The She-Hulk Diaries

by Acosta, Marta

  “Don’t listen to her,” Sven said. “Trust me.”

  I spoke to Superbrat with the same sincerity that I used each time I gave a consultation. “Tonio, I always advise my clients to investigate an associate’s reputation before entering into a contract. Someone who has a record of mendaciousness and broken agreements is also lying when he says that he is trustworthy.”

  Tonio’s eyebrows knit together, and I added, “I am on record as believing in and supporting the rights and liberties of all human variants, including bots, droids, borgs, and clones. Ask Sven how he implanted chips in his Doombots so they won’t challenge him. He doesn’t believe that cyborgs or clones are entitled to the same basic rights as humans. He doesn’t believe you’re a person, and he’ll never treat you as his equal.”

  Superbrat looked from me to Sven and back again as the seconds ticked by. Finally he said, “That makes sense. Thanks for telling me, ma’am.” Superbrat reached into his pocket and pulled out a weapon.

  I tried not to fixate on the “ma’am,” which no one else seems to find outrageous.

  Sven said, “Tonio, what is that?”

  Superbrat waved the device (which I would have to add to his M.O. in my report: “excessive waving of destructive devices”). “It’s my new Discombobulator. It discombobulates molecules and arranges them in another place and time. I’ve got it set to ‘Random.’ First, let’s get rid of your talky girlfriend, because I don’t need any siblings.”

  He pointed the Discombobulator at me, but I flung out my arm saying, “Look!” as I threw the flash paper to the side. It ignited in flames, catching Superbrat’s attention long enough for Sven to lunge at the Discombobulator, and for me to do a tuck and roll to the other side of the terrace.

  Sven gripped the device and squeezed but not before his clone had pulled the trigger. I watched in fascinated horror as a wavy kaleidoscopic cloud encompassed them and then—poof!—they vanished.

  I tried my aPhone, but it was still blocked. Twelve minutes had passed. I needed Shulky to break into the ballroom, evacuate the guests, and take the bomb to a place where it could be detonated safely. I strained again at the necklace and felt it dig into my skin. I stepped over Amber, ran to the doors, and pounded on them, but no one in the room beyond the vestibule could hear me.

  I needed to use both fists, so I dropped my clutch—it opened on impact, and Superbrat’s Swiss Army knife tumbled out. Why would a mad inventor take apart a knife and put it back together?

  I flicked open the attachments until I came to the tiny scissors. “Please work. Please don’t kill me.” I slid one little blade under a link of my necklace and then I pressed the little handles together. I heard a bzzzzz, and the metal around my neck vibrated and grew so hot that I felt blisters rise on my skin. And then there was a snap and a clink as the link snapped, and the necklace fell onto the tiles below.

  I went to Ellis and said, “I have to get rid of the bomb. I’ll send help, but you’re safest here. I love you, Ellis Tesla. I’ve always loved you and I’m sorry that I didn’t believe your songs.”

  His brown eyes met mine with such emotion that I wanted to hold him and stay with him until the immobilizer wore off. But now I had to put on my BeDazzled super big girl thong and save hundreds. I tore off my crimson dress, kicked off my shoes, and called on Shulky.

  I morphed so fast that my muscles burned, and then she was here, as big and bold and badass as she wanted to be.

  Shulky stuck her foot in Amber’s face, wiggled her toes, and said, “Smell you later, bi-atch!”

  And then she winked at Ellis, shouted “Kapow!” and gave a roundhouse kick to the terrace doors. They resisted, but she kicked again. The panes were impenetrable, but the metal frames groaned as they warped and bent.

  The doors collapsed inward and fell with a solid thud.

  The crowd of scientists noticed the spectacular giantess running toward them. “She-Hulk!”

  “Hiya, Poindexters,” she called as she ran to the cart with the ice sculpture. She knocked over the sculpture and ripped off the linen cloth covering the cart. A bomb rested in a box beneath, ticking away. She had six minutes left.

  She picked up the box and ran out of the room. The elevator would take too long, so she went to the stairs, leaping down them one flight at a time. Every time she landed, the floor shuddered. She ran out and down the block to the nearest secret passage door.

  The elevator was there, and she hit the express button, sending the elevator plummeting down into the ancient subway tunnels. She ran out of the elevator and onto the Solomobile, then switched on the turbo drive, and the train hurtled forward. If the bomb went off early, she’d destroy the entire network of tunnels, shutting down the city’s critical transportation system.

  “Come on! Come on!” she shouted, and then the train slammed to a stop at our home station. She had twenty seconds left as she ran off the train. She input the code on the security post, pressed her palm against the I.D. scanner, and said, “Hurry, hurry!” with seven seconds left.

  The waterfall parted, and the wall section slid open. She admired the luxurious living space one last time and sighed. She tossed the bomb inside and pressed her hand to the biopanel again. The wall section closed and the waterfall merged again, with one second remaining.

  Then the ground beneath her feet shook as if there had been a minor tremor, the sort that people in LA barely pause to acknowledge before continuing their conversations.

  The movement was so slight that Shulky wondered if the charge had been smaller than she’d assumed. After all, Dr. Doom’s expertise was with weapons of mass destruction, not minor explosives. She did several jumping jacks and then a hundred one-handed push-ups to give things time to cool down before she opened the door to her lair.

  Black smoke billowed out. Everything was burned and soaked, as overhead sprinklers showered the debris.

  Shulky ambled along the tracks, went to street level, and walked somberly to the Mansion. Ruth was on the phone, and Shulky sat down in the wonderful massage chair. She took a box of tissues from a table and swiped at sooty smears on her fabulous legs.

  Ruth hung up and said, “Shulky! I just heard about the Bioethicists Gala.”

  “Hi, Ruth. There’s good news and there’s bad news. The good news is that I saved the world from being taken over by Victor von Doom.”

  “OMG, that’s amazing! And the bad news?”

  “I kind of blew up Hawkeye’s apartment. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. We all sort of expected it.”

  “You’re a good sport, Ruth. I’m going to explain everything to you, and I’d like you to fill out the reports for me, because I’m tired of paperwork. We’ve got a lot to do tonight, and then I’d like a plane to take me to LA. I think I’ll stay in my family’s old cabin and recoup.”

  “You mean Jennifer’s family’s cabin.”

  “Yes, our family’s cabin. I’m her and she’s me, and we may as well stop treating one another like annoying roommates. I’d like to soak up the sun and shoot cans off fence posts and not listen to any more goddamn opera.”

  MUTUAL ASSENT

  MAY 20

  Officially, I’m on a leave of absence from QUIRC. The partners are still dealing with the repercussions of winning a case on behalf of one of the world’s greatest villains. I think they’d like to fire me, but they’re aware that they solicited Sven’s case and allowed him to insist on hiring me. If I was a litigious person, I could sue them for all sorts of things.

  I’ve been filling my days clearing the scrub brush around the cabin and hiking to a murky shallow pond and splashing around in the cool water. I occasionally open this journal at random and read it—it was spared from destruction because I’d hidden it under a pile of weights in case Dahlia came by and snooped. I spend hours in the fields with my Winchester practicing trick shots, and I sing Fringe Theory songs and contemplate the lyrics from my new perspective. I should have trusted that Ellis’s songs were for me. I sh
ould have gone to another concert or called him again.

  I’m sooo relieved that I didn’t actually have sex with Sven, eww. If I’m being fiercely honest, I might probably would definitely would have had sex with him if I hadn’t seen Ellis first—because once I saw Ellis, I didn’t want anyone else. Ruth tells me that no one knows where the Discombobulator relocated Doom and Superbrat. In the chaos of the gala, everyone assumed that Amber was a victim. Once the immobility injection wore off, she slipped away and no one has seen her since.

  When a team from the Mansion raided the lavish home where I’d had dinner with the man I thought was Sven Morigi, all they found were empty rooms. He must have rigged the contents to vanish or teleport elsewhere.

  Victor Doom will show up again, with or without the von, because he always does. An alert has been sent out for any other Doom clones who may have survived destruction in the incinerator.

  Adam took the news that he’s a clone with equanimity. He said, “But I’m not an alien clone, am I?”

  I told him that no, Victor von Doom was originally a regular human. The other superheroes are mentoring Adam, but warily, because there’s the chance that he may eventually exhibit VvD’s madness. Dahlia doesn’t believe he will. She believes in his essential goodness. Before I left New York, I sat her down in a salon chair, twirled it around to face me. She wasn’t wearing colored contacts and it seemed strange, yet comforting to look into her chocolate brown eyes. Then I told her the truth about Adam.

  “He’s a Victor von Doom designer clone, D, conceived in a laboratory and grown at rapid speed. He didn’t have a childhood or teenage years. He never had a mother’s love or skinned his knee skateboarding. He didn’t share secrets with his best buddy, and he didn’t get a crush on the girl next door. The personality you see has developed in virtual isolation, and we have no idea what he’ll be like after more human interaction. As a clone, he has no rights—including the right to marry, parental rights, or property rights. In fact, under current law, Adam is Dr. Doom’s personal property to do with as he pleases, including using him for spare organs or terminating him.”

  “He’s a real person!” Dahlia held Rodney a little closer, but she didn’t freak out. “I knew he was special, and he is, but I’m glad he’s not alien, because I didn’t want Interplanetary Immigration grabbing him and throwing him off Earth.”

  “D, it’s possible that Doom’s real time bomb was not the explosive he left at the gala.”

  “Are you saying…” she began.

  “Yes, Adam could be a time bomb. Doom could have programmed him to turn evil after we’ve all taken him in and trusted him with our secrets. The rest of the world might be relaxing, but the superheroes know never to underestimate VvD.”

  “I know that Adam’s good. I feel it to the very core of my being.”

  “Believing something about someone—we all make mistakes in judgment. I think Adam’s good now, but he may not stay good, D.”

  “Jen, you weren’t brave enough to follow your heart. I am.”

  “This isn’t about Ellis!”

  She took Rodney’s leg and raised it toward me. “Talk to the paw!”

  I am not one of the galaxy’s top attorneys for nothing, though, and eventually I convinced her that Adam could have been programmed to transform into an international menace. She promised to tell me if she saw any warning signs.

  I made public and private apologies to Max Kirsch. He was swell about everything and said, “Your intentions were good. I was trying to heal patients, and you were trying to protect them from harm.” Quinty and the other partners held a press conference where they ripped up the settlement papers and paid Max for damages to him and ReplaceMax.

  There was some great news: the liquid in Adam’s vacuum canister was the last sample of Dr. Doom’s Project Mimic solution. Max, back in charge of ReplaceMax, was able to use that tiny amount to grow bioidentical skin grafts for all the victims of the sabotaged products. People forget that skin is our largest organ, and the grafted skin taught all the other organs to repair themselves. A week after the grafts, the patients were completely healthy. Mavis came out of her coma and was discharged from the hospice.

  Genoa is working pro bono to get charges reduced against Burt Symonds based on temporary insanity. His wife, Bonnie, visits him every day at the detention center.

  I asked Max to grow a graft for someone who hadn’t been in the ReplaceMax program: Jordy. Because his cancer was so invasive, his recovery is taking a little longer, but he called to tell me that he’ll be well enough to attend a late-summer session at Manic Quantum Mechanics, and he’ll be going to high school in the fall.

  Mavis calls me every day and tells me all the things she’s been doing. “Jenny, we have sticks and we’re playing sword fights! When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie, but when I come to New York, I’ll be sure to visit you. I’ll take you to the park and we’ll play.”

  Someone whose name rhymes with Macaroni Bark left a message for me:

  “Jen, you did a terrific job saving planet Earth from the evil machinations of Doom. Too bad about Hawkeye’s underground lair. It was a great place for our pop-up sushi restaurant.

  “The next time Shulky’s in town, have her set up a lunch meeting with me. Would enjoy seeing that sexy sassy bitch and talking about ways she can work with our team again. I’d be happy to have a naked wresting match in oil with her to negotiate details.

  “Also, please tell Claudette that I think Hasselhoff Stark is an awesome name for our kid.”

  Rene and I have long phone conversations as I try to sort out my thoughts. I told him that I could have cleared everything up with Ellis years ago when I heard the songs.

  He told me, “But then your entire life’s path would be different. Ellis, too, could have listened more closely and not confused Jen with Gin and USC with UCLA, go Bruins! If you had been with Ellis, you wouldn’t have been in the situation where you were infected with gamma radiation. If you were less shy, you wouldn’t have manifested as She-Hulk. The world needs all manifestations of you. It was meant to be.”

  “I thought psychiatrists believed in self-determination, not fate.”

  I could hear his hippie beads clinking against the phone. “We have some discretion. We Alvarados like to think there’s a greater force of good at work in all universes.”

  “And passion.”

  “Yes, we believe in passion. You’ll have to deal with Ellis sometime, Jen. You love him.”

  “I nearly got him killed. I destroyed his friend’s reputation and life’s work. I made his father’s firm a tool of Doom’s world domination scheme. I accused him of trying to tamper with the trial. I callously ignored a dozen love songs over the years.”

  “Callously? I thought you cried yourself to sleep with a picture of him on your pillow and wrote his name with little hearts over the i’s.”

  “Are you getting snarky on me, Rene?”

  “We have some discretion about that, too,” he said, and chuckled. “We’ll discuss these things in our next session. Keep writing in your journal and try to see recent incidents in the larger perspective of your life.”

  “The pages in my journal are almost filled up. I guess I’ll have to buy another KEEP HANGING IN THERE! kitten notebook.” I sighed. “I keep hanging on.”

  He didn’t answer right away, and I listened to the calming click-click of him fiddling with his beads. Finally he said, “Jen, has it occurred to you that you’re taking the wrong message from the kitten? You told me that Ruth said she admired fluffy kittens for a reason.”

  I thought back to the beginning of the year. “She said that kittens have an internal gyroscope so that when they fall, they can twist into the right position to land on their feet.”

  “Why is the kitten hanging on?” he said.

  “Because it’s terrified of being hurt. It’s hoping that someone will come and rescue it.”

  “Do you need rescuing, Jen?”r />
  I thought about the wide eyes of the panicked kitten. “No, I always land on my feet.”

  “Then stop being afraid,” he said. “Let go.”

  MAY 27

  I’ve been trying to make bread, which really shouldn’t be that much harder than winning cases on other planets, but it is. I’d thrown out yet another inedible loaf when I got a call from Dahlia.

  “Watcha doing, poodle?”

  “Baking nummy homemade bread, except for the nummy part. More like mummy bread that should be put into a tomb and forgotten for a thousand years.”

  “Are we back to talking about ancient pharaohs again, or are you going to audition for a reality show as a sister-wife? They have awful hairstyles. I’ve finished decorating your Medieval tunic, and Nelson and Amy have made your weaponry.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Jen, our relationship has been one of support and mutual admiration. You admire my fabulous style, and I support your right to be you, which means that I endured your unreasonable hatred of Rodney and your obsessive ranting about Tony Stark.”

  “You liked to gossip about Tony, and hating Rodney is reasonable!”

  “Adam doesn’t think so. He thinks Rodney is delightful, and Rodney is now the alpha dog in his pack. My point is, you’ve had your sabbatical, and now it’s time to return to civilization before you bleach your hair blond and start auditioning for detergent commercials as ‘Young Suburban Mom.’ The Forestiers are expecting you to show up and fight battles for their team.”

  “A, since when do you care about my LARP team, and, B, I don’t feel like it.”

  “One, if you come back, I’ll treat you to Filipino nacho fries. I hear on good authority that they are the most genius food in the galaxy. Two, I wasn’t asking you to come back; I was telling you. And three, you have moped after Ellis Tesla for years too long. If you don’t want me to call you Sulky, stop acting like a lovesick teenager. Come home.”