“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 . . .
“I asked if you were all right, lady. You slept through your wake-up call, twice, and then you didn’t check out of the room.” The shouting had died down. That was a blessing. There was a note of concern in the man’s voice now that was almost as bad. “I won’t charge you for today if you can get out in the next fifteen minutes, but you sure gave my desk clerk a scare.”
“I’m fine! I was just—” Dreaming of every mistake I ever made in my entire life, thank you so much for waking me up before the really big ones, “—a lot more tired than I thought I was.” There were her pants, halfway under the edge of the bed. Velma grabbed them and yanked them on without bothering to do up the button before rushing to open the door.
The motel manager was standing right there, a worried expression on his round, florid face. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked.
Velma smiled. It was an entirely insincere smile, but that didn’t matter, because she’d been trained by the best. Like it or not, she was a product of The Super Patriots Marketing Machine, and they always smile like they mean it. “I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you so much for checking on me. I’ll just be a minute getting my stuff together, and then I’ll come and settle my bill.”
“You gotta take care of yourself on the road, lady,” he said, worry starting to ease out of his face. Thank God. She’d paid enough to learn that smile; it’d be a shame if it stopped working. “Nobody else is going to do it for you.”
The memory of Aaron’s eyes behind his black funeral mask still fresh and hot in her mind, Velma nodded. “Oh, I know,” she said. “Believe me, I know.”
It was a new day. And the past was very, very far away.
*
It’s all right,
They’ve won the fight,
And freedom was the prize.
This gift they give:
You’re free to live,
And justice never dies.
American as apple pie,
Enhanced by liberty.
It’s time once more to say good-bye,
Those heroes, flying free . . .
Those heroes, flying free.
VELVETEEN
vs.
The Old Flame
VELMA MARTINEZ—OCCASIONAL RELUCTANT SUPERheroine, former child star, bitterest of all bitter twenty-somethings, and prime candidate for serious therapy—stepped out of the Chevron Extra Mile, arms loaded down with road snacks and half a Twinkie still sticking out of her mouth as she tried to figure out how to chew, swallow, and find her car keys all at the same time. It turned out that this was nowhere as easy as it ought to be, and the woman who once led the charge against the evil forces of the Anti-Santa was forced to stop next to her car and dump the contents of her arms on the hood before digging through her pockets. At least that made chewing, and hence swallowing, somewhat easier. And the sugar was doing a lot to make her homicidal urges return to a low, almost placid roar.
According to her map of upstate California, she was a little less than sixty miles from the
Oregon border and potential financial freedom. The owner of the last motel she’d stopped at had been kind enough to let her have her room for free (something about being afraid she’d slipped into a coma or something), and that meant she still had enough cash in her pockets to pay for gas and eat, providing she wasn’t overly particular about what she was eating. She’d done worse than day-old baked goods and discount Hostess products in the past. She’d probably do it again in the future. For right now, what mattered was that she was fed, she was free, and she was getting closer all the time to leaving California behind her like a bad dream.
A month ago, she was working her series of dead-end temp jobs, sinking a little deeper into debt and depression every day, and starting to wonder whether Sparkle Bright had been right after all—she was just a worthless waste of oxygen whose only purpose in life was to fight evil or die trying. Now she was remembering who she was, what she was good for, and most importantly of all, why she’d felt so compelled to get out of the hero business while she still had the chance. Fight a little evil and more evil was bound to seek you out, out of some weird, misguided need for revenge.
Evil was fucked-up times five billion, as near as she could tell.
For all that she was trying very hard to leave all that behind her, she’d entered her training with The Super Patriots, Inc. when she was barely twelve years old, and they had remained her sole legal guardians until she turned eighteen and demanded her walking papers. That much time working and training with the world’s premiere hero team taught you a few tricks. How to spot a supervillain’s tells. What kind of names went with what kind of powers. How to spot the sidekick in a crowd of identically dressed minions.
How to tell when someone who possessed the power of selfguided flight was landing in the parking lot behind you.
Abandoning the search for her keys, Velma heaved a sigh that seemed to originate at the base of her toes, squared her shoulders, and turned around. It felt like the world was holding its breath, but she knew, deep down, that she was the only one.
“Hello, Aaron,” she said.
*
Like most people, superheroes prefer the company of like minds: a community of fellows. Tales of superhero/civilian romance are all well and good for the comic books, but the fact of the matter is pretty simple, if one is willing to set romantic notions aside and really consider the situation. A man who can fly isn’t going to marry an investment banker. A woman who can talk to plants isn’t going to settle down with a bus driver. Maybe one relationship in a thousand between a powered and a non-powered individual will work out happily. Relationships between superheroes, on the other hand, may be fraught with evil twins, crossover events, worlds in need of saving, and the occasional archenemy at the wedding, but they are, on the whole, permanent things. Psychiatrists theorize that this is due to the difficulty in finding someone whose powers are not only compatible, but tolerable. The human mind is a complicated thing, and the whole truth may never be known.
Hero or civilian, bus driver or savior of universes, one truth does hold constant: your first love is the one that haunts you, the one that you can never quite recover from. Some people believe that Jolly Roger’s ongoing absence stems from the loss of his first true love, although no one can quite agree on whether that person was Majesty or Supermodel. Others believe that superheroes only really fall in love once, their brain chemistry permanently altered by the accidents or mutations which granted them their powers. The tabloids beg to differ with this story, boasting tales of superhero love, marriage, estrangement, and divorce, but the myth lives on. People want to believe in happily ever after, even when they’re never going to have it.
The average life expectancy of most heroes is just short of thirty-five years. The fact that this may have some impact on the supposed “success” of superhero marriages—which are, after all, still considered to have been perfectly successful if they end with the death of one partner, rather than in divorce—has been consistently and conveniently overlooked by all groups with a stake in the matter. Apex Diamonds, a fully owned subsidiary of The Super Patriots, Inc., has been the most vocal detractor of the argument. After all, they say, their diamonds are cruelty free and made with love by their employee heroes. How could souls not destined for true and lasting romance of their own ever craft anything so perfect?
Regardless of the truth of the matter, Velma knew that it didn’t really matter, because she knew what was true for her. She knew, for example, that she was a twenty-four year old woman (with twenty-five looming ever closer in the rear-view mirror of her life) who had only ever kissed a single man. Who had only ever wanted to kiss a single man, a man who’d started out as a broad-shouldered, golden-haired boy with a lopsided smile that sometimes darted in her direction like a gift. Whatever the truth was for heroes as a whole, for Velma, there had only ever been one man. Near as she could tell, there was only ever going to be one man. The man who was right in front of her, floating half a foot above the ground in his iconic orange and blue costume, cape billowing gently in the wind. There was always wind for people like him. Anything to increase the drama of the moment.
He looked about as uncomfortable as she felt. That was something, anyway. Not much, but something.
“Hi, Vel,” he said, almost reluctantly.
Despite her growing sense of dread, Velma felt those two little words vibrate all the way down to the core of her body and then back out again. He’d always called her “Vel,” in and out of costume. It was the best way to keep himself from blowing it and calling her the wrong thing at the wrong time. (Not that she hadn’t blown it a time or two—they all had—but the media was surprisingly good about bleeping out the names of child heroes. Maybe because the government would come down on them like a ton of lead if they ever let the secret identity of someone under eighteen see the light of day.)
Swallowing hard, Velma forced the feeling away. “This is how we’re going to do this,” she said, secretly marveling at how reasonable she sounded. “There’s a Starbucks down the street. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. If you’re not there, in street clothes, with a venti mocha for me, I’m going to get back in my car and keep going.”
“Vel—”
“Are you here on your own? Or are you here because Marketing sent you?”
Silence.
“Have I done anything that you can legally arrest me for?”
More silence.
“Yeah. I thought not. Meet me at the Starbucks, or leave me alone. And don’t you dare tell me I’m being unreasonable, because you always knew where I was. You’re the one who didn’t call.” Holding herself as regally as a queen, she turned, gathered her snack foods off the hood, and got into the car. She didn’t let herself look back at him as she started the engine and drove away, fighting against the tide of people who were already rushing to get an up-close and personal glimpse of a real live superhero.
She was able to tell herself that the tears in her eyes were just there because she wasn’t used to flashbulbs anymore; she hadn’t blinked quickly enough when the cameras started going off.
She was almost able to make herself believe it.
“Fucked-up times five billion,” she whispered, and drove on.
*
Eight years ago. The headquarters of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. The private quarters of Action Dude, also known as “Aaron Frank.” The entire junior team had been moved to separate rooms in the last month, supposedly because they were growing up and earning the right to a little more space. Privately, Velveteen believed it was because the Claw had been complaining about Action Dude sneaking her in after lights-out. Marketing didn’t mind a little teen romance, as long as the participants were photogenic and careful to avoid unwanted complications. The Claw complained, and suddenly, Action Dude was sleeping solo.
Velveteen felt a little sorry for the Claw, when she stopped to think about it. He wasn’t photogenic, that much was certain; he was barely even human after the
things his father had done to him. Sure, those were the things that were keeping him alive, but he was never going to make the front cover of Secret Identity, the superhero set’s answer to Tiger Beat.
She’d made the cover. Three times, actually. Once since she started dating Action Dude, and that was the first cover she’d actually cared for. “Secret Lovers?” said the caption, making her blush all the way down to the tips of her toes. Lovers? Not yet. But . . . maybe.
Maybe soon.
She was stretched out on the bed with her chin propped in her hands, watching as Action Dude did one-handed push-ups against the ceiling. They were substantially harder than normal push-ups, he’d confessed to her; gravity kept trying to yank him down to the floor, and the combined strain of staying aloft, pulling himself back to the ceiling with nothing to hold onto, and maintaining proper form was enough to make even him break a sweat. He definitely looked good doing them. Velveteen blushed, burrowing further down under the cape that she was using as a blanket.
“Aren’t you done yet?” she called, trying to sound coy. (Privately, she thought it made her sound like she had a head cold. But it was a try, and he’d appreciate that much.) “Girl friend getting cold.”
“Maybe girlfriend should be dating Heatwave,” said Action Dude, laughing. “Just ten more.”
“Cut it short and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Cut it short and Marketing will cut my recreation time for a month,” he replied. . . but there was a new urgency to his movements as he pulled himself up to the ceiling, pushed down, pulled up. Velveteen smiled lazily, watching him, counting in her head. Her count and his reached ten at the same time, because that time when he pushed away, he didn’t pull himself back up. Instead, he came drifting down to the floor, landing gracefully next to the bed. “Hi.”