Play Dead

In the White Room, the naked reporter raised her hand to her head, eyes rolling, legs suddenly unsteady. She swooned, wobbled, and then suddently collapsed, landing suddenly on her side, face hidden by her arm.

...Oh shit. Subject is down, subject is down, code red code red, what's the procedure...

Tuned in to the technician in the booth, Lois Lane suppressed a smile. The more she concentrated on him, the more she could feel...hints of an unfamiliar panic emanated from him along with his ongoing thoughtstream, his pulse pounding, his cock...

Lois struggled to remain still, now painfully aware of the technician's erection, his heart thundering in his chest, sweat soaking through the cheap t-shirt he was wearing. Even as he was desperately riffling through a three-ring binder, he was still sneaking glances at the monitor, eyes fixating on her visible nipple. She couldn't even cover up without alerting him to the ruse.

...Okay, okay, "Administer counteragent immediately." Right...right right oh fuck...

The longer she was "tuned in," the more deeply Lois was aware of him and what he was feeling. She was getting snippets of personality as well as what he was doing, tiny glimpses of memory...every action and thought drawing connections to his past. Without really seeing, she knew he was ripping open a wall-mounted storage case, withdrawing a green vial, loading it into a syringe like emergency medical technicians use to deliver adrenaline, big and hard enough to punch right through to the heart...

He moved, heart thumping, cursing all the time he spent playing World of Warcraft instead of attending the gym. Lois Lane got flashed of a lonely, nerdy life, just competent enough to monitor a super-secret genetic experiment for Lex Luthor beneath a club he wasn't cool enough to actually go into, his one joy in life (aside from his overweight cat, Scribbles) was...

Oh fuck. Lois thought, as her tuned telepathy zeroed in on his spankbank. It's all me.

Every nip slip and wardrobe malfunction, every time the wind had caught her dress or Jimmy Olsen had caught her panties as Superman was lowering her safely to the ground. He had the complete run of LOIS LANEYX, that terrible transgender porn parody. Her brain caught glimpses of his porn folder, filled with morphs and deepfakes, Lois Lane's face plastered onto the rutting, big-titted whores humping fat swollen pornstar cocks.

Her number-one fan was at the door now, punching in the code, the green syringe in his hand, ready to dash in on his nude goddess in the flesh, the hero in shining armor, ready to cream his black, grease-stained genes at the idea of copping a feel from her perfect breasts as he prepared to stab her in the heart with the Kryptonite counter-agent.

Lois Lane gritted her teeth, **** herself to stay relaxed. She only had one chance. If he knew she was faking, it was all over...

The door unlocked with a ca-thunk. He came in, a little out of breath, urgency still there but proceeding slowly, approaching her on tiptoe...and she sensed conflict, about what he was about to do, what he should do versus what he wanted to do...