The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl: Squirrel Meets World

  “Oh no, don’t be sad!” she said to the baby.

  “You don’t know me!” said the man. “And I’m not sad—I’m just a troubled soul!”

  Doreen lifted the hood and lowered it fast. “Boo!” Lift and lower, lift and lower. “Boo! Boo!”

  The man gaped. “WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?”

  “Boo!” said Doreen. “Uh, buh-buh…boo!”

  The man looked ready to yell at her again—which she really didn’t appreciate, to be honest—but then the baby cooed from the backseat. He looked behind him.

  “What the freak? There’s a baby in here!”

  The man swerved again, this time extra-swerve-y. And Doreen could feel that the car was about to tip.

  Adrenaline pumping, rodent-instincts fired up, everything seemed to go slow-mo. She scrambled up the hood and, as the car tilted, ran along the high side of the car, past the driver, who was saying “Hooooooly—” something. He didn’t finish. The car was almost completely sideways now. Doreen reached the back door and yanked it open, pulling as hard as she could. The hinges squealed and snapped. She dropped the door onto the street. She reached inside, slicing through the safety belt with her claws to free the car seat. Hugging the seat to her chest with both arms, she leaped free.

  As she landed on the sidewalk, metal screeched, sparks flew, and glass shattered behind her. The car was upside-down sliding along the street, finally slamming into a parked car.

  Doreen put down the car seat and crouched over the baby.

  “How’s the little boy?” she asked in a high voice. “How’s the baby Rodney? Izz-he a good baby? Yezz-he-izz! Yezz-he-izz!”

  Rodney smiled so hard at least half the real estate of his face was taken up with the wet grin, his eyes squinting to make room.

  “Yezz-he-izz a good boy, a good, good boy!”

  “Coooo, cooo,” Rodney said, his mouth now tiny, his wee fists and bootied feet flailing with joy.

  A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, staring at the crash, and a few people were looking Doreen’s way. She realized she should leave before the police came and made things awkward. Adults were sure to have opinions about teenage girls jumping onto the roofs of speeding cars, even if they did have the proportional strength, speed, and agility of a squirrel.

  But what to do with Rodney? One of the adults nearby might help, but then again, what if they were also a crazed carjacker or even a baby-napper?

  “Chikky chuk,” said Tippy-Toe, just catching up.

  “It’s like you can read my thoughts, Tip,” said Doreen. “You’re right—things are always safer in trees.”

  With the car seat in one arm, Doreen clambered up a nice robust oak. Then she carefully wedged the car seat between two branches. Several squirrel friends gathered around, sniffing Rodney and tickling his neck with their tails.

  “Keep an eye on him till his mom comes, will you, friends?”

  The squirrels chirped in affirmation, and Doreen leaped away.

  She paused, crouching beside the overturned car. Now the man was the upside-down one and she was right side up.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I guess,” came his voice. “I mean, I was wearing a seat belt.”

  “Even when stealing a car, seat belts present the safest option,” said Doreen.

  “True,” he said.

  “You really shouldn’t be stealing cars, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I got mad when I discovered that someone stole my bike, so I just…I just took someone else’s car.”

  “I’m sorry about your bike,” said Doreen. “And sorry that you’re a troubled soul. But I recommend therapy over carjacking, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you need any recommendations? I could maybe find a good therapist for you in the neighborhood.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Wait…who are you?”

  “Just the person who talked you out of being a career criminal and changed your life for the better.”

  “Thanks? But what’s your name?”

  “I’m…I’m…” She took a deep breath. “I’m Squirrel Girl.”

  Squirrel Girl stood up, ready to flee before the police arrived. Only she was surrounded. A crowd had formed on the sidewalk and was spilling into the street, staring at her, muttering to one another.

  “Some kind of freak…”

  “Look at her tail, man.”

  “You mean that thing is real? That’s not a costume?”

  “No, she’s real, and she, like, lifted a car or something.”

  “You think that’s the Jersey Ghost?”

  “It’s real. Holy cannoli, the Jersey Ghost is real.”

  Through the crowd, the frizzy-haired mother came running. She screamed when she saw the car.

  “No! He’s hurt! He’s killed!!”

  “I’m okay, actually,” came the carjacker’s voice from inside the car. “I put on a seat belt, so—”

  “My Rodney! My baby, is he hurt?”

  “Oh, I thought you meant me,” said the carjacker. “Never mind!”

  “Rodney is great! Tippy!” Squirrel Girl called out.

  A horde of squirrels carried the car seat down from the tree, setting it on the sidewalk. The mother pulled out Rodney and hugged him. Everyone could hear the baby coo with delight.

  “She saved my baby!” said the mother. “SHE SAVED MY BABY!”

  “Who are you?” a man shouted.

  “Just your friendly neighborhood Squirrel Girl.”71

  The crowd was still staring. Squirrel Girl felt as though they wanted more from her. What would a hero do now? Captain America would probably give an inspirational speech. She cleared her throat. The crowd quieted. Some rubbed their hands together eagerly. Who doesn’t love a good inspirational speech?

  “Um…some people might say you’ve gotta be nuts to chase down a speeding carjacker.” Squirrel Girl leaped onto the top of the overturned car, thrust her fist into the air, and said, “Well…I love nuts!”

  At first the crowd was quiet, as if expecting more to the speech. When no more came, a murmuring arose.

  “Hey, I like nuts, too.”

  “Me too.”

  “I never really considered nuts before, but now that I think about it…”

  “You know what? I do love nuts.”

  “Pecans are my favorite!”

  “I’m allergic to tree nuts, but I can appreciate them in principle!”

  In the distance, Squirrel Girl could hear sirens.

  “Um…’kay, bye!” she said. She leaped from the car to the treetop and from there onto a roof. Tippy-Toe was a streak of gray and pink beside her. As they jumped to another roof and out of sight, Squirrel Girl could hear cheering behind her. And a low chant that began to rise: Squirrel Girl, Squirrel Girl, Squirrel Girl…

  That’s me, she thought. I’m Squirrel Girl. I’m really, really real.

  There was no turning back now.

  THE MICRO—MANAGER

  The Micro-Manager sat in a dark room lit by a dozen computer screens. He had not always called himself The Micro-Manager. As a child he had mostly just called himself by his first name, except during his seventh Halloween season when he was “the Doom Bat.” He had toyed with using the name “King Bee,” but that alias was already in use on Baddit, the online Super Villain forum he frequented. So he had gone with micromanager online, Micro-Manager in in-line text, and simply MM when branding his creations.

  He was staring at his largest screen, currently showing a grainy video of a girl with a giant fuzzy tail. She scampered across a speeding, tilting car, plucked a baby from inside, and then leaped to safety with the baby in her arms. A crowd gathered, cheering for the deformed girl.

  “I love nuts!” the girl shouted, the sound distant and tinny through the display’s internal speaker.

  “I hate nuts,” muttered the Micro-Manager. The video jittered to a halt and CO
MMAND NOT UNDERSTOOD appeared over the paused video.

  “IsaidIhatenuts!” the Micro-Manager shouted. The phrase remained in place.

  “I also hate surprises,” the Micro-Manager said, addressing the screen as if the tailed figure on it could hear his words.

  Exactly two inches from the front and right edges of his desk was a perfect stack of six Oreo cookies.

  The Micro-Manager plucked a cookie off the stack and ate it in a single bite.

  “Prmn,” he said, chewing as he gestured to something behind him. “Grplnch.”

  Servos whirred, and the sound of robotic feet descending a staircase echoed through the dark room.

  “Command not understood,” said the robot in a pleasant female voice. “Please repeat.”

  “GRPLNCH,” the Micro-Manager repeated more loudly, anger creeping into the tone.

  The robot, dressed primly in a yellow sundress, entered the room and paused.

  “Command not understood,” the robot said again. “Please repeat.”

  “Gah!” The Micro-Manager chewed twice, swallowed, and said, “REPLENISH! Unit P-One, replenish! Another cookie, you idiot!”

  “Yes. Dear.” The robot paced away.

  “As if this creature wasn’t enough,” the Micro-Manager muttered. “Now I need to tweak the voice-recognition algorithms. Again.”

  The robot returned. Carefully it placed a single Oreo on top of the stack of five with its remarkably human-looking hand.

  “Good,” he said. “Now milk, ten ounces.”

  “Yes. Dear.”

  “Screen two,” said the Micro-Manager. “Take dictation.”

  On one of the smaller monitors, a text box appeared.

  “Wednesday,” he said. “Frustration.” The waveform on the bottom of the screen jumped at the words, with a transcription appearing in the text box shortly after.

  “Animals are bad enough. They chew wires, scratch lenses, disrupt my carefully placed spy-bots. I’ve taken great pains to trap and eliminate the animal vermin in the neighborhood. People are even worse, of course, so they’ll have to go eventually. And now…animal-people? It is as if the universe is conspiring to destroy order. Or simply conspiring to irritate me. It has succeeded. DO YOU HEAR, UNIVERSE? YOU ARE ON THE LIST! As soon as I figure out how to live somewhere besides inside of you, you’re out! Out! Extinguished! Eliminated!”

  A glass of milk lowered onto the table, propelled by human-looking robotic fingers.

  “Milk. Dear.” The robot had returned.

  The Micro-Manager gave the machine an irritated wave of dismissal, and continued to speak.

  “It is clear this animal-person is behind all of the trap destruction. And between the state of those traps and this recent video evidence, it is also clear the creature has superhuman abilities. Strength and speed, certainly, but what else?”

  “I am not programmed for deduction and extrapolation,” the robot said, still standing beside the Micro-Manager. “Please upgrade my systems for further discussion.”

  The Micro-Manager whirled on the robot. “UGH! I AM NOT TALKING TO YOU! GO. AWAY.”

  “Yes. Dear.” The robot walked backward, and then began backing up the stairs, its eyes still pointed at its creator.

  “And turn around,” the Micro-Manager shouted. “Walk normal. That’s just creepy.”

  “Yes. Dear.” It swiveled its body around and continued to ascend the stairs.

  “Okay. Where was I?” The Micro-Manager turned back to the screen. “Right. A super-powered thing getting into my business is exactly the opposite of what I need right now. Ordinary people are bad enough, but extraordinary ones? Extra-bad! My three-year plan of the inevitable recognition of my greatness and ultimate partnership with Hydra was foolproof.72 Not so foolproof, as it turns out. FOOLS have been my downfall! AGAIN!”

  He glanced at the milk, angrily took a sip, and replaced the glass.

  “Computer, stop dictation. Play Heights of Villainy Motivational Lecture Series, disk two, track four.”

  Chapter Seven: FOOLS!

  Am I right, fellas? FOOLS! We’re surrounded by them! Fools at the bakery! Fools at the bank! Fools on the streets! And, increasingly, fools in the air! It is NOT a party being better than everyone. How do we ensure we are not crippled by the abject idiocy of others?

  The first option, of course, is murder. Alas, this is not as easy as it sounds, at least not on the scale you need to make any kind of noticeable dent in the fool population. And believe me, even if you can get those kinds of numbers, the cleanup is a BEAST. Unless you’re the type of guy who enjoys the smell of decomposing meat (I’m looking at you, Mangog!); then having—

  “Skip forward,” said the Micro-Manager.

  …frankly the dead make for poor servants. Loki may tell you different, but trust me, zombie butlers are a big P in the A—

  “Forward.”

  …not like Thanos, who gets people to honestly believe he’ll incinerate them where they stand despite his ridiculous purple head and chin of a thousand butts—

  “Forward.”

  A note on the worst kind of fool. The Super-Fool. These butter-brained cretins that fly, shoot lasers out of various body parts, and generally cause us trouble. If you’ve got one of these on your tail, congratulations! You’ve just been legitimized by the system. People are much more likely to run away from you screaming if you’ve been seen fighting Thor.

  Side-tip: Don’t fight Thor. It’s a bad idea.

  My point is, if you don’t have a nemesis, get one. But make sure it is one that people love and respect. I know a guy who spent years fighting the hero Star-Lord, and all he ever did was make Star-Lord look like a joke. Which, frankly, in the court of public opinion, was not that great a feat. And so now this guy is known as Star-Lord’s archenemy, which is mostly funny to everyone. Except him. And Star-Lord, too, probably.

  Don’t make that mistake. OWN your Super-Fool. If they aren’t worthy of you, make them worthy of you. Make sure the public knows it. Then defeat them in front of everyone. It’ll make your rep for years.

  “Pause.”

  The Micro-Manager turned to the monitor still showing Squirrel Girl, fist held high in a pose of triumph.

  “Very well,” he said to the screen. “Let’s make you worthy enough for me to defeat you, you ridiculous thing.”

  “COMMAND NOT UNDERSTOOD.”

  “Argh!”

  DOREEN

  Doreen’s mother turned off the television. Moments ago, it had been tuned to the local news, where reporters were laughingly recounting the story of a baby saved by a giant-tailed Squirrel Girl.

  “Doreen…” said her mother.

  Doreen stood at the bottom of the stairs, half in shadow. She twitched her tail and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “It’s just that—” said her father.

  “Don’t say you want me to hide my tail because you’re worried everybody will be jealous,” said Doreen. “Because it’s not that, is it?”

  Maureen looked at Dor. Dor looked at Maureen. Then they both looked at Doreen.

  “I knew it,” said Doreen. She sat down on the couch beside them. The cushion springs squeaked.

  “We want you safe,” said her father. “And someone like you attracts attention—good and bad. And the bad can be really bad.”

  “I thought…that maybe…I thought I could maybe be a hero—”

  “Well, of course you could,” said her father. “We’ve always known that.”

  “Wait, what?” said Doreen.

  “You climbed out of your crib when you were four months old,” said Maureen.

  “We had a special crib cage made for you so you couldn’t get out and go tumbling down the stairs at night and hurt yourself,” said Dor.

  “But you were still a toddler when you could pull apart the bars and wiggle free.”

  “You clawed your way out of the sliding glass door when you were three.”

  “That same year you cli
mbed a tree and fell out, breaking your leg. The doctor put it in a temporary brace, but when we went back to get the cast, the bone was already healing on its own, faster than expected.”

  “A year later when you fell out of another tree—remember, hon? The redwood? Mickey almighty, that was a fall—you didn’t break any bones.”

  “And after that, you just stopped falling out of trees. Or falling altogether.”

  “You are fast, strong, agile, proficient in Chitterspeak, and have such a beautiful tail—”

  “It is a real beauty,” Maureen agreed.

  “And on top of all that, you have an impenetrable sense of justice and a heart of pure gold. Well, tell me, why wouldn’t ’cha be a Super Hero?”

  “Really?” said Doreen.

  Her father nodded. His eyes were wet with emotion, and as shiny as his bald head. “Our job as parents was to keep you safe till you were ready. And if you ask me, fourteen is still preeeet-ty young to be saving the day—”

  “Now Dor—”

  “Well, I’m just sayin’, Maureen, and I have a right to say, don’t I?”

  “Don’t go losing the rest of your hair now, Dor, no one said you couldn’t say—”

  “So you say. But when I was a kid, well, you had to be twenty-one before you could do any day-saving. Cousin Steelgrip was twenty-six. And even he gave it up by age twenty-eight to pursue a career in forensic accounting.”

  “For all that it’s a different world now, I have to agree with your father.”

  “And that’s not to say we’re not so proud of our little girl that I’m about to pop some shirt buttons.” He wiped his eyes and beamed at her.

  “But running around with your tail out and face uncovered?” said her mother. “Doreen, you could be recognized, and I believe in secret identities like I believe in butterscotch pudding.”

  Dor and Doreen nodded. Maureen believed in butterscotch pudding a great deal.73

  “So, you got your basic keep-your-real-name-a-secret-so-bad-guys-can’t-attack-your-weaker-loved-ones rationale,” said Maureen.