Page 56 of Velveteen vs. The Consequences of Her Actions

“The daughter of the Toymaker is not yet an archetype; she is idea as much as she is flesh, but she exists in your world alongside ours,” said the Snow Queen. “She may go where she will, and the consequences will be upon her.”

Jack laughed unsteadily. “Aren’t they always?” she asked, and looked to Velveteen. “Well? You’re the one leading this parade.”

“So let’s go,” said Velveteen.

The Snow Queen waved her hand. The doors of the Hall of Mirrors swung slowly open, revealing the glittering maze beyond. Aaron bore down harder on Vel’s hand. She paused, realizing that he had never been here before.

“It’s all right,” she murmured. “It’s just the versions of us that we might have been. They can’t hurt you if you don’t touch the mirrors.”

“Because that’s reassuring,” muttered Aaron. He didn’t let go of her hand, and she didn’t try to pull away. They seemed to be taking comfort from each other.

Yelena, watching this, smiled to herself. It had been too long since she’d seen them like this.

Some things were always meant to be, even if they only happened at the end of the world.

Velveteen took a deep breath. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She walked into the Hall of Mirrors with Aaron by her side. Yelena landed lightly next to Torrey, and they followed their friends through the door. Jack brought up the rear, glancing at her father’s face long enough to see his reassuring nod. She didn’t look at her mother at all.

The doors slammed shut behind her, blocking the group from view. Santa and the Snow Queen stayed where they were, silent, looking at anything but each other, while around them, the wind howled. A blizzard was kicking up. For once, it wasn’t clear which one of them was to blame. For once, it didn’t really matter.

VELVETEEN vs. Everything You Ever Wanted

The mirrors stretched out to infinity around them, recognizable as mirrors only while they were at a distance. As long as no one was standing directly in front of them, they reflected the hall around them, creating a fractal wonderland of light and shadow. As soon as a member of the group passed, however, the mirrors flickered to life, showing distorted reflections of the people they were not, but could have been, had things gone ever so slightly differently.

Velveteen walked past Marionettes in white and gray, past Roadkills in black leather and silver spikes, past a hundred variations of her bunny costume. Past versions of herself who were holding Action Dude’s hand, or Tag’s hand, or no one’s hand; past Velveteens with toddlers on their hips and older children standing nearby. Those children were just as fractal as their parents. Some wore costumes; some wore street clothes; some—and oh, those hurt her heart—wore the training uniforms of The Super Patriots, Inc. She did her best not to meet their eyes. She just kept walking.

Action Dude walked past mirrors that showed him married to Sparkle Bright, both of them smiling company-approved smiles, both of them with eyes that might as well have been painted on. He walked past mirrors that showed him married to Velveteen, both of them smiling honest smiles, if occasionally strained ones (and one that showed her in a white and gray uniform, which was a little weird, but she was still holding his hand, and they still looked happy). Sometimes his uniform changed, the “AD” on his chest replaced by a smaller “E” high on the right side. Sometimes there were children, in the mirrors he shared with Velveteen. He tried not to look at them. They hurt his heart.

Polychrome walked past mirrors that showed her in white, in black, in rainbows; alone, or with Velveteen, or once, with a woman who looked like Jack, only blue-skinned and wearing a leotard that would have made an ice skater blush. None of them showed her Victory Anna, and she tightened her grip on the hand of the woman she loved, reminded, once again, that they were never meant to be together. Somehow, the universe had given her two shots at the impossible, and she was never, never letting go.

Jack walked past Frostbites and Jackie Frosts and Snow Princesses, and she wept with every step she took, and her tears fell as trails of glitter, and there was nothing frozen about them. She had lost all the ice that had ever been in her, and some things, once lost, are impossible to regain. Some things are lost forever.

Victory Anna walked past mirrors that showed her nothing but herself, and wondered what all the fuss was about.

“Do we actually have a goal in mind, or are we simply enjoying our tour of all the mirrors in the damn world?” she asked pleasantly. “I inquire primarily because I did not bring any libations for this journey, and will eventually require a cup of tea, lest I murder you all for the crime of existing in my general vicinity when I do not have anything to drink.”

“You sure do know how to pick ’em, Lena,” said Velveteen. She kept walking, eyes fixed resolutely forward. She knew better than to give the mirrors any power over her. “You heard Santa. We need to find the door. Once we find the door, we go through it, and we find out what comes next.”

“You’ll forgive me if I put little faith in an anthropomorphic personification rooted in a culture I have never fully been a part of.”

“So put your faith in me,” said Jack, looking over her shoulder at Victory Anna. “I’m your friend. You know I wouldn’t lie to you. If Papa says this door exists, then it exists.”

“Any idea what’s on the other side?” asked Action Dude. Somewhere between the front steps and the first mirror, he had started thinking of himself as his heroic ID again. It didn’t matter that he was still in street clothes. This was a job for a hero. This was a job for Action Dude. Not Aaron Frank, who was a nice guy, but who would honestly have been happy to just be left alone for a little while, especially now that Vel was speaking to him again. It was such a novel situation that he just wanted some time to enjoy it.

“Not a clue,” said Velveteen, and kept walking.

* * *

The existence of parallel realities—the multiverse, if you will—has led to the rise of several schools of philosophy. Some argue that the very existence of branching realities means that all choices are good choices: all choices are reflected somewhere, after all, in some parallel world. Because of this, morality is a social construct, intended to make this world, this reality as palatable as possible. It is not inherently good or evil. It simply is.

Those who have made an actual study of the multiverse dismiss this view as simplistic, and probably a sign that the person adhering to it just wants an excuse to be a supervillain. Not all possible choices can be reflected or, if they are, not all possible choices can be viewed when starting from our world. Every reality they have been able to find has had some points of commonality with our own. Even Victory Anna, currently viewed as unique within the multiverse, can be traced back to a time-travel accident in a world that would fit nicely into a cluster of neo-Victorian steampunk realities which endure even to the present day. Her uniqueness is a consequence of her world’s demise; in all the other parallels where she might have once been born, she has long since died of old age.

The greatest argument against a truly infinite accessible multiverse is the persistence of individuals. Conception, argue the scholars, is a matter of timing, a matter of luck, a race against a million other factors to even begin the long, slow process of gestation. So many pregnancies end in spontaneous miscarriage, unable to attach properly, unable to mature—and that accounts only for the wanted ones, the pregnancies that are somehow desired across the multiverse.

Finding a single world which contains a single cognate for a person known to exist in this reality should, in a truly infinite multiverse, be cause for global celebration. But we do not find a single cognate. We find worlds of cognates, reality after reality which matches our own in all but the smallest of details. Their points of deviation are frequently within the last century. Those worlds are more comprehensible than the steampunk worlds, the cyberpunk worlds, the worlds where the divergence happened hundreds of years ago, yet somehow resulted in the same familiar faces populating the stories we have access to.

The multiverse, it seems, has a plan. What that plan is, and whether it is being formed by an unthinking personification of the vastness of reality or by some group of heroes as far beyond our comprehension as our superhumans are to squirrels, we have no way of knowing. Perhaps that is the most terrifying aspect of what is, after all, a terrifying topic: we have no way of knowing.