One of the Missing Women

A woman held the door to usher them in. She was a bit of a heavyset young woman with dark brown hair and olive skin, and she wore a kind of top and skirt of fine silvery chain—or so it appeared until she moved, and the chains shimmered, and Lois caught a glimpse of soft flesh.

The woman wasn't wearing clothes at all. A spiraling chain ran from a heavy gauge ring set in her clit, around her hips and up through two similar heavy rings, one in each nipple—and from that single rope hung countless smaller, finer chains. Just enough to mostly cover her in a silvery cascade, when she didn't move. But when she did... and the reporter could see the effect the cumulative weight of the chain had on her, as it pulled on her nipples, which hung down from the heavy rings set in them...and Lois recognized the woman, suddenly as one of those that had gone missing.

"Mara?" She said. "Mara de la Cruz?" The chain-girl's eyes went wide, but then Rat was pulling Lois away.

"Don't say anything," he hissed, and his voice was different, more confident than before. Lois fell into step with him as he seemed to know where he was going, and took the opportunity to look around. "She's not who you think she is. A plant, to catch spies. Glamoured to look like someone else."

The clientele looked like a roster of Metropolis' most wanted. Intergang higher-ups and Cadmus Project runaways, a couple of out-of-towners from the Gotham and Bludhaven mobs, a pair of the Flash's rogue's gallery... and the decor was Hell. Frozen souls screaming in eternal torment propped up clear glass tabletops, the floor was a giant flatscreen that showed a lake of fire, which if you looked at it resolved into an eternal orgy of writhing, naked, fiery bodies. The walls were painted with scenes of Goya and William Blake, and the waiters and waitresses were like Luci—naked save for chains, each one pierced and weighed down, unique in their look.

There was enough of a crowd and the lights were dim enough that Lois couldn't get a good idea of the dimensions of the club, but Rat guided her to a corner of the long bar that took up the the back of the room. He ordered drinks as they took their stools, then quietly leaned in to whisper to her.

"The name's Boston Brand," Rat said. "Better known as..."

"Deadman." Lois finished for him. "I know who you are."

"And I know who you are, Miss Lane, and what you're after. But this is a lot bigger than you think..."

Their drinks arrived, familiar pale grey-and-white cocktails. Lois tried to keep her eyes off the erect, chain-wrapped cock of the bartender, but failed, so she picked up her drink to sip it. "Rat" didn't touch his.

"Do you have a plan, Boston?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "But I need your help."

"Lay on, MacDuff." She said as she finished her cocktail.

Boston slid his over in front of her. "Drink it. You'll need it."

So she did.