Page 96 of Velveteen vs. The Consequences of Her Actions

“Ah. Well.” He stood, taking his papers with him. “That’s life in the civil service. Thank you for your time, Miss Martinez.”

Vel glared. She stood so fast she nearly knocked her chair over, grabbing it at the last moment and setting it upright as she continued to glare at him. “Fuck you,” she said, in a perfectly genial tone.

“I get that a lot, too,” he said, and watched as she stormed out of the room.

She didn’t look back.

* * *

After Velveteen was gone, Recession emerged from the back and moved to stand near Exposé’s desk, watching her type for almost a full minute before he cleared his throat for her attention. She looked up.

“Well? How did it go? She looked pretty pissed when she stormed out of here.”

“She’s going to be trouble,” he said.

“We already knew that.”

“And now it’s been confirmed. I’m going to go file my report. Coffee after work?”

Exposé nodded. “Coffee sounds great.”

Outside, in the grand tradition of Portland, it began to rain.

VELVETEEN PRESENTS THE PRINCESS vs. The Congressional Committee for Superhuman Oversight

The lights were low in the Crystal Glitter Unicorn Cloud Castle, the rooms staffed by a skeleton crew of nocturnal animals who had been dusting and tidying throughout the night, keeping the place in perfect order. It was all part of the story. Most fairy tale princesses had cleaning and cooking as signs of their goodness, as if a willingness to launder and darn tattered pants was some sort of sign of virtue. The Princess had never been particularly interested in the minutia of housework. She would have done it if the story had insisted, but it turned out the story was happy if it was getting done, and didn’t particularly care how. So it fell to the woodland creatures, some of whom turned out to have a real gift for home maintenance.

Normally, the Princess was asleep while they were working, and for much of the night, she had been. Carrabelle Miller was not someone who could be called a “morning person” under any definition of the phrase, however generous. Normally, the Princess hadn’t been compelled to set a four a.m. alarm. She dragged herself out of her bed, hair fluffy and askew, expression slack in the way that meant either sleep deprivation or Novocain, and slouched toward the nearest bathroom.

Twice a month, she had to put on her biggest, sparkliest dress and go out into the Park in order to convince the story that she was dedicated enough that it should let her keep the bathrooms. Indoor plumbing wasn’t a big part of most fairy tales, but while she was willing to live in a castle—and who didn’t want to live in a castle, really? Especially a magical extradimensional one where the heating bill was nobody’s problem?—she wasn’t willing to live in a castle without access to running water. A few extra days of funneling belief back into the magic was a small price to pay for a toilet that could flush.

The bathroom was exactly where she expected it to be, and as modern as it ever was. The aye-aye who had been wiping down the mirrors gave a startled squeak when it saw her, dropping its washrag and running out of the room at top speed. Carrabelle hiked her panties down and took a seat on her porcelain throne, eyes drifting half-closed. “My hair ain’t that terrifyin’ in the morning,” she said, drawl thicker than ever before her coffee.

The aye-aye didn’t return. That was for the best, considering how little she wanted a small nocturnal primate to watch her pee. The Princess finished her business, stood, flushed, and made her way to the shower, doubling back at the last possible second to wash her hands.

Yes, she was about to bathe, but it was her job to embody every positive idea about fairy tale princesses, and there were more than a few parents who enforced proper bathroom etiquette on their littles by saying “a proper princess always washes her hands after she goes to the bathroom.” Far be it from her to argue with that thin thread of belief.

She didn’t bother to dry them when she was done. There was going along with the belief, and then there was denying herself any agency in the living of her own life. And oh, she was going to need agency today. Shedding nightclothes as she walked, she returned to the shower.

This time, she got in and turned on the water, which came out already perfectly warmed and smelling of roses. She picked up a bottle of apple-scented body wash, squirting a generous portion into her hand, and the castle began waking up all around her. Chandeliers burst into brilliant light, and songbirds opened the curtains, letting in…more darkness. It was, after all, only four o’clock in the morning.

“Vel, you sweet, stupid girl, you better be worth it,” she muttered to herself, working shampoo into her hair and digging fingers into her scalp. Then she stopped, sighing. If it were just about Vel, she could let this one pass. She was a princess, after all, not a warrior queen; she was allowed to let the big injustices pass her by, as long as she stood up against the small ones, the ones that could be defeated with manners and makeovers. But this wasn’t just about Vel. It had never been just about Vel.

Velveteen was unique among her generation of superhumans, one of only two heroes with animus powers allowed to reach adulthood. Supermodel’s path to the top was littered with the bodies of children who should have tapped into the very same power set, kids who should have grown to animate the dead or bring inanimate objects to herky-jerky life. The Princess still didn’t know how Supermodel had been able to find her victims so unerringly—maybe it was something to do with the shared pool of power that all animus-type heroes apparently pulled from and fed into—but she’d done it, year on year, until her peer group was down to just her, a girl who brought toys to life, and a boy who pulled graffiti images from the wall into the world. And now, right now, that group was down to just the girl with the toys.

But it wasn’t going to stay that way. Without Supermodel snuffing them out in their cradles, the newborn animus of the world were going to begin growing up, becoming people in their own right. And as that happened, they would be, for a time, part of the demographic that was the Princess’s responsibility, children who believed in fairy tales, children who deserved a chance to live their lives the way they wanted to live them, and not according to the rules of some government or corporation.

It was easy to dismiss this as all about Vel from the outside, because right now, Vel was the only one alive to understand what was being fought for, and what was at stake. But really, this was about all the animus of the world, the ones who weren’t here yet, the ones who deserved a chance at a fairy tale ending.

The Princess sighed and rinsed the shampoo out of her hair before scrubbing herself briskly down, marveling a little at how mundane the activity was. This life, this body, this story—they were all things she’d had to fight for. Nothing had been given to her easily or for free, and if part of the cost was continuing to fight for all the children who still needed her, she was more than willing to pay. Vel was a convenient excuse on which to hang a battle she would have been involved in no matter what.

She stepped out of the shower to find a trio of kereruˉ waiting with her bathrobe, a wispy pink and yellow confection that would have seemed inappropriately skimpy if she hadn’t known it had been designed by a five-year-old from Topeka who thought it was just about the prettiest thing that ever existed. That little boy wasn’t thinking of sexy when he sketched every little ruffle and flounce. He was just thinking how much he wished his mama had something like that, and how pretty it would be on the Princess. She let the birds slide it over her shoulders and tied it at the waist, murmuring a thanks before leaving the bathroom and heading for her dressing room.

Time to get ready to face the music.

* * *

The field of superhuman law has always been a contentious one. Some will argue that “human” takes priority over “super,” and that superhumans should not be held to any unique legal standards. Others will argue that this is all well and good, but that for someone without superpowers, the saying “if looks could kill” is purely hypothetical, while for some superhumans, it’s a reality of life. If looks could kill, is killing with a look murder, manslaughter, or an act of god? If someone with a rare blood type can save lives, can they be compelled to donate? Can someone with superpowers be compelled to serve the public good?