Page 76 of Velveteen vs. The Consequences of Her Actions

“Technically, Night Shift isn’t her doctor.” Jack had to virtually jog to keep up with the taller woman. It probably looked pretty silly, but the birds and woodland creatures who had been serving them tea didn’t say anything. “She’s—I mean, they’re—her nurse. Es. Nurses. What’s the pronoun for one person who is a female person but sometimes is a whole bunch of people at the same time?”

“Confusing.” The Princess raised her hands and shoved against the doors, which flew open with a satisfying “slam.” That, too, was a part of the castle’s magic. It fitted its responses to its owner’s mood.

The recovery room was the sort of vast, airy space that would have been used as a ballroom in a smaller, more logical residence: it was the only ordinary use that could justify a ceiling that high and walls made entirely of colored glass panes. Here, it was one of the less impressive rooms. Why, that vaulted ceiling wasn’t large enough for a Pegasus race, and they would have been hard-pressed to fit more than half a herd of unicorns inside!

Jack had grown up at the North Pole, surrounded by the infinite vastness of the living Winter, and sometimes she felt like the Crystal Glitter Unicorn Cloud Castle was a little bit over the top.

Maybe more than a little bit.

In the middle of the room, three identical women in white nurse uniforms straight out of a World War II documentary were frantically playing what looked like a game of keep-away with a woman in a burgundy ball gown. Their prize, and her objective, was a simple brown domino mask. As Jack and the Princess watched, the woman in the ball gown lunged for the nearest nurse. The nurse flung the mask into the air, where it was snatched by a newly-appeared fourth woman in uniform.

“No fair!” howled Velveteen, trying to push herself off the floor. The nurse she had been sprawled atop disappeared, and the other two originals sat on her, pinning her down. She shouted in wordless fury and frustration, unable to break free.

“And that, my dearest, is why we will not help you defeat your keepers,” said the Princess, gliding across the floor toward the ruckus. “If you can’t even beat the lady who brings your morning Jell-O, how are you supposed to stand up to a mugger? Or a supervillain? Or, Grimm forbid, the press?” She shuddered delicately.

Velma, who had never met a delicate gesture she didn’t want to punch, scowled at her. “Did you tell her to start sitting on me?” she demanded. “Is that why my nurse is getting so aggressive?”

“I’m getting this aggressive because I suit the treatment to the patient,” said Night Shift primly. Two more of her appeared. After helping herself up, she informed the Princess, “I’m taking my lunch breaks,” and stalked out of the room.

Velma rolled onto her back. “Ow,” she said.

“Well, honey, I’m not going to argue with that,” said the Princess.

* * *

Superhumans are injured at a rate substantially higher than that of the general public. Even those who don’t actively pursue a career in either heroism or villainy are likely to be drawn into the epic battles which their more civic-minded fellows provoke. Action hero or actuary, if you can throw a car, you’re likely to be called upon to save the city. As many superhumans are unable to file insurance claims or visit municipal hospitals without compromising their secret identities, the question of recovery looms large over the community.

While the occasional hospital devoted to superhuman services has cropped up, they’ve all been forced to operate under conditions of utmost secrecy—not, as some assume, due to threat of personal rivalry following a hero to chemotherapy or a villain to their prenatal checkups, but due to the increasingly invasive and restrictive legislation pushed through by The Super Patriots, Inc., who did not want anyone associated in any way with their organization seeking medical care outside their own R&D Division. These laws have historically kept the hospitals from either assisting the community they wished to serve or meeting their own funding needs, and most have closed their doors in under a year. Some hope that the collapse of The Super Patriots, Inc. as the dominant figure in superhuman legislation will make it easier for these facilities to establish and maintain themselves.

Others take grim joy in pointing out that as long as the superhuman community loses a certain number of its members to ailments which have nothing to do with their work—as long as they’re dying of cancer, burst appendixes, and blood poisoning—there will never be any risk of their numbers growing beyond a certain point. Fear, in other words, will continue to take their medical options away.

When a superhuman is injured in the line of duty, the only options available are positively Victorian in nature: bed rest, the aid of friends and trustworthy specialists, time, and hope. Hope for healing; hope for a good outcome; hope that their friends will not tire of them before their recovery is complete.

With hope playing such a large role in the process, is it any real wonder that hopelessness is the most common of complications?

* * *

“Sweetie, I don’t know if you know this, what with you having been basically broke for your entire adult life—and that’s a choice you’re allowed to make, you being a grown woman and all, but maybe if you’d called on your friends a little sooner things wouldn’t have gotten so bad—but nurses cost money.” The Princess folded her arms and glowered at Velveteen, who was showing no inclination to get off the floor.

(Honestly, Jack wasn’t sure Velveteen could get off the floor. It had only been a week since the other hero’s return from the Seasonal Lands, and while she was recovering quickly, she wasn’t recovering that quickly. Velveteen had been malnourished, dehydrated, and run down in every way it was possible for a body to be without actually dying. She was over the dehydration, and the petting zoo that staffed the kitchen was working on the malnutrition, but still. She needed about a month in bed, eating bonbons and thinking soothing thoughts, before she tried to wrestle anyone, much less another hero.)

“I’ll pay you back,” said Velveteen.

“No, you won’t,” said the Princess, not unkindly. “Even if I wanted you to, which I don’t, you couldn’t possibly afford it. The Night Shift’s hourly rate is more than admission to our flagship theme park. For a family of four.”

Velveteen blanched. The Princess had always been a truly independent heroine, in large part due to the global entertainment concern that paid for her services and kept her hero’s license up to date. Between that and the fact that her housing, wardrobe, and meals were all provided by her powers, it was no surprise that the Princess was able to save the majority of what she made. According to Masks magazine, she was one of the five wealthiest superhumans in the world, and the only one in the top ten whose powers did not relate directly to the creation or accumulation of wealth.

“Now that we’ve settled that, what were you thinking?” The Princess bent to offer Velveteen her hand. “You could have been hurt.”

“I’ve been hurt before,” said Velveteen, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “I need to be working out if I’m going to get my strength back. I need to go on patrol.”

“We’ve been over this. Beating the living snot out of muggers isn’t physical therapy, no matter how therapeutic it is.”

Velveteen shrugged. “It’s how I’ve stayed in shape for all these years.”

“The thing is, though, you usually let the teddy bears do most of the fighting for you,” said Jack carefully. She still wasn’t sure how to talk to Velveteen. All her memories of the woman were second-hand, colored by the fact that she’d been someone else when they had been formed.

It was too bad no one else could remember that part. Velveteen shot her a wounded look. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” she complained.