VELVETEEN PRESENTS THE PRINCESS vs. Public Relations #2
The Princess rested her gloved hands gently atop the podium, turning her head so that the sunlight filtering down through the evergreens planted around the courtyard would glitter off the diamonds in her hair.
Her tiara didn’t need the help: it always caught the light, no matter where she was standing.
Some of the reporters remembered that they had jobs to do and began snapping pictures.
The Princess held her position. She knew what she looked like.
This courtyard was mostly used for perfect “fairy tale weddings,” surrounded as it was by trees and elegant hotel architecture.
In the distance, the spires of the park’s central castle rose, centered behind her, like a reminder of who she was and what she could do.
Finally, the Princess judged that they had been taking her picture long enough.
She smiled, leaning very slightly forward so that the podium’s in-built microphone would pick her up, and asked, in a conversational tone, “How y’all doing?
I haven’t seen most of you since the last time we had this little get-together. ”
A few of the reporters replied with “fine,” or with inquiries about her own health. Most just shouted for her attention, already getting down to the meat of the thing.
The Princess swallowed the urge to sigh.
This was what she liked the least about this little ritual.
No one wanted to talk to her: they just wanted to get her to slip up and admit to something titillating, something that would sell their papers and tarnish her image.
As if she didn’t understand that for her, image was everything; as if she would risk it all for a drunken tryst or a stolen cigarette.
She didn’t care what the reporters thought of her.
Most of them were sure that she had a whole secret second life that they could profit from, if they could just uncover it.
It was what the children thought that mattered.
She was never going to do anything to endanger what those children thought.
“Yes, in the front row,” she said, pointing to a reporter who had at least been polite enough to raise his hand, rather than just shouting.
“Miss Miller, what do you have to say about the recent directorial changes at The Super Patriots, Inc.? The corporation has tried repeatedly to recruit you. Do you feel that the new leadership may change your answer?”
“Not in the slightest.” It was a softball question: he had probably been planted, or at least encouraged by management, and she was grateful for that.
It was best if she could start with something that didn’t hurt to answer.
“I believe that the current organizational team will provide excellent guidance for The Super Patriots. They have a good vision for the team, and they understand how to work with others. At the same time, I am very happy where I am. I’m in a team with the children of the world, and they don’t need me taking on another boss. ”
“Miss Miller, do you feel as if the independent heroes of the world have a responsibility to come together to monitor the new Super Patriots, to avoid further abuses of their power?”
The question had come from one of the newer reporters.
She hadn’t called on him. The Princess turned in his direction and smiled sweetly.
There was nothing about her expression that could be called anything but pleasant, and yet it still somehow managed to be full of knives. “What paper are you with, sugar?”
“I’m with The Powers Gazette,” said the reporter. He was starting to look nervous. Good. A little nervousness would serve him well.
“New to the beat?” The Princess kept smiling. “I guess you haven’t been to one of these press conferences before. I’ll answer anything I’m asked, but manners are important here. You raise your hand if you want to ask me a question. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the reporter, shrinking down in his seat.
“Thank you. Now, as to your question, no, I don’t believe the independent heroes should be providing oversight for The Super Patriots, Inc.
They’re a good company that got led astray.
They have government watchdogs keeping that from happening again.
As to the rest of us, we all have cities or states or theme parks,” she paused to allow for laughter, “that we’re tasked to protect.
If we spent all our time watching our peers to be sure that they wouldn’t do anything wrong, we’d be neglecting the people who count on us. ”
The reporter raised his hand. The Princess’s heart sank.
She did her best not to let it show on her face.
Follow-up questions about things other than her wardrobe were almost always bad.
Still, she nodded, giving him permission to continue.
Anything else would have been taken as cowardice, and she couldn’t have that.
Fairy tale princesses weren’t cowards. Neither were superheroes.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“You mentioned the new government regulations controlling superhumans and their powers,” said the reporter. “What do you think of the restrictions that are being placed on the animus power class? Do you feel as if this is a proportionate response to the situation with Supermodel?”
The Princess took a sharp breath, feeling her smile die.
She didn’t try to summon it back. It would have been inappropriate, under the circumstances, and she was glad of that.
Sometimes, smiling was the worst part. “You know, there’s been a lot of focus on Supermodel.
How she went bad, how she dragged the company down with her, and I don’t think it’s wrong to look there for answers.
She was a good woman once, and if she lost sight of that, it was at least in part because there was no one to teach her about her own powers.
I’m not seeing that much focus on Velveteen.
She was an animus too, and she brought Supermodel down.
No power is inherently good or bad. It’s all in how people choose to use it. ”
“It’s interesting that you should mention Velveteen,” said the reporter.
He didn’t raise his hand this time. This was what he had been angling toward all along.
“No one has seen her since the battle at The Super Patriots, Inc. We have only your word, and the word of the other heroes involved, as to what happened. She has never come forth to give a statement. It’s been a year.
Do you know the whereabouts of Velma ‘Velveteen’ Martinez, and are you concealing her from the authorities? ”
Damn you, thought the Princess. Aloud, she said, “I do not. She came to the Crystal Glitter Unicorn Cloud Castle after the fight, to recover from her injuries and rest. Then she left. I don’t know where she went, and I haven’t heard from her.
I wish I would. She is a very good friend of mine, and I love her dearly. I worry about her.”
“Miss Miller—” began the reporter.
The Princess held up her hand, stopping him.
“No more,” she said. “I told you we raised our hands here, and you ignored it, because you wanted to use me to score points against my friend. Velveteen never did anything wrong. She gave up her childhood because people she thought were on her side weren’t, and then they harried her through her adulthood, until she finally became the hero they’d never really wanted her to be.
Now she’s gone, and I’m worried about her, and you want to use me to hurt her more.
It’s not going to happen, and I’ll thank you to leave her alone.
She deserves better than the treatment she’s received. ”
It was rare for the Princess to lose her temper during one of these sessions, although it wasn’t entirely unheard of. Everyone was quiet for a moment, scribbling notes or simply staring. Finally, cautiously, another hand went up.
“Yes?” said the Princess.
“Princess, who made the dress you’re wearing today?”
“Do you like it?” The Princess stepped out from behind the podium and did a little twirl, winding her train around her legs, before returning to her original position.
“The dress was made by my usual tailors, which is to say, several skilled raccoons, pine martens, and squirrel monkeys. They’ve been paid for their labor, before you ask, although none of them wanted money.
Most woodland creatures operate on what’s considered an alternate revenue stream.
The base design was by Grace Yant of Southern California, who submitted it through our spring portal for my wardrobe.
She won annual passes to the park for herself and her family, and a dinner with me at the Castle.
She’s a very talented little girl.” Her original drawing had been more scribble and less sketch, but it had been clear enough for the raccoons, who were accustomed to working from less.
The next several questions were in the same vein, softballs about her wardrobe, her work in the parks, and her volunteer duties.
The Princess answered them with dutiful enthusiasm, trying not to sound like she was utterly bored and would rather have been virtually anywhere else on the planet.
The hour was winding down when the new reporter, the one who’d asked about Velveteen, put his hand up again.
The Princess gritted her teeth. She wanted to tell the man where he could shove his questions, and suggest that he follow them with his notebook and recorder.
But she knew better. This little display was to prove that she was still the sweet Southern girl she’d been since she went to work for the company.
It made the shareholders happy, and it kept things going smoothly.
If she wanted the world to stay the way it was, she had to play along.
No matter how much she hated it. “Yes, sugar?” she said, through gritted teeth.