End: Jimmy Olsen

It was physically impossible to die of shame. Lois Lane now had scientific proof to verify that. Because as she walked the streets of Metropolis, completely nude, her body glowing green, she knew that if it was possible, she would have collapsed dead three blocks ago.

The cement was hard beneath her bare feet. The night air was cool. Her nipples were hard, little bright headlamps, brighter than the small breasts that surrounded them. Yet Lois Lane could feel the nervous perspiration drip down her ribs. In her mind's eye, her carefully-timmed pubic hair stood out against her glowing pussy, the little triangle of dark hair an arrow down to her unprotected slit.

Nor did she have to imagine the eyes on her. She could see it in the passers-by on the sidewalk. The cars that spontaneously slowed down. Caught glimpses of her reflection in shopwindows as she passed. The bright screens of phones that leaned out of windows, to record the eerie sight of the naked, glowing green woman that walked at a steady pace, away from Poison Ivy and the club, but with no particular destination in mind.

It was six hours to sunrise. Six hours to freedom.

Lois Lane didn't know what she would do, if someone grabbed her. If Ivy's control would let her fight back. Courageous as she was, the reporter shivered from more than the cold. Of all the nights she had gone out on her own, this would be the one where Superman was off-planet somewhere, unable to swoop in and save the day.

At least, Lois Lane thought. Nobody I know can see me.

"Miss Lane!?"

The reporter's shoulders crimped in a sudden, instinctive cringe. Unable to stop walking, she turned her head. There, stepping out of an alley with his zipper down, camera still dangling from a strap around his neck, was Jimmy Olsen. All five foot eight of him, tweed jacket and bowtie, freckles and close-cropped ginger hair.

"Sorry, Jimmy," Lois said as she walked away. "I can't stop."

He hurried to keep pace with her, zipped up his fly. The reporter wondered what he had been up to in the alley. Jimmy's cheeks looked a little too flushed to have just stopped to pee against an alley wall.

"What's going on!?" he asked. "Is this some sort of art piece? Oh! Are you doing a piece on public nudity!?"

Lois Lane debated lying to him...but she needed his help. If for no other reason than because he could maybe call someone else. So as they walked, she explained what had happened in the club. Why she glowed. Why she was naked. Somehow, it helped, to be able to talk to someone else about it. Took her mind off of being naked in public.

That is, until Jimmy Olsen raised his camera and began to snap photos.

"James Olsen, what are you doing?" Lois said, unable to cover herself as he walked around her, to catch chots of her ass, her breasts, her bush...and the profile of her face, the plane of her stomach, the trim thighs and calves, her feet.

"I'll help, Miss Lane!" Jimmy says. "Don't worry! I've got this!"

Phonecalls were made. Jimmy continued to take the occasional photo, but mostly he was busy reading crossstreets, talking to police officers, waving people away. Until he grabbed her wrist and pulled Lois left instead of across the street that headed downtown. The reporter's inability to pull against him answered one of her questions. Her mouth set in a grim line as she placidly followed his lead. She had a feeling he could do almost anything to her, and she wouldn't be able to fight him off.

Then a van pulled up, down the street ahead of them. Jimmy ran up to talk with them...and as Lois approached, she saw them set up a kind of frame of bamboo, with plastic sheets set across it. As Jimmy motioned her, Lois adjusted her step...and she found them fall into step around her, the tall fabric frame on four sides of her.

The reporter frowned. She could see freely straight through the fabric. It was as if she was traveling around in a transparent plastic tent...but from the outside, she hadn't been able to see in...

"This was an art installation, at Metropolis University," Jimmy explained. "Anti-invisibility! Cameras capture the scenes around them and project them on the smart-sheets. We can't use it all night, but the students agreed to escort us to somewhere more private."

"More private" turned out to be the old Metropolis public cemetery. No one had been interred there since 1936, but the city park service still kept up the paths and byways. The students let them out at the gate, with Jimmy's thanks...and, Lois saw, they passed him a backpack. More film, no doubt.

He would need it.

Lois Lane shade her light on tombs and gravestones from ancient centuries. Let her hand caress the cold breasts of naked stone angels. Bent, after long hours, to pee into the long grass between two long-forgotten graves, and wiped herself with Jimmy's borrowed handkerchief. She grimaced as he accepted it back, and shived it into his pocket.

He talked, in low tones, about how great the shots were. The book he would publish. The Wraith of Metropolis. From the backpack came cold sandwiches and bottles of water. They ate and walked in silence for a while, punctuated only occasionally by the click of the shutter.

Dawn broke, and Lois Lane staggered as the glow on her skin faded. Jimmy caught the last few snaps, the bags under his eyes as dark as her own. It had been a long night.

Then he emptied the rest of the backpack. Tennis shoes, white cotton socks, tight yoga pants, a wifebeater. Normally, Lois Lane would feel terribly exposed to walk around in such a shirt without a bra, in such pants without panties. Compared to her night out, however, Lois was happy just to have her bits covered.

They caught a cab, back to her apartment. Lois wanted a shower. She didn't even care if Jimmy watched, at this point. It was nothing he hadn't seen before.