Page 142 of Velveteen vs. The Consequences of Her Actions

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.”

“Yeah,” said Polychrome. Privately, she wasn’t so sure. Victory Anna was an incredibly talented technopath, in the gadgeteer subclassification: she could do almost anything with simple machines, and in her hands, the definition of a simple machine was an endlessly complicated thing. She could make springs virtually dance.

All this was true, but at the same time, The Super Patriots, Inc. had multiple technopaths on the payroll, and some of them were substantially more versatile than Victory Anna. Imagineer was a gadgeteer on a more technologically advanced scale: she worked in laser grids and atom smashers, not levers and springs. And Handheld, while much younger, was a master of the digital world. His powers had been evolving, and the last time Polychrome had had a reason to look at his dossier, he’d been able to seize control of anything with wireless capability.

Including some of Victory Anna’s larger guns. Polychrome shuddered at the thought of her girlfriend’s weapons turning against her during a firefight. So they’d just have to avoid that.

Something flashed past the window, gleaming bright and vaguely yellow. Polychrome uncrossed her legs, stretching out so that she was floating in the air and standing upright at the same time. “You okay in here for a few minutes?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, go punch one of your former teammates and leave me to my disassembly,” said Victory Anna serenely. “I have all faith you can hand whatever powered upstart is buzzing out window their own behind.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” said Polychrome, and zipped over to the window, undoing the latch and slipping out into the cool night air.

It felt strange for it to be this dark so early. Living on the West Coast had left her unaccustomed to the time zones on the other side of the country. She turned slowly in the air, scanning the sky for signs of another flier.

All she saw at first were stars. They twinkled brightly, just the same when this yard had been her training ground, when the soft green grass below her had been her bed and birthright. She’d been the princess of The Super Patriots, meant to be crowned and cossetted. And kept. The keeping had been a big part of the bargain.

It had taken her a lot longer than it should have to realize she didn’t actually enjoy being a fancy zoo animal. That she wanted the whole sky, not just the sanitized and approved strip of it that they offered her. But once she’d managed to understand, she’d followed it up by getting away, by making amends with the people she should never have allowed herself to be used against, by becoming the person she wanted to be, not the person Marketing had designed.

Stopping in midair, she cycled her light slowly through the visible spectrum, becoming duller and duller until she disappeared completely, surrounded and supported by a haze of deep black light. She was effectively invisible like this, a trick she had only mastered after she’d left the team, when she was hunting for Velveteen and praying for a forgiveness she didn’t believe she deserved.

Some days she still wasn’t certain she deserved it. But she had it now, and she wasn’t letting it go.

She hung there, waiting, and after a few minutes a jet of red and white flame roared past, stopping to hang in midair, a trick every flier eventually learned. How to corner, how to stop, how to hover while presenting your best angles to the waiting cameras. Flying was among the more common abilities, associated with multiple power complexes, including some that honestly didn’t make sense. Not every hero needed to be able to fly. But enough of them could that The Super Patriots, Inc. offered whole classes on not slamming into things.

Classes this woman had clearly passed with, ahem, flying colors. She was wearing a jumpsuit in various shades of red, ranging from brilliant scarlet to dark crimson. Gold trim marked her wrists, ankles, and waist, probably intended to call attention to a trim figure that Polychrome knew was as mandatory as the bright cherry red of her hair. The Super Patriots didn’t tolerate any extra flesh on their fliers, or brown hair on their pyrokinetics.

There had been so many good reasons to get herself out from under corporate control, it was almost easier to list the reasons to stay than the reasons she’d had to go. It would definitely take less time.

The new arrival turned slowly in the air, flames enveloping her feet and keeping her aloft. Finally, she put her hands on her hips and said, in an irritated New England accent, “I know you’re out here. I saw you take the bait. Stop lurking around like some sort of born-again supervillain and come out and face me like the hero you used to be!”

Polychrome narrowed her eyes, resisting the urge to snort. Wrapping herself more tightly in her cocoon of black light, she stayed precisely where she was.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you can’t just waltz back in here and take your position back,” continued the pyrokinetic. “I’m the primary flier for The Super Patriots these days. Me. We don’t need you and your little light tricks, and we wouldn’t take you, anyway, not without a new name and a better costume. ‘Polychrome’? What the hell, did you decide that if your bestie’s code name was from a kid’s book, yours needed to be too? Or did she make you change it?”