost drowned out by the roar of the enthusiastic crowd, “WE HAVE OUR NEWEST POTENTIAL HEROINES—VELVETEEN AND SPARKLE BRIGHT!” The massive video screens cut to their “audition shots” as their brand-new superhero names were called, showing Velma directing a tea party where all the toys were active participants, and Yelena skipping rope with a rainbow. So cuddly-cute and perfectly predictable that it still made Velma want to gag. Although not as much as the thought of crossing that electric field.

But Yelena was counting on her. And Aaron was already on the other side with David. They were waiting. They’d be waiting until Velma got up the nerve to join them.

She hated the men and women from Marketing, with their whispers of positive image and toy lines. She hated The Super Patriots, Inc. She hated her parents. But she didn’t hate the people who wanted to be her teammates, who just wanted her to stand up and join them. She could be a superheroine, if that was what they wanted from her. She could learn to be Velveteen, instead of Velma. Who knew? Maybe people would like Velveteen better. Maybe hiding behind a mask was exactly what she needed.

They’d tested her powers pretty thoroughly, but they could only test up to the limits of her participation, not up to the limits of what she could actually do. Placing two fingers in her mouth, Velma whistled shrilly. And the giant statues of the founders of The Super Patriots stood up, scooped her and Yelena into their hands, and carried them into the future.

There’d be time to regret it later.

Lots of time to regret it.

*

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” The announcer’s voice boomed out across the arena in exactly the way that it was meant to, carrying undertones of barely-suppressed excitement, and the twinkling glee of a man who was about to give out the secrets of creation itself . . . or at least the names of the newest members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. The arena, predictably enough, went nuts.

Behind the shimmering curtain of Interrogation’s invisible wall, Velma squirmed, trying to get her leotard to stop crawling up her butt. It wasn’t working terribly well. At least her “official” costume was less offensive than her audition costume had been. She still had the unwanted leotard-and-tights combo, but her new leotard was dark brown, and her new tights were a tolerable shade of pink. And they’d given her ankle boots and a utility belt (even if they’d made her keep the tail). With that, the rabbit ears, and the domino mask, she really looked like the heroine they were pretending she was going to be.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” said Yelena conversationally. She looked distinctly green, although that could have just been her rainbow powers kicking in again. They had a tendency to change her skin tone when she got stressed, and being presented in front of thousands of screaming fans was definitely stressful. “Do you think they’d notice?”

“They’d notice,” said David morosely. David did almost everything morosely. Probably because his costume didn’t require him to wear any pants, which had to be bad for his ego.

“YOU’VE WITNESSED THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST OF THE NEW GENERATION OF HEROES! THE SAVIORS OF TOMORROW! THE STARS OF THE FUTURE!” The announcer was really hitting his stride now, and the audience sounded like they were going insane.

Velma gave Yelena’s hand another squeeze. “Don’t worry. They’re going to love you as much as I do.”

“They’re going to love you, too,” murmured a voice next to her ear. Velma turned to find herself looking straight into the eyes of Aaron Frank, also known as “Action Dude.” She felt herself go red. He grinned.

She was still blushing when the invisible wall came down and the four of them were exposed to their public in costume for for the first time.

“SPARKLE BRIGHT! THE CLAW! VELVETEEN! ACTION DUDE! I GIVE YOU—THE NEWEST MEMBERS OF THE JUNIOR SUPER PATRIOTS, WEST COAST DIVISION!”

The screaming of the crowd seemed almost loud enough to drown out the pounding of Velma’s—of Velveteen’s—heart. She squeezed Sparkle Bright’s hand tightly in hers, and smiled out at the arena, and knew, then and there, that she was going to be a superhero forever.

*

Thirteen years later
. . .

Velma’s room at the Good Time Gas-n-Go’s no-tell motel was as dark as the thin mesh curtains could make it; they were drawn shut, but the neon lights of the truck stop still filtered through. No matter; the room’s single occupant was out cold, too deeply sunk in sleep for anything short of an all-out supervillain attack to wake her. Even that might have just earned a thrown pillow and a muttered demand that the combatants keep it down already. She’d fallen asleep with the television on, blaring the night’s third rerun of the most recent Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division results show. Various garishly-clad contestants flew, fought, and used psychic powers to navigate a series of improbable obstacles. At the end of the maze, the prize to end all prizes: membership in The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, and eventually—if you were quick and clever and could keep yourself breathing long enough—ascension to the ranks of The Super Patriots, West Coast Division, where the marketing dollars and the really cool supervillains were found. The blue ribbon.

It was fixed. It was all fixed, always, every year, because there weren’t nearly as many superhero hopefuls as the media wanted people to think. Too many of the superhumans that manifested in any given year were flawed in some way, driven insane by their powers, killed by the radiation that made them, or simply unable to survive in an atmosphere that they were no longer suited for. So they recycled the same twenty or thirty extras over and over again, hiding their faces behind brightly-colored masks, and used them to promote the illusion that only the best of the best of the best would ever have the right to call themselves Super Patriots.

It was all a lie, but once upon a time, that hadn’t mattered, because once upon a time, that syrupy theme music had been the song of hope, and those horrible costumes had been the flags of freedom. Of a world where it didn’t matter if you weren’t normal, because normal didn’t stop the alien invasions or crush the giant robots. Superhumans were licensed because people were afraid of them, just as much as people idolized them. But once, that didn’t matter. Once, it was all going to be okay.

Velma slept with teddy bears and action figures guarding her bedside, like a princess of toyland, and the song of The Super Patriots eased her deeper and deeper down into her dreams.

*

Might and flight
Defend your rights
Protectors of the skies,
While tele-s port
And tele-s path

Stop evil where it lies.
American as apple pie,
Enhanced by liberty,
Look up and wave as they pass by,
Those heroes, flying free
. . .

*

The identity of the first superhumans has been a subject of hot debate for decades, and is unlikely to be resolved any time soon. After all, so many superhumans manifest with powers that are easy to overlook, and it could have been years before any showed up with a combination of abilities that would get them noticed. Before superhuman screening became commonplace, how would Garden Show, with her uncanny ability to raise any flower to perfect health—providing she was given access to gardening supplies, and had the standard growing period—have ever been spotted? Or Kennel Club, the champion dog trainer who was later found to be a command telepath whose powers only worked on the dogs he worked with? No, there’s no way of knowing how long the superhumans were among us before their cover was blown. But once that cover was removed, there was no going back.

Every schoolchild knows the identities of the first three. Majesty, first superhuman to manifest both flight and superstrength (oddly, one of the more common combinations), raised in a small town in upstate Vermont. His abilities were later linked to irradiated maple syrup. Several more cases of superhuman manifestation would occur during the years following his first appearance, as that irradiated syrup found its way from IHOPs around the country into the transgenically susceptible bellies of children and pregnant women. Jolly Roger, the first of the so-called “fantasy heroes,” who drew his power from the world’s obsession with pirates through a psychic link that scientists have remained unable to explain even to this day. And Supermodel, subject of a million erotic fantasies and source of two million severe eating disorders, whose mutation made her the most beautiful, irresistible thing in any given room, yet inevitably drained the beauty from everything around her. They were the first Super Patriots, serving their country through the use of powers that no one came anywhere close to understanding. They were amazing. They were awesome. They were everything the common man wasn’t.

They were too good to be true. And in the end, they weren’t true at all.

The reality behind what happened to the first three Super Patriots was quickly and quietly suppressed by both The Super Patriots, Inc., and the United States government. It wasn’t Super model’s fault, they argued; her powers were uncontrollable on a quantum level, and she had no way of knowing that they were quietly and constantly eroding the goodness of her teammates. Nor was it the fault of Majesty or Jolly Roger, driven to evil by Supermodel’s constant presence. Majesty, Super model, and six of the company’s eleven trainee heroes died in an epic battle that has been attributed to everything from alien mind control to evil duplicates from a parallel dimension. By the time the spin doctors were done, the truth didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was keeping it hidden.

Every schoolchild also knows the identity of those five trainee heroes, suddenly elevated to the ranks of Super Patriots in the wake of their tragic loss. Imagineer. Trick and Treat, whose daughters, the lovely Candy girls, have only recently followed in their parents’ footsteps. Deadbolt. Second Chance. They rebuilt a company. They founded an empire. They sleep just fine at night, thank you very much.

All communities have their secrets, and their mysteries. Where did the superhumans come from? Who was the first?