Velveteen vs. The Junior Super Patriots

by Seanan McGuire

  “That’s the idea, but the idea doesn’t work if she winds up rejoining the Moron Squad,” said Jackie, throwing her icicle across the room in disgust. It hit her dartboard square on, impaling the picture of Action Dude she had tacked there in the middle of his photogenic forehead. Similar icicles were already sticking out of his eyes. “She needs to reconnect with the world. It won’t do us any good if she just goes hero and forgets to go human at the same time.”

  “Jackie, honey, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you’re the living incarnation of winter—or something like that, I’ve never been exactly clear on how you holidays breed, and PS, I’d really rather you didn’t tell me—and the only time I feel human is when I’m out doing tequila shooters with the fairy tale girls, who aren’t exactly models of stability themselves. How are we supposed to remind Vel about being a part of a normal existence?”

  “Simple.” Jackie paused for dramatic effect before announcing, proudly, “We’re going to get her a date.”

  “A date.”

  “Yes.”

  “Vel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Little Miss ‘carrying a torch like she’s planning to open the next Winter Olympics’ Herself.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think this is going to work because . . . ?”

  “Because our girl is trying to put the past behind her, and nothing says ‘moving on’ like sex and the single superheroine.” Jackie studied her nails smugly. “She’ll go along with it. Trust me.”

  *

  “I think this may be the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, and the fact that I’m going along with it is possibly a sign of mental illness,” said Velveteen, staring fixedly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The sight of herself being tarted up for a night on the town was strange enough. The fact that it was being done by six brightly-colored songbirds, a striped chipmunk, and an assortment of mice just made it even more surreal. The birds were doing a surprisingly good job of styling her hair, especially given that they were working around an elegantly designed variation of her customary rabbit-eared headband. She would never have guessed that the common bluebird had such an excellent grasp of fashion.

  “Look, the best thing about being a superhero is that you can take the blind date to a whole new level. Find out if you’re compatible before you even exchange your real names.” The Princess leaned against the bathroom wall, carefully observing the ministrations of her collection of forest creatures. “Mr. Fluffy-butt, you need to go a little lighter on the eyeliner. Remember that she’s got to put a domino mask over that.” The chipmunk squeaked and grabbed a wet wipe, beginning to carefully remove some of the liner from around Velveteen’s left eye. “If you hate him, you can claim you need to go stop a robbery. And if you like him, you can invite him to stop it with you.”

  “I wasn’t talking about doing it in costume, although I think that part’s pretty stupid, too,” grumbled Vel. “I’m talking about the dating at all part. I don’t need a date. I don’t want a date. I’ve been doing perfectly fine without a date.”

  “Really.” The Princess gave her fingernails a studious look, all while watching Vel’s reflection out of the corner of her eye. “So did you see that special on the Super-Supers Network last weekend? They did a one hour profile on dream relationships in the superhero community. Action Dude and Sparkle Bright look like they’re getting pretty serious. Sparks was even seen at Carbon and Crystal’s last month, looking at their ring selection. Pretty steamy stuff.”

  The sound of Velveteen’s fingernails—painted with a special diamond-laced polish designed especially for the working superheroine—digging into the sides of her chair was only slightly less irritating than the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. “No,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I must have managed to miss that episode.”

  “Too bad. They had a really nice photo spread. Don’t make that face, sweetie, you’re making it hard for the mice to do your lipstick. Unless looking like a member of the Clown Crew is what you’re going for, in which case, be my guest.”

  “Is there a reason you’re telling me this, or is driving me to a homicidal rage just your goal for the night?”

  Looking at Vel’s reflection, the Princess felt almost bad. . . but only almost. If Vel was still this broken-up over Action Dude, Jackie was probably right after all; it was well past time for that girl to throw out her issues and start moving on. “I’m telling you because it’s time to admit that he’s not going to get over her, honey. Whether they’re really in love or just putting on a pretty show for the media machine, they’ve been doing it for years, and whoever’s running the show keeps upping the ante on them. I just don’t want you to be single and crying into your nachos when their wedding becomes the A-list super event of the year.”

  Velveteen’s eyes widened for a moment, her hurt and surprise plainly reflected in her expression. Then they narrowed, lips thinning to a firm line. “So tell me again about the guy I’m having dinner with tonight?”

  “Well, he’s a year older than you are, originally trained with The Junior Super Patriots, Midwest Division, but they chose to terminate his contract due to, quote, ‘inappropriate use of powers,’ and he’s been working as an independent for the last five years. He’s currently licensed for the entire West Coast, and British Columbia, which is a nice little bit of cultural diversity.” The Princess smiled, watching as the mice finished pinning Velveteen’s hair into a sleek, photo-op-ready up-do, and added, “Plus, if his press package is anything to go by, he’s a definite hottie.”

  “And his power package?”

  “That’s the part we thought you’d be really interested in. His power-profile reads as ‘semi-autonomous animation of graphic representations of persons and animals, including minor transformation to grant access to species-appropriate weaponry,’ with a sub-class of ‘animus.’ Which I thought you’d find sort of interesting, given that your profile reads as—”

  “Semi-autonomous animation of totemic representations of persons and animals, most specifically cloth figures, including minor transformation to grant access to species-appropriate weaponry,” said Velveteen, twisting in her seat to stare at the Princess. “You found someone from my power pool?”

  “What, honey, you thought you were unique?” The Princess allowed her smile to become a cat-that-ate-the canary grin. “He goes by the code name ‘Tag.’ No maple syrup was involved anywhere in his origin. . . and The Super Patriots hate him. So what do you say? Is it a date?”

  Slowly, Velveteen returned her smile. “I guess it is.”

  *

  “Worst idea ever,” muttered Velveteen, standing in front of the Dash-o’-Danger steak house and pulling her burgundy velvet wrap a little tighter around her entirely inadequate dress as she shivered and wished devoutly for a space heater, or maybe a crime to thwart. She was freezing, and he was late. Plus, being Portland’s premiere—and currently, only—superheroine meant that she was starting to gather a small crowd of photographers, just by standing there. Her old training was almost entirely in control, forcing her to stand with her feet shoulder-width apart, one hip slightly canted to the side to present her figure at its best angle. As if she cared how she looked in their stupid society pages. As if she cared what they thought of her “date night” domino mask and oh-so-carefully created smoky eyes (in her signature browns and burgundy, of course; branding was every thing in a superhero’s attire). As if she cared what Aaron would think when he inevitably got those same pictures emailed to him by some mutual acquaintance.

  As if.

  She was getting ready to call for a taxi when a slim young man came jogging up the street, wearing a perfectly presentable brown dinner jacket that was rendered just a little whimsical by the graffiti-print tie and the cuff links shaped like tiny cans of spray paint. His mask wasn’t cloth; it was actually painted onto his skin, either with a makeup-artist’s airbrush or some of the best cream pancake Vel had ever seen. He st
opped a few feet in front of her, taking a second to catch his breath, and asked, “Velveteen?”

  “I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for some other woman waiting out in the cold, wearing a pair of clip-on bunny ears,” Vel replied, deadpan.

  “Really? I didn’t know there was a production of Legally Blonde in town.” He offered a quick, bright smile, the sort of expression that was so uncalculated that it was somehow calculated to make a woman’s knees go weak. Vel realized, somewhat to her surprise, that she wasn’t actually immune. “Hi. I’m Tag. Sorry I’m late, but there was a mugging right outside the lot where I parked my car.”

  Vel found herself smiling despite herself, and despite the flashbulbs that started going off all around them as she turned to present her profile to him at its best angle. It was so automatic that she didn’t even notice. “I had a liquor store robbery. I sent the teddy bears in to deal with it for me, but it was still a little bit of a delay. So I haven’t actually been waiting all that long.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I was hoping I wouldn’t be starting things off on the completely wrong foot.”

  “Not unless you have a supervillain planning to follow you into my city, and then, only if the attack comes before dessert or you try to tell me I’m not allowed to help you fend him off.” Was she flirting? Oh, God, she was flirting. Mortification fought a brief, almost entirely one-sided battle against her hormones, and was promptly kicked out for the rest of the evening.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Tag offered his arm. “May I escort you in?”

  “Absolutely.” She placed one velvet-gloved hand against his elbow—another adaptation from her standard costume, but one that she had to admit really worked, especially in this sort of setting—and let him lead her into the Dash-o’Danger, flashbulbs lighting up the sky around them like their own private fireworks show until the door swung shut, and left them in merciful, if temporary, privacy.

  *

  “—and then he starts going on about how evolution sometimes gets things wrong, and just needs to be reset so that it can get things right this time, and he’s completely monologing, I mean, this is Supervillainy 101 playing out right in front of our eyes, and then Daisy Chain shouts ‘Hey, didn’t you used to go by Doctor Dodo? What, was Doctor Dummy too hard to spell?’ He lost it. Completely lost it. I swear, that man was never cut out for a career in wreaking havoc. He needs too much therapy.”

  Velveteen snorted laughter, barely stopping herself from wiping her eyes and hence destroying the Princess’s hard-designed makeup job. “Oh, jeez, I thought he’d retired. Did he really change his name to ‘Doctor Darwin’?”

  “Super-scout’s honor,” said Tag, holding up one hand solemnly. “He didn’t get any smarter when he did it, even if he did get a little easier to market as a genuine threat. I mean, how scary is a guy who goes ‘look at me, I represent the chicken too dumb to fly away when people came after it with a fork.’”

  “Not exactly the sort of thing that strikes fear into the hearts of evil-doers everywhere, true,” Vel agreed. “At the same time, I point out that I run around the city wearing rabbit-ears and using teddy bears to kick ass. So logic doesn’t completely dictate the actions of people in our profession.”

  “As a male member of the profession in question, I have to say the lack of logic has a lot to do with costume design, and I thus can’t completely fault it.” Tag grinned sheepishly, taking a sip of his wine before he said, “I mean, high heels in combat, not a good idea. But velvet tights and those little domino masks, basically the best things since the invention of clothes.”

  “See, that’s not fair,” Vel objected, laughing again. “You’ve seen my costume, and I have no idea what yours looks like. How do I know you don’t fight crime in. . . I don’t know, in a Speedo with weird designs finger-painted all over your body.”

  “Now that you mention it . . .” Tag waggled an eyebrow. Vel managed to avoid snorting water out of her nose. Barely. He waited until her coughing subsided before saying, “You know, there’s a way to fix that. And I don’t mean by hopping on Wikipedia and punching in my code name—which, by the way, if you wanted to do that, you’d probably have an easier time looking me up under ‘Graffiti Boy,’ which was my corporate slave name. I went by ‘Street Art’ for a little while after I first went independent, but that sort of sucked.”

  Velveteen raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “After dessert, of course. No one should leave the Dash-o’-Danger without trying their incredible Terror Tower eleven-layer chocolate cake. They coat it in a blackberry brandy sauce and light it on fire before they bring it to the table. They even have little chocolate people filled with jam that you have to try to save before the tower collapses on top of them.” Tag made a stabbing gesture with his fork. “You get to be the hero and save them, and then you get to be the villain and bite their tasty, tasty heads off.”

  “Aren’t you worried about all those calories making my velvet tights less appealing to you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll burn them all off before the end of the night.”

  Velveteen promptly flagged down the waiter. “Terror Tower, please. On fire, two forks.”

  Tag grinned.

  *

  After the Tower was devoured and the check was paid—split down the middle, since neither of them was exactly rolling in a Super Patriots-level salary—Velveteen and Tag slipped into the bathrooms intended for their respective genders. The Dash-o-Danger was accustomed to such behavior from visiting superhumans, and even had a special exit that would validate your parking while letting you out in a secluded alley with conveniently-placed fire escapes running up the walls on both sides. Perfect for the young superhuman looking to make it to the rooftops without being seen. By mutual, unspoken agreement, they changed, slipped out, and went straight up the ladders, not looking at one another. Some moments are best had in the proper setting. Like, say, the moonlit rooftops of Portland, rather than the brightly-illuminated back hall of an expensive, superhuman-themed steak house.

  Velveteen was the first one out; her gown, like her costume, had been designed by the Princess’s mice, and was semi-convertible, requiring her to do little more than remove the skirt, roll on the thigh-high versions of her tights, and add shoulder-straps to her bodice. Sure, she looked a little like she was wearing the kinky Halloween edition of her normal costume, but at least she was equipped to fight crime while flashing a minimum of unintentional skin. She reached the top of her chosen ladder, stepped onto the ledge surrounding the rooftop, and turned to look across the alleyway at Tag.

  Her breath caught.

  She couldn’t have said exactly what she expected his costume to look like. Probably something brightly-colored and garish, which would explain why he was a second-string hero, instead of a front-man for one of the Super Patriot teams. Instead, he stood on his rooftop in form-fitting black spandex, the line of it broken only by the utility belt clasping his waist. A dozen cans of spray paint were clipped to the belt, ready and waiting to be used. He was still wearing his swirling painted-on mask, and its vibrant colors were somehow exactly right, perfectly matched to the darkness of the rest of him. He met her eyes, and smiled, shouting across the alley, “So who goes to who?”

  “Show me what kind of hero you are,” she called back, half-laughing, still half-breathless. He looked like a superhero. He smiled like the kind of boy the men from Marketing always told her to stay away from. And she wanted him to come to her. She realized, rather surprisingly, that she hadn’t wanted anything that badly in a very long time.

  “Be right there!” he called, dipping a gallant bow in her direction before pulling a can of spray paint from his belt, shaking it briskly, and bending to paint something on the rooftop in front of him. Velveteen frowned, interest flagging slightly as she realized that he was actually writing on the rooftop. Graffiti wasn’t particularly heroic—in fact, stopping people from vandali
zing public property was a common training mission for the junior heroes.

  Then he clipped the can back onto his belt, reached down to the spot where he’d just been painting, and straightened. . . bringing a full-length aluminum ladder with him. Grinning triumphantly, he walked to the edge of the roof and lay his ladder down flat across the chasm. Stepping onto the edge of the makeshift bridge, he spread his arms for balance and strolled calmly across the space between them, bowing again when he got to the edge of Velveteen’s rooftop. “As my lady wishes,” he said, grinning as he stepped down from the ladder.

  “Semi-autonomous animation of graphic representations of persons and animals, including minor transformation to grant access to species-appropriate weaponry,” said Velveteen, wide-eyed. “No wonder the Princess thought we should go out.”

  “I take it you approve?” Tag snapped his fingers. The ladder wisped away into thin air, disappearing like it had never been there at all—without, Velveteen noticed, leaving any marks on either rooftop.

  “I definitely approve,” she said, matching his smile with one of her own. “Well, then? Are you ready for me to show you the heroic side of Portland?”

  “You know,” said Tag, offering her his arm, “I was starting to worry that you were never going to ask.”

  “The night is young, and evil waits for no man,” Velveteen said, laughing as she took the offered arm.

  “Or bunny.”

  “True. Evil waits for no bunny.”

  “Not the best battle cry ever.”

  “We can work on it.”

  *

  One of the things Velveteen had missed most in her short time working as a solo hero on the streets of Portland was the exhilarating feeling that only came from working in a team, that little ribbon of exciting unpredictability running through every otherwise ordinary encounter. Would they have your back? Could you drop your guard long enough to pull off something fancy, or did you need to stay braced and on your guard at all times, treating this like a solo run with an annoying sidekick? How far could you push the team dynamic before it turned into a contest instead of a genuine meeting of equals? Working in a team was exciting and terrifying and frustrating and effortless and incredibly hard, and she hadn’t really thought about how much she’d missed it until she was out there with Tag, thwarting a bank robbery, her teddy bears helping the hostages to safety while his spray paint dragon held the terrified robbers in place, occasionally roaring when they seemed to be getting ready to run. Their powers were beautifully suited to one another. Sure, he could only manage one creation at a time, and he had to draw them, or at least “touch up” the existing art before he could command them, but he could whip out much bigger guns than she could, leaving her free to command her larger, if less immediately intimidating, army of toys.