geekySummary: The life of a retired superhero is definitely refusing to get easier. Especially when you're just trying to get to Oregon already, and now people from your past that you've done your best to put behind you seem bent on tracking you down...
***
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 self-guided 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 all 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, the 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.
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 vente 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 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 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." They 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.) "Girlfriend 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."
"Hi," Velveteen said, and pulled back the cape in invitation. "Come on. I'm lonely under here."
"I'm sweaty," he cautioned.
"I like you sweaty," she said. After that there was nothing but giggling and snuggles, and feather-light touches under the safety orange Kevlar weave of his cape, where even the in-room security cameras wouldn't be able to record the location of their hands. They'd been going a little further all the time, feeling out one another's boundaries as their relationship got more secure. A hand under a uniform strap. A foot hooked around a knee. Fingers slipped beneath utility belts.
Velveteen's power set was one that kept her grounded, and she'd always liked it that way. But as Action Dude lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, her breath caught, and for just a moment, she believed that she could fly.
*
Velma pulled into the Starbucks parking lot approximately seventeen minutes after leaving the Chevron. Locking the car doors, she jammed her keys into her pocket and stalked towards the coffee shop. He won't be there, she told herself sternly. That was a warning, and they thought you'd play nice if they sent Aaron, but you didn't. He's gone back to headquarters by now to report his failure. Yelena's laughing. She's saying that she told them so. She's saying that they were idiots to even try. He won't be there. Don't you dare hope, because he won't be there, just wait. He won't—
He was there.
Like so many career superheroes, Aaron really had no idea how "normal" people dressed when they went out for things like coffee, the newspaper, or donuts. He was dressed like he was on his way to a job interview or a funeral, in a suit that was such a studiedly nondescript gray that it actually demanded further study, just to determine whether or not the wearer was in mourning. His tousled blond curls were slicked into what he clearly thought was a "normal" haircut, and black-framed glasses hid his eyes. Not well. She would have known them anywhere. Behind sunglasses or implanted in a cybernetic killing machine, she would have known them.
There was a cup in front of his table's other seat, and a slice of blueberry coffee cake. Velma's eyes started tearing up again. Wiping them with the back of her hand, she ordered herself firmly not to cry, and stepped into the Starbucks.
Aaron had been gazing anxiously around, but his attention focused on the door as she entered, his shoulders suddenly going rigid. He half-stood, nearly knocking over his chair, then seemed to think better of the gesture, and slammed himself back into a sitting position. Velma saw the small pile of shredded napkins on the table in front of him as she approached. She wasn't the only one that was nervous. That might have been reassuring, if she'd known what he was nervous about. After all, people tend to display signs of guilt when they're in the process of setting traps for their former teammates and ex-girlfriends. Especially when those two people happen to be one and the same.
"Aaron," she said coolly, sliding herself into the open seat and picking up the waiting mocha. "I'm going to assume that you're here on good faith, and that you haven't poisoned my coffee. Is that a safe assumption?"
He flushed. "Vel—"
"I know you're here on company time, and that makes it a fair question. Is it okay for me to drink the coffee?"
"Yeah," he said, doing his best impression of a big blond Eeyore. "You can eat the coffee cake, too. I got it for you."
Despite herself, Velma smiled. "Yeah, well. I figured that you hadn't suddenly developed a thing for blueberries."
"I could be a clone."
"You'd have the same allergies."
"Parallel dimension."
"Wouldn't have known I'd want it."
Now Aaron was smiling, too, tension briefly forgotten in the face of their favorite of the old, odd games: How Would You Know If I Got Replaced? "Shapechanging alien."
"Possible." She sipped her mocha. "But would a shapechanging alien have remembered the extra sugar?"
"Probably not," said Aaron. "Your game." Sobering, he picked up his own cup and rolled it between his hands, saying, "You look good, Vel."
"Oh, please." Velma shook her head. "I'm in road pants, I need a haircut, and I've put on like eight pounds in the last month and a half. This has been the trip from hell. I'm starting to think I'll never get where I'm going." She paused. "But it was nice of you to say. You look just like I expected you to."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I saw this year's trials." Seeing the sudden hope in his eyes, she shook her head. "Accidentally. They were on TV at the coffee shop where I was working."
"You mean the place that got shunted off into a world of eternal shadow?"
"That's the one."
"That's...sort of why I'm here," said Aaron, regret coloring every word. Velma tensed. "See, the thing is, we were doing the mop-up, and some of the people in town, they said you were the only survivor. And one of them said—"
"Aaron, don't."
"—said they'd seen you being carried back to the place where you were staying. Carried by something about six inches tall. That was just before the place got shunted off into a world of eternal shadow, so you can see where they'd remember it. And—"
"Please, don't."
"—it sort of has a few people wondering whether—"
"If you ever loved me, don't."
He stopped, looking at her with wide, injured blue eyes. "You know that's not fair. You know I loved you."
"Yeah?" She wiped her hand across her eyes again, harder this time. "Could've fooled me."
*
Seven years ago. Velveteen was coming out of the gym, leotard sweaty and sticking to her sides. Working out in tights had never been her favorite way to spend an afternoon, but with the chance that training could be filmed at any time, all heroes with non-public secret identities were required to wear variants of their standard costumes while exercising. It was an annoying, inconvenient rule, but unlike so many of the annoying, inconvenient rules at The Super Patriots, Inc., it actually made sense.
At least they weren't allowed to film in the showers. As soon as she was in the locker room, she removed her rabbit ears and domino mask, wiping the worst of the sweat out from her eyes. Temporarily blinded by the gesture, she didn't realize that she wasn't alone until she turned, and nearly walked straight into Sparkle Bright.
"Wha—oh!" She pressed her free hand to her chest, laughing a little to cover her surprise. "You startled me. I thought you weren't working out until Updraft got back from field exercises. What's up?" Sparkle Bright didn't answer. Velveteen paused, realizing for the first time just how cold the look on the other girl's face was. "Sparky? What's wrong?"
"Don't call me that," said Sparkle Bright, a note of obvious disdain in her voice. "I don't take diminutives from heroes that aren't in my power class."
"But...but the nickname was your idea. Yelena? What's wr—"
An older, more cynical Velma would have told her teenage self that she should have seen the blow coming; would have said that it was telegraphed in every inch of Sparkle Bright's imperious, angry pose. But the teenage Velveteen had never expected her best friend and former roommate to lash out at her that way; would never in a million years have said that her sweet, silly, sentimental roommate was capable of such a thing. Apparently, the teenage Velveteen was the one who was in the wrong. Sparkle Bright's rainbow whip cracked crimson and ebony fury across the locker room, catching Velveteen squarely in the chest and sending her smashing back against the wall. Only years of physical conditioning and training in the ways to safely take a fall saved her from serious injury.
Rolling with the momentum as much as she could, Velveteen wound up in a crumpled heap at the base of the wall, blood already starting to well from a cut the tile had opened in her cheek. Eyes gone terribly wide, and terribly hurt, she stammered, "Y-Yelena, what—"
"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" The whip this time was barely red at all, just a lash of pure, furious black, catching Velveteen in the side of the head and slamming her back against the wall. In the moments before she lost consciousness, she saw Sparkle Bright stalking towards her, hands balled tightly into fists. "I thought you were different," she hissed. "Now I see that you're just another two-bit hero with useless powers, trying to exploit me to stay in the spotlight. You stay away from me, Velveteen, and I might do you the same favor. You got that?"
Velveteen didn't answer. Velveteen was no longer aware enough to participate in the conversation.
They found her passed out in the locker room almost two hours later; she was diagnosed with a severe concussion, and suspended from field activities for ninety days. When she came off her bed rest, Sparkle Bright was suddenly the team's second-in-command, and Velveteen found herself grounded, working with all the other second-string heroes while the more "useful" powers took to the skies, and took to the spotlight.
Remembering a whip made of light, and anger she still didn't understand, Velveteen couldn't say she really minded.
*
"Here." Aaron offered her a napkin across the table, looking awkward. "C'mon, Vel, don't cry. I just need to talk to you, that's all. Just talk. I mean, yes, I'm here because the...company...told me to be here. They said that you'd probably listen to me, even if you wouldn't listen to anybody else. But I could've said no. When they asked me, I could've said no."
"So why didn't you?" Velma demanded, taking the napkin and using it to wipe her eyes. It worked better than her hand. More absorbent, for one thing. "They could have sent somebody, I don't know, who was less of a lying snake."
"That's not fair."
"Neither is what you did to me, so hey, I guess we're even. Why are you here, Aaron?"
He went quiet, sitting silent for a long moment while he gathered his thoughts. Finally, raising his head just enough that their eyes met, he said, "Marketing didn't know where you were until just recently, Vel. You left the team, and you dropped off the radar entirely. I know you probably won't believe this, but when they seal the records, it's for real. No monitoring, no check-ins. They treat you just like everybody else. Unless..."
Feeling suddenly sick to her stomach, Velma said, "Unless we display superhuman abilities in a public setting. Is that it?" He didn't answer. "Aaron. Is that it?"
"Yeah."
"But if they weren't monitoring my movements, then how—"
"Dave called us." Seeing the shocked look on her face, Aaron raised his hands, palms towards her. "Hey. You'd just used superhuman abilities to stop his weird little shellfish army from...doing whatever weird little shellfish armies do. He was pissed off. And he was worried about you. We all were, when you left. I guess he thought he was doing you a favor. People like us, they're not heroes, well...they tend to go the other way. He's living that life. I don't think he'd wish it on anybody else."
"He really did become a supervillain," said Velma, shaking her head. "I'm fine, Aaron. Honest. I'm not planning to go crazy and level a city. I doubt I could, unless the city had sixteen toy factories or something. I could probably hold the North Pole for ransom, except Santa likes me. He'd just offer me a job."
"Vel, please. This is serious."
"Right. I'm supposed to believe that Marketing pulled their most popular hero—the hero who just happens to be my one and only ex-boyfriend—out of the field because my former teammates were 'worried' about me. A concept which requires me to believe that Yelena was worried about me. Or did you forget that she tried to kill me before I left the team? Yeah, from the look on your face, I guess you tried to put all that behind you. Well, I'm not buying it. Why are you here, Aaron?"
"You know why."
"Say it."
"Marketing wants you back," he said.
Velma closed her eyes.
*
Six years ago. Six days before Velveteen's eighteenth birthday. Six days before Velma Martinez stood up and took her life back. But in that moment, she was still Velveteen, still a well-trained, thoroughly-brainwashed company girl, sitting polite and puzzled in the Marketing office. She'd been in the middle of a training session when they called for her, testing her powers to see how broken toys could be before she lost the ability to call them back to life. She was reasonably sure she'd be dreaming of zombie teddy bears out for brains for the next week, but it had still been educational. She was definitely improving. Action Dude would be so proud of her.
The man from Marketing smiled magnanimously, his hands folded together on the desk between them. She had a vague idea that she was meant to take his position as comforting and fatherly. Maybe it would have worked if she'd ever had the sort of father she took comfort in. "Now, Velveteen. We've all been very impressed with your dedication to your teammates, and to The Super Patriots. You can bet that the people upstairs are all very impressed, and very much hoping that you'll consider taking at least an auxiliary position with one of the adult teams after your birthday."
"Thank you, sir," she said, still puzzled, still striving to be polite. She'd learned over the years that understanding Marketing was nowhere near as important as avoiding upsetting them. "That's very good to hear."
"There's just one little thing that we've been wanting to discuss with you. It's minor, but it could have a fairly major impact on the saleability and image of the team. Since you're such a team player, we know that you'll understand."
Her confusion growing, Velveteen frowned. "Sir?"
"We here at The Super Patriots, Inc. have worked hard to maintain a good relationship with the various publications focusing on the heroes in our employ, especially those beneath the age of identity revelation. It's for the protection of everyone's interests. Consequentially, we often find ourselves in possession of early issues. For review, you understand. So that we can settle any...disagreements...with a minimum of fuss." Unfolding his hands, he pulled a magazine from beneath the desk and offered it to her. "I believe this will answer all your questions."
Velveteen had no precognative abilities on record, but in that moment, as she reached for the magazine with inexplicably shaking hands, she felt a sense of dread fall over her; the sense that everything she thought she knew was about to change. She noted that the masthead read Secret Identity; that the date was just one week away. No time for "corrections" or "disagreements." It had already gone to press.
The cover photo was of Action Dude, Sparkle Bright snuggled up against his chest, looking just as dewy and innocent as a teen sweetheart could wish. "The Truth Is Out," read the caption. Beneath it: "Teen Sensations Reveal What's Really Been Going On Behind Their Masks."
Hands shaking in earnest now, Velveteen flipped the magazine, found the article, and read a whole new version of her life. A version where she and Action Dude had always been "just friends," providing a cover for his clandestine relationship with Sparkle Bright, whose conservative parents might have endangered her life by revealing her secret identity if they'd known she was dating. "Vel's a great girl," said the article—said her boyfriend—"but she's more one of the guys than girlfriend material. Sparks was never threatened. She knew it was just what we had to do to keep her safe."
Sometime between that quote and the end of the article, Velveteen started crying. She never really stopped. It was Velma who looked up, offered back the magazine, and said, "I understand, sir. Is that all?"
The man from Marketing smiled broadly. "We knew you'd be a trooper."
"I try," she said, and stood, and walked out of the office, back into a life that she didn't want any part of anymore. Six days. That was all she had to get through. Just six days, and then she'd be free.
The urge was strong, but she somehow managed not to punch anyone before she left.
*
"You tell them," she said, slowly, "that they are never, ever going to get me back on their team. Not the main team, not the auxiliary teams, not the super-special alumni team that they only break out of retirement when the universe is about to end. I have walked that walk, I have talked that talk, and I have learned that there are some things that are simply not worth it."
"Please," he said, very softly.
Velma opened her eyes, looking across the table at the one and only man she'd ever loved, the one and only man she'd ever allowed to get close enough to betray her. The one and only man that she was never going to find it in her to forgive. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, a thousand questions she wanted to ask him, starting with "Why?" and getting more and more painful from there. Some wounds never heal. Some cuts never stop bleeding.
"Thanks for the mocha," she said, and picked up cup and coffee cake, stood up from her chair, and left the Starbucks behind.
Aaron Frank—also known as "Action Dude," also known as the only man on the planet dumb enough to have Velma Martinez in his hands and let her slip away on the orders of a man from Marketing—watched her go. Once he was sure she was gone, he picked up a napkin, wiped his eyes, and stood to make his own departure.
Sometimes there's just not a happy ending.
December 10 2012, 22:27:51 UTC 4 years ago
December 10 2012, 22:42:40 UTC 4 years ago
Was he being a 'beard' for Sparkle Bright? :D