Free Velveteen vs. the Junior Super Patriots by Seanan McGuire Page A

what was true for her. She knew, for example, that she was a twenty-four year old woman (with twenty-five looming ever closer in the rear-view mirror of her life) who had only ever kissed a single man. Who had only ever wanted to kiss a single man, a man who’d started out as a broad-shouldered, golden-haired boy with a lopsided smile that sometimes darted in her direction like a gift. Whatever the truth was for heroes as a whole, for Velma, there had only ever been one man. Near as she could tell, there was only ever going to be one man. The man who was right in front of her, floating half a foot above the ground in his iconic orange and blue costume, cape billowing gently in the wind. There was always wind for people like him. Anything to increase the drama of the moment.
    He looked about as uncomfortable as she felt. That was something, anyway. Not much, but something.
    “Hi, Vel,” he said, almost reluctantly.
    Despite her growing sense of dread, Velma felt those two little words vibrate all the way down to the core of her body and then back out again. He’d always called her “Vel,” in and out of costume. It was the best way to keep himself from blowing it and calling her the wrong thing at the wrong time. (Not that she hadn’t blown it a time or two—they all had—but the media was surprisingly good about bleeping out the names of child heroes. Maybe because the government would come down on them like a ton of lead if they ever let the secret identity of someone under eighteen see the light of day.)
    Swallowing hard, Velma forced the feeling away. “This is how we’re going to do this,” she said, secretly marveling at how reasonable she sounded. “There’s a Starbucks down the street. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. If you’re not there, in street clothes, with a venti mocha for me, I’m going to get back in my car and keep going.”
    “Vel—”
    “Are you here on your own? Or are you here because Marketing sent you?”
    Silence.
    “Have I done anything that you can legally arrest me for?”
    More silence.
    “Yeah. I thought not. Meet me at the Starbucks, or leave me alone. And don’t you dare tell me I’m being unreasonable, because you always knew where I was. You’re the one who didn’t call.” Holding herself as regally as a queen, she turned, gathered her snack foods off the hood, and got into the car. She didn’t let herself look back at him as she started the engine and drove away, fighting against the tide of people who were already rushing to get an up-close and personal glimpse of a real live superhero.
    She was able to tell herself that the tears in her eyes were just there because she wasn’t used to flashbulbs anymore; she hadn’t blinked quickly enough when the cameras started going off.
    She was almost able to make herself believe it.
    “Fucked-up times five billion,” she whispered, and drove on.
    *
    Eight years ago. The headquarters of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. The private quarters of Action Dude, also known as “Aaron Frank.” The entire junior team had been moved to separate rooms in the last month, supposedly because they were growing up and earning the right to a little more space. Privately, Velveteen believed it was because the Claw had been complaining about Action Dude sneaking her in after lights-out. Marketing didn’t mind a little teen romance, as long as the participants were photogenic and careful to avoid unwanted complications. The Claw complained, and suddenly, Action Dude was sleeping solo.
    Velveteen felt a little sorry for the Claw, when she stopped to think about it. He wasn’t photogenic, that much was certain; he was barely even human after the things his father had done to him. Sure, those were the things that were keeping him alive, but he was never going to make the front cover of Secret Identity , the superhero set’s answer to Tiger Beat .
    She’d made the cover. Three times, actually. Once since she started