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 spank able bunny-babe.” After the fifth piece of pornographic fan art and the real-person slash frantic 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 Matheson, 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 every day 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. Matheson’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 superteam’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 pinpoint 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 ever did.
*
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 trench coat 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 they 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 Trench Coat, 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 Trench Coat, 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. It was time to show that turncoat 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. I dare.” 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 talki
ng 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.)
Velveteen vs. The Junior Super Patriots Page 8