Do I Have Much Of A Choice?

The surly answer came automatically. A black bang fell across Lois Lane's left eye, and she didn't move it. The now pint-sized reporter crossed her arms in front of her small breasts as indignation burned inside of her.

There was a pause from above. Lois tapped her foot. The black mood that washed over her was familiar, though she hadn't felt it for more than a decade. The terrible rebellious attitude that had seen her pierce her eyebrow in 12th grade, to kiss Janice at the prom just to prove to all the prudes how stupid their rules were. The instinctive desire to act out which, when combined with her rampant curiosity, had threatened to get Lois into so much trouble during her teenaged years.

"Of course you have a choice, Lane. You can cooperate, and maybe get back to how you were, or I can just continue to subject you to different types of kryptonite and see what happens. Which will it be, young lady?"

The reporter's arm thrust out, middle finger extended at the ceiling.

"Fuck you!" the naked nineteen-year-old shouted at the top of her lungs. "You're not my mom! Sit down and rotate on this!"

An older, wiser, more mature Lois Lane might have thought twice before antagonizing someone who could subject them to bizarre transformations via radioactive extraterrestrial rocks at the push of a button. Yet the reporter's kryptonite-fueled de-aging was obviously more than skin deep. A decade of maturity and patience had been peeled off of Lois Lane, who stood there as a perfect picture of teenage defiance.

"Fine. Suit yourself," Mercy Graves said.

The naked reporter was still extending her middle finger as she backed away from the center of the room. Another hole had opened in the ceiling, and a mechanical arm was slowly descending, holding a chunk of crimson crystal. As the reporter knelt in the corner, as if trying to hide from the strange invisible rays that emanated from the radioactive mineral, she felt a familiar pins-and-needles sensation all over her body.