The She-Hulk Diaries

by Acosta, Marta

Ruth had called and said, “This dress is OMG! amazing, and I love it, but it’s not quite Shulky’s style.”

  “Is it tight?”

  “Most people would consider it a snug fit, but it’s a little… well, you’ll see. It’s so fantastic that she has clothes designed especially for her. I’m sure she’ll be the center of attention!”

  “That’s how she likes it.”

  “I’ll have it delivered and left inside your place.”

  I worked at warp speed all day and by five-thirty, I was out the door and rushing back to my loft. Somehow I’d missed the onset of spring, but it was here and people on the street were cheerful. Everyone seems to be adjusting to the eerie niceness, which has leveled off enough so that tourists still have a fifty-fifty chance at getting cussed out when they ask for directions.

  Once home, I unzipped the garment bag that Ruth had sent. The floor-length dress inside was a soft ivory shade and made of a fabric that slipped between my fingers like satin but had a subtle pearly luster. It had been cut on the bias and would move with Shulky. I thought it was one of the most elegant dresses I’d ever seen.

  I undressed, breathed out, and then let Shulky take charge. Her strength flowed through me and her good humor washed away my stress. She did a little bump and grind, singing da-da-da, ta-da-da-da to a burlesque tune she’d learned from Kat von D.

  Then she picked up the pretty custom gown between her thumb and forefinger and said, “Booorring!” and dropped it on the floor. She opened her closet door, grabbed the wicked black Siriano catsuit, and held it in front of her body before wiggling into it. She didn’t care that she was expected to wear Designer X’s gown to the show. She only cared that the catsuit clung to every curve of her body with the zeal of a drowning man to a lifesaver.

  She strapped on violet snakeskin stilettos and posed in front of the mirror. She fluffed the iridescent ebony feather trim at her collar and wrists and said, “Shulky like!”

  She was going to do it again, going to cause a disruption at a high-profile event. It wasn’t enough that she was superpersona non grata at Fashion Week. There was nothing I could do now but settle in for a night of bad behavior.

  She took the elevator down to the subbasement and used the tunnels to run to the Mansion. She didn’t bother going into the administrative offices, but stood in the shadows near the garage. When one of the nighttime volunteers arrived for his shift at the entrance on an Indian Chief Classic, she stepped forward and said, “Sweet ride! Hey, let me park that for you!”

  “She-Hulk!” the biker said in admiration. “Sure, uhm, sure.”

  “Maybe I’ll take it out for a spin first if it’s okay with you.”

  “Well, uh…” he began, but she’d already straddled the bike, revved the engine, and said, “Thanks!” And she took off, screaming through a turn, and tearing into the street.

  Traffic was backed up, so she jumped the curb and roared down the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered before her and shouted, “She-Hulk!”

  She did a wheelie and waved to her fans, before spotting a moving truck’s open loading ramp. Sometimes I wished I could lie down in a backseat like Dahlia and close my eyes, but I watched as Shulky sped up the short ramp. At the very last millisecond, she veered off it and went soaring into the air above a long line of taxis.

  She landed on one, its roof caving inward with a loud thunk, and she jumped the bike onto the taxi in front, and another and another, leaving a trail of dented roofs, stunned cabbies, and onlookers who shouted and cheered.

  Klieg lights cut through the sky from Lincoln Center, and limos pulled up to the red carpet as fans and reporters watched svelte celebrities arrive, all dressed in ivory gowns and suits provided by Designer X. The crowd parted as Shulky skidded to a stop in front of the TMZ crew. They rushed forward with their mics and cameras, shouting, “Shulky! Why aren’t you wearing Designer X’s clothes? Is it true that you’ve been backbenched by the superheroes and you’re now a Superhasbeen and a She-zero?”

  She dismounted, tossed back her luxurious hair, and laughed. “As for my ensemble, I don’t do discreet, baby. I’d rather be a tasty babe than a tasteful one,” she said, chucking the cutest guy under the chin. “Now, do you really think I’m a has-been?”

  She stared down at him with her sparkling emerald eyes, and he stuttered, “No, uh, no, of course not!”

  “Damn straight. I’m still in the world-saving game, but sometimes a girl wants to take time off and just have some fun.”

  She posed for the cameras and answered questions about her own ensemble, in no rush because she knew that these shows never started on time. An event coordinator came forward, saying, “Miss Hulk, we’re so honored to have you! Didn’t you receive your gown? I thought you would be joining Designer X on the runway at the end of the show.”

  “Tell him thanks for the dress, but it didn’t work for me.” She looked around at the sea of fashionistas entering the building in their cream clothes. “I don’t like to blend in with the herd, moo!”

  “We understand, Miss Hulk; however, if you would you reconsider—why not just try on something? I’m sure we can find a, um, shorts and a top that you would like.”

  “You are assuming facts not in evidence. Now, run along and make sure I have a good seat, preferably next to Karl, if he’s here. We have so much to catch up on.”

  After signing autographs and chatting with Nicki, who was wearing a gold wig, Shulky gave an interview to Melissa and Joan, who asked if she was proud to be at the forefront of the nippleage trend (“Absolutely—it pays to advertise!”), and had a green-eyed smizing competition with Tyra that came down to a draw. When she finally got around to going into the show, the doors were closing, and the gray-suited attendants locked them after her.

  Shulky stood in the dark recesses at the back of the hall, still calculating the best seat to get the most attention. She was looking for a spot nearest the only other guest not wearing cream—Karl’s black suit was in striking contrast to his magnificent white mane. There was some last-minute seat-changing and Gwyneth sat in the place Shulky had been eying. Then the houselights dropped completely.

  Spotlights swirled and then focused on a man coming down the runway. He was dressed in an ivory suit, ivory shirt, and ivory gloves, with a wrestler’s face mask, and he was holding a hand mic. He lifted it to his mouth and said, “Welcome to my very first runway show! I’m Designer X, and you’ll soon see how my line will radically change the profile of New York fashion! Let’s begin the show.”

  His voice seemed familiar, but Shulky couldn’t place him in the fashion world. Then techno began thumping, and she turned her attention to the first tall, thin model, who strode down the runway in fluid cream palazzo pants and a tight matador jacket. She was followed by other high-cheekboned, rail-thin girls wearing streamlined resort wear, street chic, and evening clothes, all in Designer X’s signature silky cream fabric. She-Hulk thought they were all as fragile and colorless as cabbage moths.

  Finally, a girl in a bride’s dress glided down the raised platform, and everyone clapped, except for Shulky, who subscribed to the theory that monochromaticism wasn’t style. She turned her attention back to the snowy white head of hair in the front row and was just about to surprise Karl when the entire cast of models came out clapping.

  Concluding the procession was Designer X, holding hands with the girl in the bride’s gown. But Designer X stopped midway on the runway. He brought a mic to his mouth and shouted, “And now, let the real fat-shion show begin!” and the techno cranked up another decibel.

  People looked around expectantly—and then a model screamed as her thighs began expanding within her clothes.

  Other models shrieked as their stomachs filled out to giant bellies, and their tiny asses grew to enormous dimensions. The VIP guests, all in their cream clothes, joined in the madness, watching their narrow bodies bloat within the confines of the cream clothes.

  The clothes! Everyone who was wearing Designer X’s
fashions was swelling.

  Shulky bounded down the aisle. “It’s the clothes! Take off those clothes.”

  Designer X jeered, “She-Hulk! Working the Ho’s-R-Us look as usual. But it’s too late. My fat-shions have already transformed all the beautiful people of the fashion industry into jiggly, blubbery beasts! The economy of the state will soon collapse, leaving New York in shambles. And there’s nothing you can do about it. In ten minutes, the hideous anatomical changes will be irreversible, and these fashion elites will forever be assumed to want to supersize their greasy fries with that shake. Sayonara, you big tacky, Slutsky!”

  It was Superbrat again!

  She-Hulk roared, “Don’t you ever talk trash about French fries!” and leapt over a mass of screaming guests, who plucked helplessly at their cream garments.

  When she lunged for Designer X, he giggled maniacally, pressed a button on his jacket, and was jettisoned upward on invisible wires. A panel in the ceiling parted and he flew through it, and then the panel slammed shut.

  “Get those clothes off!” Shulky ordered the models and VIPs, who whimpered and cried in their efforts to undress.

  The gray-uniformed attendants, fearful of fatfection, struggled to get out of the doors, but they’d been bolted shut.

  Anna W. tipped over and rolled down the aisle. She was almost trampled by howling, lumbering models whose tears poured down their plump cheeks. Then Karl, impeccable in his narrow, high-collared shirt and black suit, came forward and said brusquely to Shulky, “The fabric is made using superhuman technology. It’s too strong for any of these lovely undernourished girls to rent asunder.”

  “How strong are you?” she asked.

  “Strong enough to wield these Adamantium shears,” he said, as he brought out a gleaming pair of scissors and held them aloft in his beringed hand.

  “Let’s get the clothes off before the fat permanentizes!” Shulky grabbed the closest model by the thin straps of her gown. Shulky flexed her massive shoulders and pulled. The cream fabric resisted for a moment, then ripped. The nearly naked girl looked with horror at her rotund body—and then it deflated like someone letting the air out of a balloon.

  The floor shook as other colossal models stampeded toward She-Hulk. Karl snipped away at the cream-colored clothes with disdainful efficiency and sneered, “Synthetic fabrics. I would never dress Claudia in this.”

  The minutes flew by and Shulky shouted, “Time!” and someone shouted back, “Twenty seconds, nineteen, eighteen…”

  As the last seconds ticked down, Shulky found a catatonic and roly-poly Victoria wedged between two rows of seats and said, “Tell me what you really, really want,” as she ripped off her pantsuit. The style icon shriveled back to her former emaciated frame, opened her eyes, and put her hands on her skeletal rib cage. Then she rose to her knees, saying, “Thank you, thank you!”

  Grateful fashionistas clung to Shulky as she strode to the doors and ripped them open. The camera crews outside went hysterical at the sight of half-naked models and celebrities. Shulky left Karl to talk to the reporters, trusting that his comments would be sufficiently eccentric for the both of them.

  She turned down a dozen invitations, posed for a few more photos, and got back on the borrowed motorcycle. She returned to the Mansion and filled out a superhuman crime report. In the “additional comments” section, she wrote, “Who is Superbrat and what is his overarching goal? Why did he invite me to this event when he knew the likelihood that I’d foil his evil plan?”

  She had just filed the report when she heard voices and laughter coming from the Avengers’ living quarters. It sounded like a party and she hesitated in the hallway, wanting to join her old friends and hear about really important battles and intrigue. She wanted to wrestle with superheroes, toss back drinks, and play a round of jetpack lacrosse. She wanted to talk about old times, gossip, and flirt. Suddenly her adventure at the runway show seemed frivolous and inconsequential.

  “Time to go home, sweetie,” I told her, and instead of fighting me, she nodded and left the Mansion.

  11:45 P.M.

  Dahlia called and said, “Tell me everything, Miss Thing, and start with Nicki’s hairstyle! Fabulous wigs are due for a comeback. Did Shulky get a swag bag?” I felt better by the time we said good night.

  APRIL 23

  I clicked off the TV this morning when I saw the scrolling newsreel reading, “Has She-Hulk tumbled off the superhero catwalk? Does inter-season mean out of style for city’s rowdy emerald party girl?” How quickly the media turn on you. One minute, they’re encouraging crazy shenanigans and the next they’re tut-tutting them.

  I was gathering my things for work when I noticed a goldenrod sheet slipped into this journal. I flipped open to Shulky’s bookmark and grinned at the cartoon panels of her and Karl battling together at the fatshion show. I liked her version of events, especially when she used Karl’s shears to cut off Superbrat’s mask, with the caption “… only to reveal… coming soon!”

  I unfolded the goldenrod sheet. It was a flyer from Juliet & Snickers for shows by Fractious Faraday. Bruce is right: I do love a good bar band more than opera. That will change as I become more cultured. I’m sure Sven can teach me to appreciate the finer points of the arts, and I can teach him things, too, once I learn more about his interests. I’ll have to figure out a way to introduce knife-throwing into the conversation, because it’s loads of fun once you get the hang of it.

  My optimistic mood changed as I walked into my office and saw my desk covered in files. Sometimes I wish we’d go back to the days when sending a letter meant making a carbon copy on a typewriter, because then people would think twice before writing a memo.

  Genoa and I have been cross-checking and fact-checking every statement and every report on or by ReplaceMax. Donner runs back and forth from the copy room bringing us stacks of printouts and coordinating exhibits.

  Every few hours, we take a ten-minute break with the General’s Regency-era dolls. I don’t know any of the social rules of those times, so she explains them to me. For example, I didn’t know that when a property was “entitled,” it could only go to a male heir, which meant that a second cousin might inherit an estate and throw out the girls who’d lived there.

  “That’s fascinating!” I said. “I had no idea these stories were about property law and inheritance. Everyone just talks about the romance.”

  “The romance is directly tied into property and status,” Genoa said. “I’ve always wished there was a romance novel theme park where visitors could participate by arguing legal cases using chronologically accurate legal principles.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea, Genoa! What lawyer wouldn’t want to go there on her vacations? I’d book myself into a medieval love story, because medieval law was wonderfully arcane and superstitious. Did you know that medieval courts could arraign bugs for crop devastation? Of course, handing out punishments was not especially effective.”

  We spent a few minutes discussing names for our imaginary theme park (Tender Discoveries is our top choice!) and features, like a gift shop and carriage rides.

  “Excellent! As soon as the case is over, we can work up a prospectus for the park.” I picked up a male doll in a checked suit. “I’ve decided that this guy is a lecherous gambler who has arrived in town planning to poison his sweet rich aunt.” In my best English accent, I said, “Ahoy, there, my good lad! Can you fetch my carbuncle from atop the barouche? I will be stopping at this, er, fine stopping place for nuncheon, and I heard you concoct an excellent liver-and-squid pie.”

  I flounced my doll’s coat while waiting for Genoa to respond, but she was looking at something over my shoulder. I turned and saw Amber standing in the doorway with Quinty, who was fiddling with his monocle and trying not to smile.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” the hammerhead said coolly.

  Genoa didn’t bat an eye. “We were taking a well-deserved break from the avalanche of paperwork.”

/>   Quinty looked up. “If I see a Saint Bernard with a barrel of whiskey, I’ll steer him your way. How are things progressing?”

  “Everything’s on track, sir,” I said. “We’re receiving the expected delay tactics, but we’re persistent.”

  “Very good. Tell me, Jennifer, what’s the most important lesson you learned in your legal career?”

  “The person with the biggest pile of paper wins.”

  “Indeed! Enjoy your break.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked off, and Amber paused to give us a contemptuous look, then left.

  Genoa immediately returned to her doll

  “Aren’t you intimidated by her?” I asked.

  “I’m only intimidated by people I admire, and I don’t admire her.”

  “I heard her singing at the Valentine’s Day party. Her voice is so lovely.”

  “Hmm,” Genoa hmmed. “I think that’s probably how she got Ellis. I remember her singing at our annual picnic when he was there. But her voice is just technique with no honest emotion. I’d say she’s a cyborg, but many cyborgs have soul and heart.”

  If Ellis liked singing, I never stood a chance with him. I said, “One of my favorite pals at GLKH is an android, and he’s terrific. When I was there, the hot topic of discussion was cyborg rights. Holden Holliway, who founded the superhuman division, believes that android, cyborg, and bot identity law will be the single biggest issue of the next century.”

  “I’m always wondering what makes us human—not biologically human, but human in feeling and thought. How can we justify treating clones as property?”

  “Good question. Personally, I don’t think it’s right to create clones that go into systemic failure and die before they grow out of their toddler years.”

  “Someone will solve the regeneration problems, and then clone rights won’t be a merely theoretical issue,” she said. “I’ve been going to a lecture series on artificial intelligence and alternative personhood.”

  Donner tapped on the open door and walked in. “That’s one of her many obsessions, isn’t it, General?”