Page 147 of Velveteen vs. The Consequences of Her Actions

The majority of superhumans won’t survive far enough into adulthood to become bored or jaded. If they did, the balance of power would shift irrevocably, and they would inevitably begin to press their superiority over more ordinary people. As it stands, superhumans spend their lives in a wash of novelty that leaves them unlikely to overthrow governments or plan coups, or otherwise attempt to maneuver themselves into the halls of the powerful and the bored.

For those lucky few who last long enough to become settled adults, patterns inevitably emerge, repeating conflicts which occupy their time and attention without providing any true mental enrichment. There are a thousand ways to build a city, but only one way to burn it down, after all. Many new-adult superhumans chafe against the sudden intrusion of boredom into their lives, viewing it as unfair and somehow personal when really, it’s just the world doing as the world has always done. Continuing on, with little care for the people it carries with it.

For those superhumans who survive the boring days—the period during which the second-highest number of heroes will die, done in by carelessness when they decide they’ve seen it all—the other side is something else most of them have never experienced, and something they will find a thousand times more dear.

Peace. Beyond the boredom lies peace, a world where the fights go on, but it no longer seems as vital for every single battle to be handled personally; where great powers and great responsibilities no longer go hand-in-hand. For a superhuman who can survive long enough to learn the value of boredom, there is a long and mellow maturity waiting, ready to welcome them with gloved but open hands.

It’s all a matter of staying alive long enough to get there.

Some people have suggested that the teams and traumas model of superhuman management, as practiced by The Super Patriots, Inc., has been partially designed to prevent heroes from reaching that state of peaceful acceptance. Superhumans invested in living in the world, not just saving it, are more inclined to notice the sort of problems that don’t wear capes or carry laser guns. And when Princess Power is telling you to fix the potholes, it can get difficult to tell her “no.”

* * *

Arms over her head to protect her from being swooped, Velveteen ran along the line of the roof, swearing constantly. She’d been sure she was hidden from the bats, and to be fair, she had been, at least from the bats in front of her. The bats behind her had proven to be a different story, and once they’d started screeching and kicking up a fuss, the others had come swarming. Being back on the active superhero circuit meant she worked out more than most people these days, and had the training to run along a narrow concrete boundary without losing her balance and toppling to the city. And that was about the only positive thing she could say about her current situation, which seemed likely to end in rabies shots, if not outright consumption.

Neither of those things sounded like a good time. So she ran as hard and as fast as she could, hoping her flight would bring her to either her team, or something with a face. The limitations on her powers were strange and likely self-induced, some deeply-buried function of her wounded inner child’s refusal to let go of what little control she’d been able to seize. That didn’t make them less real. Without a face to focus on, she was frankly and fantastically fucked.

The bats continued to screech and swoop, getting closer with every pass. It wasn’t going to be long before they made contact, and “near miss” was replaced by “hit” in the vocabulary of her night. Mind racing, Velveteen hunched over and ran as fast as she could.

The air grew suddenly icy cold, and one of the bats screamed, a sound that echoed in the night like a wail from beyond the grave. The air kept getting colder, and two more bats made the same sound, even as the wind from their wings passing close over her head receded.

Velveteen stopped, slowed, and turned to look back. Several bats were flat on the roof behind her, wings frozen inside solid shells of ice. The remaining bats were flapping frantically as they fled into the distance. And a blue-skinned woman in a figure skating uniform was standing on the roof, studying her iced-over fingernails with the vague disinterest of a woman who knew she looked good, even if she had ice crystals forming in her hair.

Sighing with relief, Velveteen took a step toward her. “Jackie,” she said.

“You coulda called, you know,” said Jackie, dropping her hand and giving Velveteen a stern look. “I’m not fragile just because I didn’t exist for a while. That would be ridiculous.”

“Honestly, I’m just not used to having you back on the resource list,” said Velveteen. “Jacqueline was useful under the right circumstances, but she was never a solid bruiser the way you can be. I’ll call sooner next time, I promise.”

“You better,” said Jackie, who was recovering from a near-terminal attack of not technically existing. It was a rare condition, virtually unique to superhumans, and unlike most of its victims, she had chosen to resume her life as if she’d been there the whole time. For her friends and family, all of whom remembered the woman who’d replaced her, it had been jarring and disorienting. For Jackie herself, it had been an endless source of frustration, as she found friends not calling and adventures being missed. She looked at Velveteen, not quite glaring, and waited.

Velveteen, who vaguely remembered the meaning behind that expression, frowned thoughtfully. “Jackie, do you know something about these bats?”

“Ding ding ding and the bunny-girl supreme takes the prize! Jackie, tell her what she’s won,” said Jackie, waving her hands in the air like a children’s TV show host. “Well, Jackie, it looks like she’s won the location of the tear in the dimensional fabric about half a mile above the city, through which giant bats are flying in from an alternate version of Portland.”

“What, on the bat planet?”

“Something like that.”

Velveteen paused. “You were in the neighborhood because you were trying to find the tear, weren’t you?”

“Some of the mirrors got cracked when Aurora pulled her whole ‘let’s teach the selfish Spirit of the Season a lesson about never being selfless for any reason’ stunt, and Mom’s still having trouble looking at me directly, so I’ve been on crack duty,” said Jackie, with a shrug. “This one’s been tricky to pin down, but I know where it is now, and I think you can help me fix it, Miss Animus.”

“Oh, really.” Velveteen crossed her arms. “And how am I going to do that?”

“Do you know how to sew?”

* * *

Less than an hour later, Polychrome was holding Velveteen in a bridal carry while she mimed stiching a tear. The hot air balloon shaped like a jolly cartoon seamstress that Tag had created for her mirrored her motions, but with each pass of the balloon’s inflatable needle, another strand of shimmering rainbow light was left behind, and the black slash in the sky that had been extruding bats for the past several days got a little smaller, a little more repaired.

Jackie and Victory Anna were on bat duty, blasting them out of the sky whenever they tried to swarm, while Tag rode in the basket of his balloon, marker in hand, making constant small corrections and repairs. Anything to keep her in the air. And Velveteen focused, pouring energy into the balloon to keep the repair going.

There was no fanfare when the rift was finally sealed: just a sound like someone closing the lid on a Tupperware container, and furious screeches from the bats still on the wrong side of the dimensional barrier. Jackie and Victory Anna tore into them, cackling wildly.

Polychrome rotated to face the pair, blinking. Velveteen just smiled.

“Violence is often the answer,” she said.