Velveteen vs. The Multiverse

  Sometimes Velveteen suspected that the real downside of living the superhero life wasn’t the attacks, ambushes, dimensional rifts, or constant threat of alternate universe doppelgangers trying to take over your life. It was all the damn paperwork.

  After what seemed like half the afternoon, Tag handed the arresting officer’s clipboard back to him, snapped a quick, joking salute, and turned to walk back to the wall where Vel was waiting. “Sorry that took so long. I hope you weren’t too bored over here by yourself?”

  “I had cookies,” she said solemnly. “No afternoon which involves my boyfriend wearing spandex pants while beating up a supervillain, and comes with bonus cookies, can be entirely bad.”

  Tag laughed. “You know, I would worry about your standards, except that I enjoy being able to live up to them.”

  “That’s me. I’m a cheap date because otherwise, I’d be out of every price range that I have an interest in.” Velveteen slid off the wall. “Our picnic seems to be over. Care to walk a girl home?”

  “That depends.”

  Velveteen raised an eyebrow. “On what?”

  “On whether you’re the girl I get to walk home. I’m sorry if this makes me sound like a slacker, but I don’t really feel like escorting any damsels in distress right now.” Tag reached over and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Not that I’d be averse to distressing you—or was that undressing you?—if that’s what you had in mind for the rest of the afternoon…”

  “Get me home and we’ll see,” said Vel, and winked. Flirting was still a little difficult, full of rules she’d never bothered to learn and pitfalls she’d never figured out how to avoid, but she was getting better. It helped that Tag had almost as little experience as she did, and was always willing to be patient with her. That probably wouldn’t last forever. Hopefully, it would last long enough.

  As neither of them was actually high-profile enough to have a signature vehicle (and what would hers be, anyway? The Bunny Mobile? Hugh Hefner probably already owned the trademark), and driving civilian cars while in a superheroic identity was a no-no, they actually did walk, on foot, back to the government-owned building that contained Vel’s “office.” Once there, they changed to their street clothes and walked to the parking garage where she’d stowed her beaten-up car for the duration of their picnic.

  “You know, you could probably get a new car at this point,” said Tag—Tad, now that he was out of his costume—fastening his belt.

  “This one’s been with me through a lot,” said Vel—still Vel. Sometimes she thought Marketing hadn’t even been trying, with her. “I’m going to keep it as long as it can run.”

  “I can understand that,” said Tad.

  Vel slanted him a smile. “I sort of thought you might.”

  When they pulled into her driveway, there was a man in a threepiece suit standing on the porch. Velma stiffened. “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “No,” said Tad. “He doesn’t look like a supervillain…”

  “Maybe he’s with the homeowners association, and he’s here to yell at me about weed abatement.”

  “Does this neighborhood have a homeowners association?”

  “I sure hope so.”

  Velma stopped the car and got out, walking briskly toward her porch. Tad was close behind her. She heard the small “click” of a Sharpie being uncapped at the same moment that she heard the rustle of green plastic army men moving in the gardenias planted beneath her window. If her unexpected guest was looking to make trouble, he was going to be in for a nasty surprise.

  He turned as Velma and Tad came walking across the lawn, his gaze focusing on Velma. “Velma Martinez?” he asked.

  She stopped, frowning warily. “Yes?”

  “Here.” He thrust a large manila envelope toward her. She took it automatically. “You have been served. Have a nice afternoon.” Not waiting for her reply, he turned and walked briskly away.

  Velma opened the envelope, only dimly aware that her hands were shaking. One look at the papers inside confirmed her darkest fears. She sighed.

  “Vel?” said Tad. “What’s wrong?”

  “My parents.” Velma wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of one hand as she looked back toward her boyfriend. “They’re suing me for emotional distress and financial support.”

  “…oh,” said Tag.

  “Yeah. Oh.”

  Superhuman law is a complicated thing, and one which has led to more than a few vicious legal battles, all of them fought by men and women who might lack superpowers, but possess law degrees. (While superhuman lawyers exist, they have thus far been required to recuse themselves from cases relating directly to superhuman law, for fear of conflict of interest.) How do you try a child whose superpower manifests on the playground of their daycare? Is breaking a statue which used to be a living human, prior to meeting Medusa, vandalism or manslaughter? The list goes on, and the cases only get stranger.

  For the most part, American superhuman law has been shaped by the intervention of the largest superhuman special interest lobby, The Super Patriots, Inc. They have reliably hired lawyers, provided scientific data, and organized focus groups to confirm public opinions relating to the more complicated theoretical issues. The Super Patriots, Inc. have even gone out of their way to seek rulings on specific situations before those situations can arise, demonstrating a level of foresight and consideration which is truly admirable in an organization of their size and standing.

  At the same time, some people have suggested that there might be a less altruistic motive behind the involvement of The Super Patriots, Inc. with the creation of superhero law. After all, those voices argue, at the end of the day, The Super Patriots, Inc. retains control of the majority of the world’s superhumans. Thanks to their careful intervention, it is not murder when a supervillain is killed in conflict with a registered hero (the estate of Harmageddon v. Sweet Pea), it is neither theft nor willful destruction of property if, during a superhuman conflict, a registered hero makes use of civilian cars, fences, or other objects to prevent further damages (the city of St. Paul v. Dairy Keen), and superhumans cannot be declared legally dead until they have remained both biologically and etherically inactive for a period of no less than seven years. (It should be noted that, during this seven-year period, their merchandising rights and trademarks will remain active and under the custodianship of their estate. In ninety percent of all cases covered by this ruling, the estate is managed by The Super Patriots, Inc.)

  At the end of the day, the fact remains that superhuman law is essential: without restrictions and guidelines, the sheer number of super humans in North America would present a clear and present danger to the unpowered population. Only through agreed-upon legislation can people with the kind of power that they possess be kept under any form of control. Which still begs the question of what will happen on the day when, inevitably, heroes and villains alike reject the laws which have been used, for better or for worse, to reduce them to a more human level.

  The lawyers have not yet had a satisfactory response to this issue. The Super Patriots, Inc. has no comment.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” commented Jackie, lounging on Vel’s bed like it was her personal property. The bright orange bedspread—a bargain-bin special from the Bloomington Coat Factory—clashed jarringly with her pale blue skin. That was almost reassuring, at least as far as Vel was concerned. Seeing Jackie dressed in a three-piece suit, with makeup that didn’t look like it had been applied with a paintbrush, was disconcerting enough. Seeing Jackie on top of something that went with her skin tone might have been enough to trigger a panic attack. “All you have to do is come with me to the North Pole. There’s no way this lawsuit will hold water there.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said the Princess. She continued working on Vel’s hair, trying to get it to layer properly under the band of her formal bunny ears. They were only half the height of her usual accessories, and made of brown velvet that
matched her formal uniform, but that didn’t make them easy to style around. “She’d never be able to come back. Frivolous or not, it’s a lawsuit brought against a superhuman by members of the normal public. She runs, she’s guilty, and she’s stuck with your frozen blue butt forever.”

  Velveteen didn’t say anything. She just kept staring at her reflection, watching without comment or complaint as the Princess and her team of woodland fashionistas turned her into something that would be appropriate for a court of law. Behind her, Jackie and the Princess continued their good-natured bickering, and only someone who really knew them, or was really listening, would have heard the manic edge beneath their laughter. They’d been Vel’s friends since she was still young enough to cry for the parents who’d abandoned her. It didn’t matter that those parents had sold her to the highest bidder just as soon as they got the chance; they were her parents. Vel’s friends remembered listening to her crying through the walls when she thought she was alone.

  As ways for her parents to come back into her life went, this one certainly left something to be desired.

  Finally, the Princess stepped back, motioning for the squirrels manning the hairspray can to do the same. She looked at Velveteen critically for a long moment. Then she nodded. “All right,” she said. “I think you’re ready to face the judge.”

  Velveteen didn’t say anything. The Princess sighed.

  “Sweetie, unless you want to go hide in a holiday, you’re going to have to deal with this, and you’re going to have to deal with it today,” she said gently, putting a hand on Velveteen’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard. But it’s something you have to do.”

  Jackie remained uncharacteristically quiet, letting the Princess do the talking for a change. Out of the three of them, she was uncomfortably aware that she was the only one who was still on speaking terms with her parents. Vel’s had handed her over to The Super Patriots, Inc. at the first opportunity they got. The Princess had sought emancipation as soon as it became clear that one of the side effects of her fairy tale abilities was the universe’s sudden conviction that she should be an orphan. It was cut all ties with her parents or bury them, and she chose the option that left as many people as possible alive. Both of Jackie’s parents were superheroes with winter-themed powers. The closest she’d ever come to losing them was the time she got left out in the sun at the Minnesota State Fair, and her mother had been able to fix that with fifteen seconds of deep freeze and a whole lot of frozen hot chocolate.

  She didn’t get along with her parents most of the time, but at least she still had them. That was something she had to admit that she didn’t share with her friends. And if she was being completely honest with herself, it was something she hoped she’d never understand.

  Several minutes ticked by before Velveteen took a shuddering breath, finally pulling away from the Princess. “Okay,” she said, and stood. “Let’s go to court.”

  The case of Harmageddon v. Sweet Pea determined that, when a superhero is charged with a crime that does not equate directly to supervillainy, they cannot be forced to reveal their secret identity without just cause. (The case of Lindsey Thomas v. the State of Nevada further determined that a superhero charged with a crime that does not equate directly to supervillainy in their civilian identity cannot be “outed” by the courts. While many considered Neon Lass a second-rate heroine, she received a first-rate payout when the jury found in her favor.)

  Because of these, and other, precedents, it was Velveteen, not Velma Martinez, who stepped out of the Princess’s enchanted pumpkin carriage. It was Velveteen, not Velma Martinez, who walked past the inevitable crowd of paparazzi that assembled for every trial involving a known superhero (although she did have to wonder, grimly, who had tipped them off that she’d be arriving at this courthouse, at this time). And it was Velveteen, not Velma Martinez, who stopped at the courthouse door, next to two people in suits that looked very much like hers, minus the bunny ears, domino mask, and pockets full of little green army men.

  “I don’t know what to call you,” said the man, somewhat awkwardly.

  “How about ‘late with the check’?” suggested the woman, and glared at Velveteen.

  Velveteen was too tired to glare back.

  Despite the fact that her—that Velma’s—parents had been extorting money from her since she walked away from The Super Patriots, Inc., she had managed to see them only twice since the day when she was essentially sold into corporate service. The first time had been the day she graduated from training to the junior team, when Marketing brought them to the compound for “a touching family reunion.” At the time, she’d thought they were being stupid, assuming that she would ever want to see her parents again. After a few more years, she’d realized that they were being cruel, but very, very smart. Remind your junior heroes what you took them away from, and they’ll be all the more loyal to what you’ve given them instead. It was clever. It was manipulative. It was exactly the sort of thing she’d come to expect from Marketing…

  …and that was why the second time had happened. When she quit the team, they said she could call anyone she wanted to come and pick her up, but that she wasn’t going to travel anywhere on the company’s dime. Those perks were over. And Velma, back in full civilian clothing for the first time since she was a little girl, asked them to call her parents.

  Her parents came—of course they came, when The Super Patriots, Inc. calls, you come—but their reunion had been nothing like Velma could have envisioned. That was why she was able to look at them now and not feel abandoned, or betrayed, or used. All those feelings had died the day her mother’s open palm struck her hard across the cheek while her father looked silently on, both of them hating her for not being the meal ticket they’d been promised for so long.

  “Velveteen,” she said, quietly. “You call me Velveteen. You don’t have the right to call me anything but that.”

  For a moment, it looked like her mother wanted to argue with her; wanted to make some impassioned statement about how, having given Velma life, she had the right to call her whatever she wanted to. The moment passed. And with a final heartbroken look back at the Princess’s carriage, Velma “Velveteen” Martinez turned and followed her parents into the Portland City Justice Building, to find out what horrors her future might hold.

  * * *

  Velveteen sat in the holding room in her uncomfortable court suit, trying to calm her nerves with breathing exercises. She was never going to be serene—not here, not now, not with her parents sitting on the other side of the room glaring daggers in her direction—but she didn’t want to risk losing control of her powers while she waited for her case to be called before the judge. A superhero who loses control in court is a superhero who’s about to lose everything, even if the case has nothing to do with powers beyond human ken.

  “Always remember that the people can love you and fear you in the same breath,” that was what the woman from Legal had said, when Marketing brought her in during Vel’s second year. “They want to worship you. They also want to see you fall. Never give them an opening, because if you do, they will take you all the way down, and they’ll tell themselves that you deserved it. And so you’re aware…” Her smile had contained too many teeth, like a shark in a three-piece suit and sensible heels.

  It was her closing words that echoed in Velveteen’s ears now, making her feel like she really had the super-hearing Marketing had always hinted might be a part of her power set. “If you give them that opening, as far as the company is concerned, you will deserve whatever you get. We may bail you out, because you represent a substantial investment. But we will never forget that you failed us.”

  Then the woman from Legal had turned and walked away, leaving Vel’s tiny class of budding superheroes staring after her in stunned, terrified silence. Maybe that had been the goal. Intentional or not, it felt like that silence had never really been broken; it had been waiting all this time, lurking in the back of Velveteen’s mind as it wait
ed for the opportunity to pounce.

  She had left this opening. She had stopped paying her parents their blackmail money when she left California—and that’s what it had been, that’s what it had always been, blackmail draped in a veil of filial responsibility and parental concern—and since those payments had always been intended to keep them from going to the tabloids with her secret identity, she hadn’t even considered resuming the payouts when she became an honest-to-God superhero again. The thing she’d been paying them to avoid had happened. What was the worst that could happen?

  “The worst that could happen” was a contract she’d signed when she was twelve years old, granting her parents a percentage of every payment she received for superheroic deeds. Forever. It was all part of the generous package offered by The Super Patriots, Inc. when trying to convince parents to sign their children over to the corporation. “The worst that could happen” was a lawsuit demanding that she make those payments, with interest, as well as the “sleeper” payments that were meant to accrue when events outside the recipient’s control rendered their supporting superhero unable to meet the full amount.

  Fifteen percent of everything she’d made since arriving in Portland, and fifteen thousand dollars a year for every year when she hadn’t been on active duty. Plus interest, of course. Mustn’t forget the interest.

  “Fucked-up times infinity plus three,” she muttered, earning a stern look from her lawyer (chosen for her by Celia Morgan, which meant that the pleasant-faced man in the Brooks Brothers suit could probably eat corporate law for breakfast) and a bewildered look from her father. Her mother didn’t look at her at all.

  They sat there for another twenty minutes, waiting for their turn to stand in front of the judge while the lawyers explained why she both did (her parent’s lawyer) and did not (her own lawyer) owe a great deal of money. Schrodinger’s crime had been committed, and until the lawyer brought the gavel down, she was neither innocent nor guilty. It was a difficult place to be. Not for the first time, Vel found herself feeling sorry for both Schrodinger and The Cat, whose heroic exploits were all-too-often disrupted by the question of which, if either of them, was currently the dead one. Death, War, Famine, and Conquest might be the traditional Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but Vel was pretty sure that Uncertainty, Insecurity, Waiting, and Corporate Law were even worse.