Lois Doesn't Fight

The reporter throttled her instincts as the wolfskin-clad man began to slice through her pants. As much as she wanted to fight, she was alone, unarmed—and with a sickening awareness realized that for the first time in years there was no Superman to call if things went really wrong. So she grit her teeth and stared metaphorical daggers at the man with the literal dagger.

Her pants were tight, designed to show off her legs, and the stone dagger was anything but a gentle instrument. For all his desire to disrobe her, the native also appeared **** to harm her, growling in frustration as he cut and pulled, cut and pulled, struggling with the unfamiliar fabric—and finally barking a command. Two women stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her legs.

Their chests were bare, like those of the men, though marked by a fine, elaborate tangle of dark tattoos; they wore a kind of skirt, and tangles of beads. The reporter had seen something like them before...at the Metropolis Museum, in the display on the garb of the original inhabitants of Metropolis Island, when the first Europeans had arrived.

There was something wrong though...Lois couldn't put her finger on it, until she took a closer look at their stomachs. There were scars on their belly, neat and regular, just around the waist...but deep, as they they had almost been disemboweled. Yet they had healed...

Lois didn't struggle as the women pulled her ruined pants off of her, leaving her in only her black lace panties...and those the wolf-skinned leader left to her. He turned and said something to his compatriots, and then turned to her, stone dagger pointed threateningly at her breasts:

"Marche."

The accent on the French word was atrocious, but Lois got the picture. As the wolf turned away, she took a step after him, the whole group moving forward around her. He was the leader, she was to follow.

In any other time, a moonlit stroll through the forest might have been magical, even romantic. Yet Lois could feel the hard roots and rocks under her feet, and was more than aware of the cold night air on her bare skin, which made her nipples hard. She was defenseless against whatever these people wanted to do to her, whenever they got her to where they were going...

And Lois was aware of a village, off in the distance. There was the smell of cooking fires, trails of smoke, people sounds. But they weren't headed toward that. They were heading toward the center of the island. Lois frowned as she tried to orient herself. If this was Metropolis...or what would be Metropolis...then they were maybe where the warehouse district would be. Not far from the club.

The **** march ended, after perhaps half an hour's winding march through the woods, at the dark shadow of an outcropping of stone, jutting up from the earth. Here, the wolf-head called a stop with a silent gesture. The men and women began setting about some assigned task. Lois couldn't quite see what they were doing in the darkness...something with bits of wood and dry grass...and then after several minutes a thin curl of smoke rose up from whatever they were working on, and she understood, and marveled at the ancient art of firemaking, something she had never done live.

Fire brought light, ruddy and warm, as the natives quickly lit torches. Each of them had one, and Lois was suddenly aware that there were more of them than she thought...perhaps ten in total. The wolf-head, now with a torch to see by, approached the rock outcropping...and now Lois could make out the dark entrance of the cave, caught a glimpse of obscene figures painted on the inside wall, and the wolf turned to her and said only:

"Là-Bas."

Down there. Lois translated.