10869/Seriously Complicated Feelings

Seriously Complicated Feelings
Date of Scene:	22 April 2022
Location:	The Law Offices of Jennifer Walters, PLLC
Synopsis:	Mary 'Titania' McPherran visits her former foe's office to dress her down for the grave sin of sending a bad DM.
Cast of Characters:	Jennifer Walters, Mary McPherran

---

Jennifer Walters has posed:
'Mary,

'Look, let's not make this weird. I think it's great that it looks like you're trying to turn your life around lately. I really do! I'm proud of you. And it looks like you're making a killing these days!

'But, Mary: you've got a pretty good head on your shoulders, when you aren't busy listening to the wrong people. And you've got a lot of potential; don't you think it'd be nice to start exploring it a little? If you're interested, my number is...

'... and my office hours are...

'... ... and any time you want to talk about...

'... ... ... change the world, if you just open up and...

'... ... ... ... hope to hear from you soon.

'Jennifer'

It hit Mary's subs-only inbox a day ago-- maybe two. It came with a month's subscription AND a two hundred dollar donation with nothing more than a green thumb's up emoji as a message. And worst of all:

Somewhere in what was quite a lot of well-meaning sentiments was an offer for Mary to take up an internship at Jennifer Walters' legal offices.

Mary McPherran has posed:
MARY is dressed VERY HETEROSEXUALLY in a tight-fit sleeveless V-neck halter with a PINK CHEETAH PRINT, cleavage put on excessive display through the combined efforts of her neckline and her push-up bra, the latter requiring her to occasionally adjust the former. Her JACKET is PURPLE and is VERY COOL, and yes, those are parts of a spike strap used as epaulets. Her JEANS are SUPER TIGHT, and are ACID WASHED because it's always 1992 somewhere, and the over-knee boots with spiked heels and spiked sides are from a costume. She COULD NOT BOARD A PLANE.

The sudden ruckus declares her arrival like a troubadour announcing a monarch, and then she is jabbing her finger into Jennifer Walters's shoulder, and she is saying,

"It is SUPER CREEPY for you to sign up to my ONLY FANS."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"-- uh--"

Jennifer is dressed VERY PROFESSIONALLY in a black blazer and slitted pencil skirt, purple dress shirt, and black heels. Because she is at work right now, her shirt is buttoned to its maximum of 'like three from the top', baring an office-appropriate amount of emerald cleavage, and she is wearing black-framed glasses with a pen tucked behind her ear. Dark green hair's bunched up in a tightly controlled bun.

A second pen hits the stack of papers she, a handful of attorneys, and a much larger handful of (be/a)mused denizens of a Mutant Town tenement complex currently slated for demolition due to imminent plans for the neighborhood's first RoxxMart.

. o O ( Goddamnit, Jen-- you gave Titania your address and hours of course she's here! )

"-- -- uh--..."

Jen's eyes slowly rove from Titania to an attorney; back to Titania; to another attorney...

"... continueonwithoutmeMARYWHAT--"

When the reverie finally breaks, it breaks fast: Jennifer seizes Mary's bicep, squeezing firmly for a beat before lightening a little when she starts trying to drag the redhead out of the conference room and towards her office.

"--theHELLareyouDOING-- I signed up to your Only Fans AS SOMEONE WHO IS ROOTING FOR YOU, and you just COME TO MY OFFICE--!"

Mary McPherran has posed:
"I have picked you up in Brooklyn and thrown you into the Pine Barrens, we do not have the kind of relationship where it's okay for you to sign up to see me naked!" Mary complains, loudly, and where absolutely everyone inside of Jennifer's office can hear her doing so. "Your lawyer creeps on people!" she exclaims to confused bystanders. "She left a comment on every one of my nudes!"

That she doesn't immediately disentangle herself from Jennifer is Mary's version of de-escalation, and, to be fair, it is de-escalation of a sort when you're strong enough to bring down an entire skyscraper around you by stomping your foot. Her jacket rattles as she's pulled, the vast pile of her hair trailing behind her, her breasts doing exactly what it is that breasts do when they are in a push-up bra.

Inside of Jennifer's office she gives an indignant huff and jerks her arm free, checking her sleeve for damage. "Yeah? You told me to come down here to, whatever, to get your coffee? Which is weird, too, because I definitely make more money than you, I'm in the top zero-point-two percent and I've got, like, a dozen different sponsorship deals?"

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"I did NOT LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS WOMAN'S NUDES, she is an ANGRY FORMER VILLAIN OF MINE--"

Gamma radiation only does so much to enhance a girl's voice, so it's down to which of the two amazons can scream the loudest-- and which has the most shame. Which is why - one way or another - Jennifer only picks up the pace after cutting herself off, dark green blooming over her cheeks as she shoves Mary into her office and *SLAM!*s the door shut. The entire building thunders, ominously; a few people buzzing around on the other side of Jennifer's picture window do look towards the source of the racket, but most of the pausing is out of sheer necessity. Anyone who's been here long enough knows full and well how silly it is to walk during a Hulkquake.

"Mary."

One hand's braced against her brow while she huffs those two syllables out; the other's giving her blinds a tug so they tumble into place.

"I--" She glances down. "-- goddamnit..."

Muttering, Jennifer takes a few seconds to quickly tug at her shirt and readjust herself after that tumultuous walk.

"... did NOT," she then continues, glaring up into the other woman's eyes, "comment on your-- nngh, why are you ALWAYS so--"

Pinching at the bridge of her nose, Jennifer paces towards her desk so she can drop into her big, black leather throne and sag, exasperated.

"... I thought, Mary," she finally murmurs, "that you might appreciate a shot at-- I don't know, a career? Influencing is not a career-- it's pretty much just a racket for hot people who can work a phone."

Mary McPherran has posed:
In matters where a surfeit of shame is presupposed to put one at a disadvantage, it is, perhaps, unsurprising that the victor would be the one who casually takes the front of her shirt and tugs it up with both hands to make it once again cover the black lace of custom-fitted bra cups. She then stares down at her chest while more careful tugs, draws and smoothing restores her neckline so that it once again creates the impression that she isn't wearing a bra at all. ('Type 2 Adamantium Underwire Push-Up in Black Lace,' House of Dvorak, $915 with repeat customer discount and Friends of Sybil card.)

"Yeah, okay," she scoffs with enough force to push her chest forward. "And that 'GammaGirl483846' account on Insta that likes every single pic less than a minute after it's posted toooootally isn't you."

Jennifer's proffered explanation does not seem to help much, Mary staring at her as if she were speaking another language entirely.

"I made seven figures last year just off of subs."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
(House of Dvorak, $915.)

"I am sorry, Mary, for trying to support an acquaintance's endeavors which do not involve hitting people repeatedly with blunt objects," Jennifer huffs, rolling her eyes, "with LIKES-- though, for the record, no, I am not 'GammaGirl'" Jen leans forward, finger-quoting.

(So Savage' V-Neck Halter in Venusian Silk (Pink Cheetah Print)', Plunderati, $1395)

"'483846'-- why in God's name would I EVER-- ... nnh--"

('Rider Jacket in Purple Leather (1 of 666)', KurioKore, $1870)

"... I mean, YES, I have 'like'd a lot" all of "your posts, on Instagram. I like ALL of my Friends' posts, on Instagram-- I'm NICE that way," Jen mutters, massaging her forehead. "Most of them don't just show UP,"

(Jumbo X Anarchist' Amazon-Fit Jeans in Blue Denim'--)

"a-and--"

Jennifer freezes for a beat.

Gamma green eyes fly way, way up, locking onto Mary's while green cheeks barely darken.

"-- flaunt-- ugh-- God, their two thousand dollar jeans," the attorney groans while sinking back in her chair, "and eleven hundred dollar boots at me over it-- even when I offer them jobs. I-- I mean, it's NICE that you're making a good living NOW, but this-- that-- it just isn't STABLE, Mary--"

Jennifer uses the same handle everywhere, because she read a blog about branding once. On SheHulkEsq @ Instagram, her posts run a gamut of food pics, funny (?) legal and cape-centric memes, gym content, and tasteful fit checks. It is, by normal standards, perfectly adequate posting for a woman with a professional career to think of, if not particularly EXCITING.

"What happens when you get bored of looking hot online?" she wonders in a quiet, cautious tone. "When you, or Carl, or both of you decide you need a little bit of REAL action?"

Mary McPherran has posed:
Mary, without saying so much as a word, digs her phone out of her pocket - 'digs' being appropriate, here, as the task of fitting any two given objects into pants so preposterously tight is a nearly insurmountable one, an act requiring both inhuman strength and the preternatural grace needed to not rip even ultra-reinforced denim. After a series of flicks and clicks, sends a private message to an account that is, we have been assured, does not belong to Jennifer Walter's, the ding of activity that manifests on *Jennifer's* phone being, very obviously, no more than random happenstance, mere chance, an utterly divorced and unrelated occurrence.

Mary's expression, there hence, is not 'the kind of smug, shit-eating grin that just makes you want to hit someone;' it is simply a look of dignified satisfaction.

"Oh, what, you gonna invite me to join the Avengers? I know they're cool with drunks and sex offenders and people who hang out on pedophile island, but something tells me they'd have a problem with a working class kind of attitude."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
SOME TIME AGO

Sprawled and dangling upside down along just about all of a couch big enough for a family of four, Jen holds her phone at full arm's length from her face, locked in the after-midnight dance of swipe-tap-swipe best enjoyed when one is a couple bottles deep into gamma-infused wine.

Every now and again, she finds some post, some picture, some video that demands her full, undivided attention.

And every now and again, she winds up sucked into the depths of comments sections, explaining at GREAT LENGTH why Nick Trask is not only not 'goals' but is, in fact, 'a dangerous criminal who peddles Serpentblood colloidal silver without any regard for FDA approval, on top of literally being mobbed up'.

NOW

A brief, jazzy flourish--

"oh no--"

-- pulls Jennifer's face into the palms of her hands.

Which muffles the long, long groan that follows, so at least there's that.

"I am ALLOWED to have a FAKE ACCOUNT for DRUNKSCROLLING, Mary," she eventually murmurs, also into her hands.

The truth is somewhere in the middle, as it often is: there are SEVERAL near-instant late night 'like's on Mary's posts, but more than that--

More than the somewhat more restrained posting activity of Jen's REAL account, where the Professional Avenger politely supports her former villain with a consistent stream of attention--

-- there are those hearts which have a funny way of trickling in on posts from months prior during those late night sessions.

"I--" She flicks her gaze back to Mary's, swallowing. "I think you're just trying to get a rise out of me on PURPOSE--"

Her nose wrinkles at each new descriptor for her fellow Avengers.

"-- no, Jesus-- I mean, YES, if I thought it was your THING, I would invite you to the Avengers, but--"

She gestures, vaguely, in Mary's direction.

"I feel like you would prrrrobably not do great on the interview, for reasons that have nothing to do with class."

Mary McPherran has posed:
"What, because I'm a successful entrepreneur who built a thriving career as an influencer? Because I'm confident in my body and my appearance and I don't dress down to seek approval from people who don't even know me? Gosh, that doesn't sound very heroic of them, Greenie. It kind of sounds narrow-minded, judgemental, Puritanical - it kind of sounds like the response you'd expect from thoughtless, reactionary enforcers of a corrupt and unsustainable status quo."

...

"You're right, Jennifer, that does sound exactly like the Avengers."

Mary's phone goes back into her pocket. (It is easier, of course, to put in than it was to take out. This is her left front pocket, because the tightness of her pants colludes with the size of her ~muscular development~ to render the back pockets purely for decorative purposes.)

She is, clearly, very pleased with herself. For the biting and insightful comment, not for putting her phone away.

"Anyway, I'd say I get a rise of you plenty, to judge from those comments you like to leave around 2 AM."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"No, I'd definitely say it's got more to do with the naked disdain for people you not only don't know, but have never at any point made any effort to know beyond whatever dossier Tobias Whalen, or Dario Agger, or whoever used to pay your bills might've pushed your way."

Jennifer's phone stays right where it's been this whole time: in her blazer's pocket. There are points of obvious, taut stress here and there in her outfit, but the blazer isn't one of them (mostly; Hulk arms are Hulk arms at the end of the day after all, and no amount of expertise is gonna prevent rippling and twitching just beneath the surface). Mary's dressed loud and proud in clothes made to flatter, aggressively; She-Hulk is fundamentally here for work. That deep, green valley peeking through her shirt's purely a matter of comfort-- and physics; the flash of adamantium-corded, emerald-cast might that bulged just beyond the slits of her skirt are the trade-off she makes for not tripping while she Sorkins around the office; the heels are to amplify her already imposing presence, and any accents they might lend incredibly long legs and densely muscled glutes are entirely incidental.

"You used to take orders from a guy in an metal mask who does human rights violations because he had a bad run in college, like fifty years ago," Jen lowly notes, tailored black sleeves straining around the reflexive swelling of her biceps while she shoots Mary a sour, narrow-eyed look.

"Mine at least occasionally manages to gives a shit about people who aren't himself."

She exhales, slow and deep.

And inhales, just the same. It takes a couple seconds for her shoulders to sag, her muscles to slacken; another before her bottom lip slips inwards in fleeting reproach for letting Mary get a rise out of her in the middle of the day.

"-- anyway," she softly sighs. After a quick, green-eyed bounce, she finds a tiny, wan smile.

"We can talk about who gets a rise out of who, and when, as soon as we talk about why you came to my office in what might just be the lowest cut thing you own that you didn't used to do crimes in," she offers, sardonic and sincere all in one. "I thought you were here to make me look bad; you fishin' for subs while you're at it, or is this reformed you's version of ripping a lamp post out of the ground to hit me over the head?"

Mary McPherran has posed:
"Okay, so -

Mary counts off on her fingers.

"Number one, Dario Agger is, literally, a ten-foot-tall rape monster. That isn't hyperbole, he's a minotaur. He's gross. My - totally above board - independent contractor work for Roxxon did not involve interacting with him. That was me, and a giant rock space man, punching giant space roaches.

"Number two, Tobias Whale - never even met the guy, I never worked out of Metropolis.

(A proffered shrug of broad, flawlessly honed shoulders; the anti-traffic spikes set upon them as if epaulets clank, more than jangle.)

"Number *three*, every country that opposes NATO hegemony gets immediately labelled as an oppressive dictatorship, and that "accident" - come on, a rich white guy who completely groomed a child bride 'fixes' the work of a poor Roma student and it explodes and disfigures him, rich white guy goes on to be one of the wealthiest scientists in the world, poor Roma goes on to liberate his country from a US-backed dictatorship that instituted a pogrom against his people, but he's the bad guy and the white man is the hero?

(A thick brow is arched; an expression conveying 'come on, think about it'.)

"Number four - We robbed banks. We knocked over armored cars. I can say with, like, total and spiritual acuity that whatever evil I contributed to the world by throwing you from Manhattan to the Pine Barrens is a speck of dust compared to, you know, whatever slave labor your friends are using to mine rare earth minerals to put in their phone batteries and stitch the labels onto their line of mid-price leisurewear.

"Number five - you sent me this incredibly patronizing email, because - honestly, I kind think you have basically no idea how to interact with another powerful woman unless you project yourself as being in a position of authority and experience over her."

Mary folds her arms across - or, more precisely, beneath, due to certain issues of logistics - her chest, head tilted at a slight angle.

"Even if I were a total adrenaline junkie, how would being an intern at a law office help me with that? Why wouldn't I just pick up a license and, I don't know, track bail skips? Why wouldn't I just turn up to whatever riot someone with a cape has started and hit the person in non-primary colors? You just wanted to let me know that, even if I'm doing well, you're doing *better*. My education sucked, but I'm not *stupid*."

Arms, now, uncrossed; she jabs a finger, sharply, into Jennifer's shoulder, one of the few women capable of doing so and actually making her *feel* it.

"Also, you have some seriously complicated feelings about me and, admitted, I might have overreacted."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"Mary..."

Jen didn't make it through point three before she started pinching the bridge of her nose, massaging firmly and grimacing.

"Wh-- Mary--"

By four, the low, exasperated rumbling started.

"-- Jesus, Mary--"

She only just opens her eyes again after point... 5.5? 6? Whichever; numbers matter much less than the diamond-denting finger prodding at her.

Than the way Mary takes advantage of Jen's seated position to loom over the nearly seven foot tall woman.

"Mary..." she exhales, soft and cautious while emerald eyes roll upwards.

"I promise I'll help you start your own bounty hunting business -- I'll even overlook you storming in here to shove your cleavage in my face to make a point that I don't think either of us REALLY wants to think all that deeply about right now -- if you just-- try--"

        "-- for a month, a week--"

            "-- god, even a DAY--"

                "-- to PLEASE stop getting LITERALLY all of your news from podcasts and dead-eyed blondes on Instagram."

Jennifer leaves her seat, rising just enough to put herself eye to eye -- nose to nose -- with Mary.

"Dr. Doom literally sent a man to Hell for singing the Latverian national anthem off-key, and every robbery you and Carl ever did left people hospitalized."

She raps Mary's forehead-- and despite having knuckles that could tear through steel plating, it's a controlled, firm but familiar gesture.

A complicated gesture.

"You might be impulsive, but you're smarter than this gish gallop bullshit, Mary," she lowly offers.

"And I'm sorry for not ASKING you what you might wanna do for a job besides Influence."