VELVETEEN PRESENTS ACTION DUDE vs. Doing the Right Thing
Action Dude—who hadn’t been able to stop thinking of himself that way in months; it felt like Aaron Frank had become a luxury in the days since he had been named one of the co-CEOs of The Super Patriots, Inc.
—paced in front of the big picture window that made up one wall of his office.
He missed the person he’d been before everything went terribly wrong, but when the call had come, he had answered, and now he was paying the price.
Technically, he shared the position of CEO of The Super Patriots, Inc.
with Dotty Gale and American Dream, a fact that had earned them more than a few snide comments from government pundits.
“If they’re going to set up their leadership like it’s a politically correct photoshoot, how can we trust them to regulate themselves?
” was one of the nicer things he’d heard, and he was pretty sure that it hadn’t been intended as friendly.
One of the biggest conflicts he’d had with Vel when they were kids had always been over secret identities.
She’d wanted to maintain one after she turned eighteen and the government stopped mandating it; he hadn’t.
He’d always insisted that a proud superhuman should be able to go out without the mask, and say “Hey, I know that we may have our differences, but let’s leave them at the office when it’s time for the PTA meeting.
” She’d never agreed with him, just looked at him sadly and occasionally whacked him with a pillow for being so unthinkably stupid.
Now, years and miles and deaths and resurrections and tragedies and terrors from that level of innocence, he found himself looking out the window at the manicured grounds of the company that had raised him (complete with the deceptive blue serenity of Lake Pontchartrain, who had come home from the Princess’s castle when things began to get complicated, yet hadn’t returned to her human form in months) and realized that somewhere along the line, he’d started to agree with her.
He would have loved a secure secret identity, something he could wear out of the house.
He hadn’t been to Shabbat services in months. It wasn’t safe.
Nothing was safe anymore. Not even this room, with its big glass windows and the bloodstains hidden under the carpet.
Nothing was sacrosanct. And soon, the new CEOs of The Super Patriots, Inc.
were going to need to make a choice. Did they let the government into their records, those careful, terrifying records kept by Supermodel, after she’d gone bad and before she’d died?
Or did they refuse, and face the consequences of that refusal?
“You’d know what to do if you were here, Vel,” he said, ceasing his pacing and leaning his forehead against the window.
He wished he could go flying. Things were always so much clearer when he flew.
“You’d tell me to stop being stupid and do the right thing, and then you’d tell me what the right thing really was. Why couldn’t you stay?”
“Because you don’t go making promises to holidays if you’re going to break them.
Holidays have their own rules, and I wouldn’t want to get on their bad side.
” The voice was young, female, and utterly guileless.
That was part of Dotty Gale’s shtick. She could sound innocent while she was ripping someone’s larynx out.
Action Dude turned. The current avatar of the idea and ideals of Oz was standing in his doorway. There were no red spots on her silver slippers; she hadn’t killed anyone recently. That was a nice change. “Dotty,” he said. “What’s up?”
Her expression sobered, as much as it was capable of doing so. “We just got an anonymous call from someone in Portland. It’s about Velveteen. She’s back.”
Action Dude broke the sound barrier leaving his office.
* * *
Following the death of Supermodel and the second disappearance of Jolly Roger, The Super Patriots, Inc.
entered a period of rebuilding. Their interim CEOs had been chosen, according to eyewitness accounts, by Velma “Velveteen” Martinez, who had been severely wounded in the fight against Supermodel.
They had been better able to deal with government bureaucracy than Velveteen herself…
or maybe they had simply failed to run quickly enough.
Aaron “Action Dude” Frank was, at the moment of his coronation as the company’s heir apparent, the last member of Velveteen’s own hero class still standing.
This may explain her willingness to single him out, although it is unclear whether she did so out of favoritism or anger.
(Their relationship, and the end of same, has been well-documented in the files recording her time with the corporation.) Born the son of Daniel and Melissa Frank of Staten Island, New York, he acquired his powers through exposure to irradiated maple syrup, as did so many others with the basic “flying brick” set.
Charming, attractive, and well-positioned to be the all-American superhero, he frustrated his early handlers with his calm refusal to reject his faith, continuing to attend services at the temple he had belonged to since he was a child.
This may be the only corporate edict he ever chose to reject.
Action Dude’s history is a patchwork of compromises, concessions, and willing agreement to whatever The Super Patriots, Inc.
asked of him. Not exactly the sort of thing that sets one up to become CEO.
Dotty Gale first appeared a week after The Wizard of Oz went into wide release, popping out of thin air on Hollywood Boulevard with a basket in her arms and a small, scruffy dog of indeterminate breed at her heels.
She has remained essentially the same ever since: physically twelve years old, with golden hair, an angelic smile, and silver slippers which have never been seen to leave her feet.
Her recorded powers include teleportation, summoning, controlling, and redirecting wind storms, and disaster recovery.
She has been an invaluable help to FEMA over the past several decades, lessening the impact of major storms on human cities and preventing loss of life in the aftermath of the storms which cannot be prevented.
Despite her adult attitude and opinions, her legal status has always been questionable, with some claiming that she needs to be placed in a stable home, while others insist that she is an illegal immigrant from a country that doesn’t actually exist.
The American Dream was recruited by The Super Patriots, Inc.
as a child, and their civilian identity has not yet been released, despite repeated requests for this information.
The first photos of them in their heroic identity appears to indicate a female child hero, as their uniform is equipped with a skirt, and their hair is longer than the level of their jaw—at the time, a clear indication of gender on the part of the Marketing Department.
The next appearances of the American Dream, however, would seem to indicate a male child.
While the identity of the individual in the costume remained consistent, no clear cues as to their gender were ever given.
It was not until the announcement of the new CEOs that the American Dream finally gave a statement: “I am genderfluid,” they said, to a watching press conference.
“Whether I am male or female right now is irrelevant to how well I do my job and protect the public. Thank you.”
Requests for further comment have been ignored and, in some cases, outright refused.
With three individuals whose credentials are unclear at best, and absent at worst, in charge of the largest organization of superhumans in the world, is it any wonder that steps are being taken to guarantee the safety of the public? Humanity must be protected.
Sometimes even from our protectors.
* * *
Velveteen opened her eyes to find herself staring up at a blindingly white ceiling. She blinked several times, trying to reassure herself that she hadn’t somehow ended up back in Winter, about to go through the whole ordeal all over again.
The blankets were warm and soft and felt like polyester, a sensation she hadn’t realized how much she missed until it was back.
The Seasonal Lands weren’t big on synthetic fibers.
She could feel her heartbeat speeding up from the stress of not knowing where she was.
Even having a heartbeat wasn’t a given anymore.
She reached out with the part of her that animated the world, and while she didn’t find any toys in her immediate vicinity, she also didn’t encounter the barriers that Spring had placed on her.
She was back in the Calendar Country, back in the real world. It was the only thing that made sense.
She attempted to sit up. The handcuff fastened around her left wrist stopped her. She looked at the cuff. The cuff did not do her the courtesy of disappearing.
“What the fuck?” She tugged on her wrist. The cuff clanked against the metal frame of the bed.
If there had been a master class on “how to take Vel from drowsy wakefulness to fully awake and, yes, also really pissed off,” they would have used “handcuff her to a bed” as lesson number one.
She jerked on the cuff, rattling it hard against the metal bedframe.
Other details were starting to introduce themselves, details like the needle in her arm and the dull, persistent ache in her head.
She’d been drugged. Someone had drugged her.
Someone was going to regret that.
The room she was in was not only devoid of toys: it was devoid of anything that might have given her a clue as to where she was.
The walls were painted a dull shade of industrial cream, and there were no furnishings apart from the bed she was tethered to.
A few machines stood duty nearby, presumably monitoring her, but also reminding her that she was a prisoner here.
She couldn’t just disconnect them and go.