The bourbon tastes good. Burns a little bit going down. A bit of pain in exchange for a bit of pleasure. Pretty much sums up the deal we call life, or at least how I know it.

My name? A few men have already asked for it, and I decline politely here at the bar counter. I'm not here to make friends. Can't even risk accepting a free drink; it might give out the wrong impression. I'm here to take one moment of solace, enjoy my drink, then move on. You see, I can't stay in one place for very long. Not this bar, not this town - and if the next incident that happens is bad enough, I'll have to leave this state behind too.

Sorry, I guess I'm getting ahead of myself here. If you're reading this, you need to know the truth. Well, I need you to know the truth. Somebody besides me has to for my own sanity.

My name is Rebecca Reynolds. Right now, I'm that woman at the counter you see out of the corner of your eye trying to be discreet, brown hair framing a freckled face. I'm wearing a simple button-up shirt and jeans that haven't been washed in a week; they're both still in one piece which is more than I can say for a lot of my wardrobe. If you were to approach me, I'd stare at you with my brown eyes and tell you thanks, but no thanks. Trust me, your attention is better spent elsewhere.

Funny thing is, I'm an extrovert. Used to love being among people, chatting it up, going out with the girls, sharing a drink with a guy. But ever since the accident, I can't do that anymore. I'm states away from home, and this is the first drink I've allowed myself in a bit. Which reminds me, time to take another sip.

I feel the burn again in my throat. Got a good pour on this one, I think the bartender could tell I'm lonely. I don't have much, but I'll be sure to tip him a bit extra when I leave tonight. Could use the karma.

I'm almost done with this glass, and I consider another one. Bourbon takes the edge off. I have a lot of stress in my life right now, and stress isn't good. Stress causes me to change. Literally change.

You see, there's something inside of me. It's hard to describe what it is, but over time it builds and builds and begs to get out. It only needs an excuse - anger, fear, pain, stress - and I lose control. When that happens, people get hurt.

I don't want to think about that right now. I catch the bartender's eye, and he understands, and reaches for the bottle to get me my refill.

"Let me get that, darling," says a voice to my left. I catch a man in my peripheral vision, but don't let myself look in his direction. Buzz cut, plaid shirt, broad shoulders, a few days unshaven. "You're too pretty to be drinking alone tonight," he continues.

Not the most clever pick-up line, but far from the worst I've heard. "No, thank you," I say, keeping my attention forward. "Meeting some friends in a few minutes," I lie.

He doesn't take the hint. "Well, let me keep you company for a few minutes then. It's all I ask!"

"I appreciate the gesture," I respond, "but tonight's just not a good night. Maybe tomorrow?" I lie again, hoping it'll get him to leave. No such luck.

The man brushes his hand back across his buzz-cut scalp and shakes his head with an annoyed laugh. "Darling, I don't care about tomorrow. I'm here now, and all I want is to share a drink with you for five minutes."

He's annoying me, but I'm calm. I lift my bourbon glass and finish the remainder of the drink, then let the empty glass rest on the bar. "Again, no thank you, but appreciate it." I wave off the refill to the bartender, scoot off the bar, and land on my sneaker-covered feet. With my brown hair falling in front of my face, I look away from the man and grab my bag. "Have a good night, sir."

I feel a sudden jolt as the man's hand grabs my arm. "I will have a good night, if you drink with me, lady." I'm closer than I'm comfortable with, and that distance allows me to smell the booze on his breath. He begins to pull on my arm. "Come back with me to my table and we'll share a round!"

"Please let go of me," I say, temper rising in my voice. I don't want to make a scene for a million reasons, but my first priority is not to let this drunk idiot drag me around. "I don't want a drink."

The man turns back, smile melted from his face, and scowls at me. "I saw you about to order one."

"I changed my mind," I say, trying to remove my arm from his grip. He tightens it, which begins to hurt. I'm getting angry. "Please let me go." I say it loudly enough so it echoes through the bar, but the patrons just turn and mind their own business.

"You're a liar. Plus, what's one drink gonna hurt?"

I feel pain in my arm. My brain begins to go into overdrive. I can feel myself breathing rage at my inability to escape this man. I don't want to be here, I need to go. But I can't go.

The man yanks me forward suddenly to him and wraps his arm around my back. He brushes my hair out of my face and I get another intake of his alcohol-stained breath. His glazed-over eyes lock with mine. "Why so annoyed? Come on, one drink and let's get you to smile."

My anger, panic, fear, and adrenaline boil over "I. Said. NO!"

Suddenly, I feel my arms outstretched in front of me, having shoved the man off of me, causing him to land a couple of tables away, greeted by the crashing of breaking glasses and clanging silverware. I'm free of him.

But that's where the good news end. I feel a cold chill wash across my body as my adrenaline surges, and my emotions flood over me. I see my reflection in the bar mirror, and instead of Rebecca Reynolds' brown eyes, I see the pale green eyes of something else staring back at me. My worst fear is here again: The change is coming.

Remember how I said that when I lose control, people get hurt? Well, control has been lost, and I don't have much time. My body is taking over, and that something inside of me is coming out. Panicked, I try to move, but it's too late. My breathing becomes labored, and I can almost hear myself growl with every breath.

Pain overwhelms me. Every nerve ending, every muscle, every cell begins to fill with an overwhelming energy that I can't trace. It's too much for me to handle. I grab my pounding head with my hands as I fall to my knees. I'm trying to fight what's coming with every fiber of my being, but I don't know where to start. It's all too much, and the more I fight, the more it hurts. Finally, I can fight no more.

The pain melts away and is replaced by a numbness; a steady wave of power that, if I was in my right mind, would almost say felt good. My body begins to grow, slowly overpowering the last traces of resistance that were left over. I feel my shirt growing tighter, my jeans getting taut. My muscles have become larger, and they're the first to escape, my biceps tearing the seams of my shirt sleeves, while my thighs escape their denim prison below.

My muscles aren't the only things growing. I feel my fingernails lengthening at the tips of my fingers. I feel my hair lengthen, flowing down my shoulders and across my back. My toes shoot out the tips of my sneakers like they had been made from cardboard. I feel my bra digging into my flesh as my breasts enlarge and push against the cups.

People are staring at me, and I just don't care. She does, though. I feel her presence now, sharing space in my brain. I'm losing real estate here, and I grasp on to as much time as I possibly can.

Though thoughts are short-lived, however, as another surge of adrenaline washes through me, and I let out a deep growl as the transformation takes another leap. My skin begins to darken away from any pigment considered human and into a jade green. I hear the buttons on on the front of my shirt begin to pop off as my chest overwhelms the fabric; the back of my shirt ripping up the middle to reveal a muscle-clad back covered by a straining bra. The belt on my jeans snaps as the button on my waste pops off, the jeans peeling off my calves revealing green amazonian legs.

I arch my back and yell to the ceiling as my jaw widens, lifting my monstrous arms above my head. I'm greeted with a sudden relief as my bra claps finally snaps, falling toward the ground as my engorged boobs sit free underneath shreds of my shirt and atop my newly defined abdominal muscles. With a massive roar, I bring them down and smash my fists into the floor, creating two craters in the floor and making everybody quake from the tremor.

What looks up at the people isn't Rebecca Reynolds. It's something savage. It's looking at them with those pale green eyes I mentioned earlier.

I'm no longer in control. The She-Hulk is.

I'm still there, in a way - a presence. Does she feel me like the way I feel her lurking inside me? I definitely feel her rage now. The She-Hulk makes her way to her feet and stands among the bar patrons, at least those who haven't fled in fear yet. She's a massive, monstrous figure. Arms and legs resembling tree trunks, muscles rippling through taut jade skin. A wild brush of black hair falling down across her back, neck, and shoulders. Growls and heavy breaths escaping through clenched teeth.

She's not human; the only things that would remind you of where she came from are the ragged remains of a shirt, bra, jeans, and panties that lay dangling off of her. She refuses to be human. Humans are weak, puny. Humans hurt her. And she's going to hurt them back.

The She-Hulk takes large, weighted steps to the front of her, towards the broken table where the man in a plaid shirt had landed. He's still finding his bearings, and doesn't quite notice the monster lurching toward him. Slowly, his eyes catch sight of what's in front of him, and his confusion turns to outright fear.

"Oh...oh my GOD! What are you?" he sputters out as he stumbles backwards among the broken glass.

The She-Hulk has him in her grip in no time. She lifts him up, feet dangling several feet off the ground, until they're face to face.

"Hello, darling," the beast said.

The man screamed.