Progress Is Swift

Somewhat self-consciously, Lois clambered back into her stripperific Amazonian uniform. Circe, who pulled on her own costume, smiled pleasantly at the reporter, and gestured toward the door.

Lois stepped back into the world beneath the club. No more beach, no more tropical sunlight. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the overhead fluorescent lights, the slight chill. Circe's hand was a warm reminder on the reporter's shoulder.

"Lay on, MacDuff. Show me your skills. And fear not, for I will let no one harm what is mine."

Following some instinct Lois reached up to touch that hand, and pressed her lips against the fingers...and then she strode forward, the immortal sorceress in her wake.

My mistress, Lois thought, and then pushed it aside. The investigation was different now; no more avoiding people. Her every sense seemed alive as she walked down the corridor, listening for noise, mapping the corridors...and turned a corridor to see a worn-looking older woman with dark brown skin and steel grey streaks in her hair, wearing a janitorial smock and pushing a cart.

"¿Que pasa?" Lois asked, on a hunch.

The woman looked past Lois, eyes growing suddenly wide. Instantly she crossed herself, made a sign with her fingers, thumb tucked in and forefinger and pinkie extended, and spit. Lois could almost feel her mistress grin.

"Ella no te lastimará. Solo quiero hacerle algunas preguntas." Lois said.

"No eres una puta." The janitor said.

"No. Soy un reportero."

The story came out, in bits and pieces. Lois had to put many of them together, but the overall shape was about what she figured. Women came in to whore, some of them stayed for days, weeks. They weren't paid in money...some kind of ****. The more they used, the more they owed, the harder they would get fucked. Not many women could survive as a whore to supervillains, not for long. In a few months they would be burned out, disposed of, never seen again.

Lois felt her back teeth ache. If she hadn't happened upon Circe...that could have been her. Addicted, fucked ragged, disposed of.

"¿Quien es la jefe?" The reporter asked.

"Jefa," the old woman quivered, and looked around, as if even the shadows had ears. "Ella es el diablo."

Circe's hands slid onto the reporter's shoulders. Lois could feel the other woman's chin resting there, and uncomfortable weight.

"The devil, you say?" Lois could almost feel Circe's gaze find and hold the old woman's eyes, where were wide with fear. "Ask her where we can find this...devil."

"¿Dónde?" Lois said.

The old woman pointed down the corridor. Mumbled about an elevator. The black button.

They left the old woman there, and Circe walked abreast of Lois now, no longer following.

"I think," the sorceress said. "that this investigation just got interesting."

"I thought," Lois swallowed. "How did you set up your...beach and all that, if not with management."

"Hmm," Circe hummed. "I heard about this place. Talked with a manager, arranged my little space, and some...company. Yet I never met with the owner. Now, I think, I begin to see why."

The older woman's smile was cruel. "She hid her magic very well, but now that I know to look for it...oh yes. This is very interesting."

The elevator was just where the janitor said it was. The last button was blacked out, blank, worn smooth by countless fingers. Lois went to hit it, but Circe grabbed her hand. The doors closed, but the elevator didn't move.

"One thing, my dear," Circe said. "We need to prepare a little surprise."