VELVETEEN vs. Uncomfortable Resolutions
Velveteen had spent most of her life sleeping alone.
When she was in pain after a patrol or in a particularly bad mood, she still preferred sleeping alone, which was only a problem because they didn’t have any spare bedrooms. On those nights, Tag had to sleep on the couch, and although he always said he understood, asking him to leave the bedroom still caused horrible memories of her parents to rise behind her eyes, her mother throwing her father’s clothes at him as she expelled him from her bed, her father moping all the way into exile.
She’d never wanted to be like her parents.
Not since she was five years old and realized her mother was never going to protect her, never going to choose her over the bottom of a bottle.
Somehow, sleeping alone in a sterile guest room in The Super Patriots, Inc.
’s main dormitory was even worse than sending Tag to sleep on the couch.
Uncertainty had done his best with the rooms, but they were still the superheroic equivalent of hotel rooms, clean and white and designed to be cleaned with flamethrowers and bleach.
(Flamethrowers weren’t standard for the kind of hotel rooms favored by ordinary people, but in the few superhero-oriented hotels, the cleaning staff had to be prepared for everything from biological toxins secreted through the fingers to extradimensional nanotechnology that needed to be sterilized before it could go rogue and start devouring the unwary.
These rooms were closer to those hotels than they were to anything else.
Velveteen was quite sure once this was over and she was allowed to go home, this entire wing of the building would be doused in accelerant and set on fire for the sake of operational safety.)
Tag was two rooms down. Much as she’d wanted to, when the American Dream had announced their rooms were ready, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to demand to be housed with her boyfriend.
It seemed wrong, somehow, to be in what was effectively her childhood home and asking to share her temporary quarters with her boyfriend.
Now she really wished she’d been willing to push through that feeling, because this was terrible.
Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling, painted the same industrial white as the ceilings in the wing where the junior team members had been housed.
They were repainted twice a year, and the smell of fresh paint had always reminded her of those awful, impersonal days, when her living space had been regularly redesigned to fit the desires of the Marketing Department, to make sure the latest merchandise from her personal sponsors was openly displayed.
When she’d moved into her first shitty apartment after leaving The Super Patriots, Inc.
, a newly-minted adult with no money and no prospects, she’d taken an unimaginable delight in leaving her underwear in the center of the bedroom floor, where no one was going to photograph it or demand she put it away.
If this was so hard on her, it had to be even worse for Polychrome, who had actually graduated from those postage-stamp junior hero rooms into a full luxury apartment that was supposedly “hers,” if she ignored the constant redecorating by that same Marketing Department.
There was a reason that, after she’d moved in with Vel, she’d spent the first several months at their Portland address “accidentally” leaving her bra in the laundry room, and that reason didn’t have anything to do with an exhibitionist streak.
But at least Polychrome had been willing to insist Victory Anna stay with her, and out of all of them, Victory Anna was the one who had no negative associations with this place, no ghosts lurking in the white walls or the hotel-efficient en suite bathrooms. For her, this had to be an interesting change of scenery, and nothing more alarming than that.
Velveteen rolled over again, trying not to focus on how uncomfortable she was.
They were here for their safety, that was all, and when this was over, they could go home.
They’d probably find Jackie waiting in the front room, ready for a fight and angry that they hadn’t taken the time to call her before they ran for the hills.
Really, so much of her own backstory made more sense now that Jackie existed again. If she could just keep her entire team on the same plane of reality for a while, she’d have a substantially easier time of things moving forward.
And they were going to move forward. They were going to find a way to stop all this stupid governmental overreach, and they were going to go home, and get on with the superheroic version of living happily ever after.
The Princess would probably be delighted to lend a hand in making sure that actually happened for them.
They’d always been friends and allies, but after the last few years, Vel considered her a member of the team, someone she would be willing to lay down her life for.
It was a wonderful change, being part of a team again.
Because that was the worst part of being here. Part of her—a deep, treacherous, indestructible part of her—had genuinely missed it.
* * *
Even the most megalomaniacal superhuman was still a human being at their core, and like all human beings, they tended to seek connection.
Forming teams and social groups came as naturally to them as it did to anyone else, and like anyone else, those groups would be based on shared life experiences, interests, and beliefs.
Because of this, even a team of “heroes” might hold positions that the people around them would consider more villainous.
No one, not even a superhuman, is purely good or evil.
Most super teams, heroic or villainous, form out of people who have some preexisting association or relationship, or who share similar power levels.
Someone who could bench-press a building was unlikely to form a productive team bond with someone who could lift slightly more than the human norm, unless they were related, or members of the same college swim team, or something else that rendered them willing to tolerate each other’s company despite the disparity in their abilities.
It’s possible those same abilities and the ways they alienate the average superhuman from the civilian populations around them are the reason superhumans who have been denied the ability to team up with their peers will become increasingly unstable, unpredictable, and unpleasant to be around.
In the absence of the proper social stimulation, they begin lashing out, and depending on the powers in play, they can do excessive amounts of damage.
People need people. When people aren’t given the things they need, bad things happen. This is a universal truth, and it has nothing to do with superpowers.
Velma “Velveteen” Martinez was far from the first to rebel against the structured nature of life within The Super Patriots, Inc.
Many before her had found it impossible to live under the rules dictating life within those halls.
Most of their names have been forgotten or besmirched by unproven reports of villainy, as the powerful marketing machine of the corporation turned against them.
Still others—Shuffle Up, the Claw, Fun Gus—turned villain in earnest. But the one commonality all former members of the organization have reported is simple:
Loneliness. Within The Super Patriots, Inc.
, all social needs had been met, thanks to a combination of other superhumans in close proximity and a degree of event planning any cruise ship would have envied.
Every day and hour had been packed with activities and clubs.
It might seem odd for a man who could level mountains to weep over the loss of his knitting club, or a woman who could control any object made primarily from cellulose to mourn her inability to go back to her puzzle society, but they were still human.
Those small social connections had been lynchpins of their sanity, whether or not they had been aware before leaving their original teams.
Solo superhumans make bad decisions, and those bad decisions can get people hurt. Is it any wonder, then, that no laws have been passed restricting superhuman team-ups, even when reducing their number might mean reducing the collateral damage their members can cause?
Sane superhumans are the safer option, for everyone.
* * *
While Velveteen tossed and turned in her bed, Polychrome floated in the corner of her room, legs crossed, skin strobing through every visible color, and more than a few that couldn’t be seen by anyone who didn’t possess crustacean genes.
Victory Anna watched out of the corner of her eye, but the bulk of her attention remained fixed on the process of disassembling the digital clock radio that had been on the bedside table.
Where she’d managed to find the screwdriver was anyone’s guess, and Polychrome had long since learned she was happier if she didn’t ask.
The questions only ever confused Victory Anna, who didn’t understand why anyone would ever bother not having a screwdriver when having one was an option.
“Got another listening device,” reported Victory Anna, in a clinical tone. “I really thought these bastards would be better at this.”
“You’re finding the ones they want you to find.”
There was a long, dangerous pause. Finally, Victory Anna said, “I know you’re upset and near out of your mind with concern, so I’m going to forgive you for that comment.
But I assure you, they have no one sufficiently talented to prevent my locating any and every device which might be used to spy upon us. ”
“Of course,” said Polychrome. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, my love,” said Victory Anna, popping off the front of the clock with a twitch of her finger. “You’re under quite a lot of stress right now, and I fully understand why that might lead you to say things which you don’t entirely mean.”