Velveteen vs. the Junior Super Patriots (7 page)

What happened to Jolly Roger?

*

Thirteen years ago
. . .

Velma wasn’t entirely sure what she’d expected to happen after she and the others made the team. They’d never really been given details on what membership in The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, would mean, although she had the vague idea that it would include ice cream, and possibly a trip to the circus.

The most immediate change was in their living quarters. They’d barely left the stage before the woman from Marketing was whisking them off to a new part of the compound, chattering away a mile a minute as she led them through the increasingly twisted hallways. “—pay upgrade means, of course, that you can absolutely afford all of this,” she was saying, with high-pitched glee. “Only the best for our newest heroes! And of course, the pay increase is effective immediately, although contract negotiations won’t be able to start until next week, you understand, of course, we need to get the legal team back from the Inverse Dimension, and notify your parents that you’ve been elected to the team. All release forms were signed and filed before you were allowed to enter the trials, of course—”

Velma had been holding tight to Yelena’s hand ever since they left the stage. Leaning toward the other girl, she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, “I think she gets a quarter every time she can manage to say ‘of course.’”

Yelena smothered a giggle.

Coming to a sudden halt, the woman from Marketing turned to shoot a venomous glare back toward the quartet. “I hope you realize what an honor and a privilege it is to serve with The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division,” she said sharply. “There are a great many children who would give anything to be standing where you are right now. Anything. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Aaron, in his best “dealing with the crazy grown-ups” tone. He was very good at that tone, and at the things that came with it—the getting along, the getting on with other people. Velma was too cranky (“a lot of repressed anger,” said the company psychiatrist), Yelena was too timid (“serious self-image issues”), and David was too morose (“we’re not even sure where to start”). Aaron, on the other hand, was the all-American boy on whose prepubescent shoulders the Marketing Department was already planning to build a fresh new empire. “We’re just excited because of the trials, ma’am, that’s all.”

From anyone else, it would have sounded smarmy. From Aaron, it just sounded sincere. Predictably, the woman from Marketing’s irritated expression melted into the sappily understanding look that adults tended to have around him. “Well, all right,” she said. “I guess I can’t quash youthful high spirits. Anyway, we’re here.” She waved a hand dramatically, indicating the two nearest doorways. “Your new living quarters.”

Of the many lessons that Velma had learned since accidentally reanimating the museum’s Natural History wing, the one that currently seemed to matter most was that anything people called “living quarters” was not actually the same as “bedroom.” At least these rooms seemed less generic from the outside; their names had been stenciled on the door, hers in warm chocolate brown, Yelena’s in glittery rainbow. Or rather, their hero names had been stenciled on the door. Here, inside the compound, there was no place for Velma and Yelena and Aaron and Dave. Just the heroes that they were intended to become.

“They look . . . nice,” said Yelena, timidly. Yelena was always timid around adults. Velma was starting to suspect that she wasn’t the only one who’d had a less-than-happy home life.

“Oh, they’re better than nice,” enthused the woman from Marketing. “They’re
yours
.” Before any of the four could decide how they were supposed to react to that, she stepped forward, opening one door with each hand and stepping back, fingers spread in a dramatic flourish. “Welcome home.”

On the other side of the beautifully-painted doors were . . . tiny, white, almost featureless rooms that wouldn’t have been out of place in a hospital. They were, in short, identical to the bedrooms in the bunkers, with the exception that Velma and the others had taken the time to personalize their rooms in the bunkers. These rooms were devoid of any such familiar little touches. They weren’t anything like a home.

Seeing Yelena’s eyes starting to fill with tears, Velma gave her hand a fierce squeeze and asked, “Do we get paint or construction paper or anything that we can use for decorating? They’re sort of, well. Empty right now.”

“That’s your first test, you darling little rascal,” said the woman from Marketing, an almost malicious glimmer coming into her eyes. “You can decorate your rooms just as soon as you find a way to do it with your powers. Now, I realize none of you have material capabilities, so that just means you’ll need to figure out ways to become profitable all the faster. Then you’re welcome to use your share of the merchandising and appearance fees to do whatever you like.” Still smiling, she took a step backward. “Now, you’re all expected for a press conference first thing tomorrow morning. Why don’t you go ahead and get some rest? We want our newest heroes to be at their very best when they meet their public!” Turning quickly, she went striding down the hall, leaving the four to stare after her in dismay.

“I thought we
fought
supervillains,” said David, sourly. “Nobody said anything to me about working for them.”

That was too much for Yelena. She began crying silently, her tears leaving glittery trails down the sides of her face. Sighing, Velma gathered her into a hug. “It’s okay. You’ll see. It’ll be okay. We’re going to make so much money we can build palaces if we want to.”

Yelena sniffled, eying her suspiciously. “Promise?”

“Yeah.” Velma gave a firm nod, matching it with an even firmer squeeze. “Promise.”

*

Ten years ago
. . .

Velma Martinez, age fifteen: almost more comfortable in costume than she was out of it, equally likely to answer to “Velveteen” and “Velma” . . . although she strongly suspected that was only because both her names began with “V.” Action Dude still answered to “Aaron,” after all, while David and Yelena had practically abandoned the names that they were born with. Those kids were gone, entirely unmoored, because two much brighter stars had risen in their place: The Claw and Sparkle Bright, two of the core members of the current lineup of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. Velma and Yelena had been rooming together for three years, and Yelena didn’t cry in her sleep anymore. Not as much, anyway. Whatever she was trying to put behind her, it had been bad, bad enough that she’d embraced the company conditioning with open arms. Unlike her roommate and best friend, who continued to view the whole situation with grudgingly accepting suspicion.

Velma Martinez, age fifteen, better known to the world as Velveteen, mistress of the toy box, holder of no fewer than six global spokes-kid contracts with various toy shops and manufacturers. Velveteen was the one who’d been invited to participate in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, waving from her place on Santa’s sleigh. Velveteen was the one whose action figures were distributed as an intentional rarity, due to their “awesome power” over the rest of the set (more crap from Marketing, but oh, how the public loved their crap. . .), leading to an incredible price tag on the collector’s market. Velveteen was the one that they wanted. Not Velma.

Velma Martinez, age fifteen, wearing an itchy, formal version of her usual costume—itchy, formal, and made entirely out of black and gray—and wishing like hell that there was a way for her to actually step aside and let Velveteen run the show. She’d never been to a funeral before, had always managed to be out of the dimension or in the infirmary when they happened. She didn’t know how you were supposed to act or what you were supposed to say. The media was bound to be in attendance. The media was
always
in attendance for something like this.

She wasn’t even sure whether or not she was allowed to cry.

Velma Martinez, age fifteen: still standing frozen in front of her mirror, wondering if she needed to adjust her ears, wondering whether it was too late to claim that she was sick, or frozen in time, or stranded in the Inverse Dimension, when the door to the bedroom opened and Action Dude stuck his head inside, looking like his own ego twin in his black and gray costume.

“Vel? They said to come and get you.”

Velma didn’t answer.

Sighing, Action Dude came into the room and walked up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “There has to be a funeral, Val,” he said, gravely. “All the precogs looked forward, and she’s not slated for a return in the current timeline. Unless there’s another cosmic event, Diva’s gone for good.”

“I never liked her,” Velma mumbled, glancing down at her hands. Anything was better than meeting Aaron’s eyes in the mirror.

“What?”

“Diva. I never liked her. They said she was what, Super model’s little sister? Only smarter, and prettier, and in control of her powers? Supermodel was twenty years ago, and her parents were dead. That origin story didn’t even make
sense
, but everybody believed it. And she was just such a stuck-up, nasty, snotty little—”

“Clone.”

Velma blinked, looking up. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.” Aaron nodded solemnly. “They made her from a mix of Supermodel and Majesty’s DNA. They were going to ‘reveal’ her parentage when she moved up to The Super Patriots. Only she went and got herself killed first, and now they have to bury her under that stupid cover story. She’s not even old enough for them to blow her secret identity and bury her under her real name.”

“What
was
her real name?” Velma asked, curious despite herself.

“Heidi.”

“Seriously?”

“The scientist who made her liked the classics.”

“How do you—”

“The scientist who made her was David’s father.” Aaron offered her a tiny smile. “C’mon, Vel. Just come to the funeral? For me?”

Velma took a deep breath; held it; let it slowly out again. “For you,” she said, only a little sullenly.

“There’s the most awesome heroine I know,” he said, smile broadening to become that ear to ear grin that made her heart turn over in her chest, and he led her out of the room, and she didn’t stop him.

*

Velveteen and Action Dude kissed for the first time the night of Diva’s funeral, after the services were done, while The Super Patriots—all five adult branches and all five Junior Divisions—posed for pictures and offered solemn sound-bytes about what a tragedy it all was. It was raining. It always rained for superhero funerals. Dewpoint and Flash Flood were on duty for this one, standing at their stations with heads bowed in what looked like grief but was really deep concentration. Appear ances must be maintained, after all, and appearances said that it always rained at superhero funerals.

Velveteen had managed to stay still through the endless eulogies and stories of Diva’s heroism, but fled before the media could catch up with her, taking shelter in the shade of Majesty’s crypt. Her ears were soaked and sagging, making her look almost like a lop. She was trying to decide how much she’d get docked for breaking costume if she took them off when a hand tapped her shoulder, and she turned, and Action Dude was kissing her, and she really didn’t care about the ears anymore.

He’d had about as much practice as she had, which was to say “really none to speak of.” He made up for it with enthusiasm, and with earnestness. Velveteen felt her knees going weak, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders to keep herself steady. That just seemed to encourage him, and he kept on kissing her, kept on kissing her until they were both dizzy and gasping for breath.

When he finally let go, his cheeks were red enough to make him look like he’d been the target of one of Sparkle Bright’s attacks. “So, uh,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Velveteen, breathlessly. “Uh.”

“I hope you don’t—”

“Oh, no. Not at all. How long have you—”

“Since you used that stuffed octopus to make Paperclip shut up and sit down. So you’re—”

“Oh, absolutely. For even longer, I think.”

A smile crossed his face. “Then it’s okay if I do it again?” he asked.

Velveteen very nearly threw herself into his arms.

The pair was so involved in their kissing that they didn’t notice the paparazzi flashbulbs going off, photographers tipped off to the chance to capture some “unrehearsed young romance” by the folks from Marketing. Photographers and unwanted candid pictures were just a part of their daily existence now; they’d learned to tune them out. They just continued to explore the possibilities in front of them—possibilities that were maybe a little more innocent than most of their peers, given how sheltered they were from the popular culture of their time, but possibilities all the same. What their peers hadn’t taught them, their hormones were more than willing to supply.

They didn’t notice the photographers at all. And they didn’t notice the small figure who sparkled with a corona of rainbow glitter, standing in the shadows of the nearby trees. Tiny, furious rainbows danced in her eyes, lighting them from side to side in a constant shimmer of color.

If anyone had asked Sparkle Bright, or Yelena, she would have said that was the beginning of the end.

But no one ever did.

*

Ten years later
. . .

Banging on the motel door. Banging that quickly turned into hammering, and was just as quickly joined by the sound of a man shouting, “Hey, lady! Lady, are you dead in there?”

Groaning, Velma forced her eyes to open and stared up through the gloom at the ceiling. The hammering continued, almost drowning out the daytime talk show discussing the merits and flaws of the newest recruits to The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. Velma waved her hand, and one of the action figures scattered around her bag jumped up to shut off the television while she struggled to get herself into an upright position.

“What?!” she demanded. Pants. Where were her pants? She’d been wearing pants when she arrived, she was almost certain of it . . .