Lifestyle Journalism

As the door to Melanie Adams's obscenely luxurious penthouse apartment opened, Emma Park watched her friend smile, and then cock an eyebrow.

"So it finally happened, huh?" Mel sighed theatrically. "You finally pissed someone off badly enough to get yourself hypnotized."

Emma rubbed her tired eyes. "That bad, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Mel said. "Major eyelid drooping. Future Pulitzer Prize winner Emma Park, brainwashed into an obedient trance-slave to the rich and powerful. Such a tragedy!"

"Ugh," Emma groaned. Smiling ruefully, she pushed past her taller friend. "Up yours, Mel."

Mel laughed good-naturedly and closed the door behind her. "Make yourself at home, babe."

Emma immediately did so. She threw herself down on Mel's couch and let out an exhausted sigh as she looked out over the city from the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows of Mel's penthouse. Mel was a perfect match for her high-class surroundings, with her well-trained figure, noble, aquiline nose, and fierce cheekbones. It was a little embarrassing to see her in such good shape when Emma knew she was such a wreck.

"You know," Emma piped up after a moment. "If anyone was going to have hypnotized me, it probably would have been your mom. She's the only rich hypnogarch around here who actually knows I exist."

Mel rolled her eyes. This was familiar territory, and the use of 'hypnogarch' was deplorably cheesy.

"As you well know, dearest Mommy scrupulously follows all relevant laws, regulations, and ethical guidelines regarding the use of hypnosis and mind control to subvert the free will of others," Mel recited, heading off to the kitchen. "Coffee? Or wine?"

"Coffee," Emma replied gratefully. "I need so much coffee." She yawned. "And yeah, I know. She doesn't break any rules - at least, not in any way anyone can prove. But don't you think it's funny how all those regulations seem to get changed whenever she needs to get someone wrapped around her little finger?"

Mel rolled her eyes again, reaching back to throw out her wavy, pale blonde hair to further accentuate her weariness of the topic. This was seriously familiar territory. They'd been having this argument ever since they were teenagers. As college roommates, it had been constant.

"Money opens all kinds of doors, Emma. We both know that! It's the way of the world, babe."

"Yes," Emma agreed, making no effort to hide her frustration. "Yes, it certainly is. The same money that bought you this penthouse, for example."

"That's right," Mel replied, her tone mildly reproving. "And I was raised not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Here's your coffee."

"God, you're a lifesaver." Emma sat up and took the cup of coffee Mel offered her, smiling warmly. For all their differences, they were best friends, and always would be. She took a few sips, grateful for the caffeine. "I'm just glad you haven't taken after your mom. That's all I'll say."

"I haven't yet," Mel corrected, sitting down next to her. "No need to learn the family business while my parents are still in rude health. Hypnosis is hard! For now, I'd rather take it easy in my cushy, work-from-home consultant job with ridiculous perks and absurdly few hours. Another gift from Mommy."

She paused, and looked thoughtfully at Emma, sipping her coffee.

"How about you?" Mel asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Any thoughts about... I don't know, moving up in the world?" Mel asked hopefully. "Nobody can be a muckraker forever, Emma."

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Why do I get the feeling you invited me over just to talk to me about this?"

"I worry about you!" Mel shrugged and spread her arms. "I worry about what you do."

"What I do is important," Emma replied defensively.

"I know, I know," Mel assured her hastily. "But, babe, jokes aside? You look like hell. I know how much you care about your work. I really do. I admire it! But as your friend, I'm seriously worried about you."

Emma sagged. She'd heard that before - from Mel and others. She knew they weren't wrong. Her life was all late nights and early mornings, chasing leads and following up on attempts to gather evidence. She was exhausted, she lived on takeout, and she couldn't remember the last time her spine hadn't hurt. Her kind of journalism - digging deep for stories, looking out for the little guy - made for a miserable lifestyle. But it mattered. Some of her past exposés had been printed in major newspapers, and the independent piece she was currently working on was bigger still. She couldn't give it up. She just couldn't.

"It's not that easy, Mel," Emma replied quietly. "You know it's not. I need to do this."

Mel just nodded.

"Jokes aside, I don't have a problem with you or your family," Emma continued. She needed to say it out loud; to remind herself why she was putting herself through this. "I don't have a problem with any mind controller who follows the rules. The rules are there to keep people safe. It's why we have them."

Her friend reached out to rest a comforting hand on Emma's shoulder.

"Hypnosis is the way of the world," Emma went on. "I get it. I do. But that doesn't mean subjects deserve to be exploited or seen as weak! There are abuses of power happening each and every day, but since the rich and powerful rely on mind control, they turn a blind eye to them. Everyone does. But not me. I won't."

"I understand," Mel said, in a low voice. "Your journalism is important. OK. But... can't you at least take a break. You could really use one, Emma."

Emma stared down into her coffee. She wasn't stupid. She knew this job was taking a toll on her. Her deep, brown eyes were heavy and sunken, her face was thin and sallow even as junk food added to her waistline, and her dark hair hadn't been cut for so long, it was becoming difficult to tie it up into the neat, manageable bob she usually preferred without knots forming or strands coming loose. A break did sound nice, but it was never that easy.

"I can't," she replied miserably. "I'm onto something big, Mel. I've been investigating the fitness scene. It's rife with abuse - human trafficking, illegal mind control, permanent enslavement. Someone needs to bring it to light, and if I take a break now, the trail goes cold."

"Damn it," Mel whispered under her breath. She paused for a long time, as anxiety and dread soured the air between them. "You know," she began again, hesitantly, "it's not just burnout I'm worried about."

"Yeah?"

"I was joking earlier," Mel said, "but not completely. Emma, I'm scared that one day, you'll put your foot in something serious. You'll piss off a powerful mind controller without ethics to hold them back, and they'll... they'll take you away from me."

"Hey." Emma tried to smile at her. "You worry too much."

To her surprise, Mel remained dead serious. "No," she replied. "I don't. Don't you ever worry about the kind of people you might be pissing off?"

Emma lapsed into silence for a long moment. "Well," she said eventually. "I still can't stop."

Mel buried her head in her hands, rubbing her face for a few seconds. When she raised her head again, she had a carefree but distinctly forced expression on her face.

"OK!" she announced brightly. "If I can't get you to stop and I can't get you to take a break, there's only one way for me to be a good friend."

Emma blinked, taken aback by her friend's abrupt mood shift. "Uh... what's that?"

"I'm going to help you, of course! I have a source for you."

Emma blinked again, before she immediately snapped back into work mode. She whipped out her phone and pulled up her notes app. "You do? Tell me everything."

"I happen to know someone deeply involved with the fitness scene you're investigating," Mel explained. "She's a personal trainer. Very exclusive - she only works for the rich and powerful. Exactly the kind of mind controllers you're digging into."

"Oh shit." Emma was taking notes frantically, excitement pushing her tired eyes wide open. "That sounds really promising, Mel."

"You'd never get to see her on your own, but she and I have a good relationship," Mel continued. "We met through my work. I could get you some meetings with her. You could pick her brain for all the information she has."

"Mel, that's amazing!" Emma threw her arms wide and went in for a hug. "You're too good to me, seriously."

"Wait!" Mel held her at bay with a hand. "There's a condition."

"Oh." Emma eyed her friend suspiciously. Was this just another way to try and get her to stop working? "What is it?"

"Dinner!" Mel winked at her, and puckered up her pretty, cupid's bow mouth to blow a kiss. "Here. With me. Every night, while you're working this case." She poked a playful finger into Emma's stomach. "I know you, babe. I know you're eating nothing but takeout while you've got your head buried in this story. I can at least make sure you get some healthy, home-cooked meals instead."

Emma blushed faintly, embarrassed at having suspected her friend of any foul play. "Jeez. I really don't deserve you, Mel."

"Nonsense!" Now, Mel hugged her. "You deserve me for being so cute."

As they hugged, Emma laughed gratefully. Once they pulled away from one another, Mel rose to her feet.

"Alright!" She put her hands on her hips. "Our little dinner dates are going to start today. That means I am going to go get cooking, and you are going to put your phone down, go into my spare bedroom, and nap until the food is ready. Understood?"

Emma was in no mood to disagree. She stood up and threw her friend a mocking salute. "Yes ma'am."

With that, she headed off toward the spare bedroom. She didn't need to ask; it wasn't exactly her first time crashing at Mel's place. Mel watched her go with a smile on her face, and waited until the bedroom door was shut. Then she sighed, took a moment to prepare herself, and reached for her cell phone.

"Hey, Amara?" she said in a firm, businesslike voice once her call connected. "This is Melanie Adams. I need to talk to you. And yes, it's regarding the girl you called me about earlier."

***

A few days later, Emma was waiting on the doorstep of Amara Rodriguez, fitness coach to the elite. As good as her word, Mel had gotten in touch and arranged a meeting. Emma was grateful - both for that, and for the home-cooked meals. It was a nice change from takeout.

The door opened within moments of Emma pressing the doorbell. "Emma Park?" asked the formidable-looking woman on the other side of the threshold. When Emma nodded, she beckoned her inside. "Come on in."

Amara's apartment wasn't that far from Mel's, and it was similarly luxurious and spacious. That was no surprise, given her apparent clientèle. The big difference was that a huge portion had been converted into a cavernous home gym, replete with exercise machines, mats, and weights. To her surprise, Amara led her in there, rather than over to her living room.

"Just to be clear," Emma joked lightly, "Melanie booked me in for an interview, not a workout... right?"

Amara laughed. "No offense, Miss Park, but from what she told me, you could use both."

Emma laughed too. "Wow, you got me. Just 'Emma' is fine, by the way."

"And call me Amara."

Emma nodded. Amara Rodriguez made one hell of a first impression. As a personal trainer, she certainly looked the part. She was tall and handsome, with a finely sculpted, muscular body that was obviously a source of pride. Amara looked like she'd just been working out; she was wearing a sports bra that left her abs on display, and tight-fitting leggings that highlighted all the lines of her form. There was a perfect sheen of sweat across her rich, brown skin which only made her look even hotter.

"Well, Amara," Emma said, pulling out her phone, "anything I should know before we get started? Or can I consider everything from now to be on the record?"

"Sure." Amara turned to face her and nodded. Emma took a moment to admire her hair; dyed green, and cut in a short, asymmetrical, punky style. "Mel and her family have been good to me, so you're welcome to ask anything you'd like - although of course, I'm obliged to protect the privacy of my clients."

"That sounds like a good place to start." Emma shifted gears immediately. This wasn't her first interview. "Your clients are overwhelmingly wealthy and influential. Is that fair to say?"

"It is."

"And what does that involve, exactly?" Emma asked. "Being a personal trainer to such powerful people?"

Amara laughed. "A personal trainer is a personal trainer. It doesn't necessarily matter how big your bank account is."

"Then why do they all come to you?"

"I suppose I simply have a good reputation, in certain circles."

"A good reputation for what?" Emma pressed. "If you had to guess, anyway."

Amara shrugged, flexing her powerful shoulders. "Discretion, perhaps."

"That's interesting," Emma replied quickly. "It's just exercise, right? Why does it need to be so discreet?"

"It can be very personal, to some people," Amara answered. "Some people want their exercise - their progress, their goals, their struggles - to be private. It's only natural."

"I see."

It was a completely reasonable answer, but even so, Emma couldn't shake the feeling that Amara was hiding something. There was a certain playfulness behind her words, like she was a cat toying with a mouse. The real question was: why? Why hide?

"For example," Amara added, while Emma was still considering, "what are your fitness goals, Emma?"

That took the journalist completely aback. "Excuse me?"

Amara smiled down at her. "Indulge me."

Emma wasn't sure what to say. Confessing just how out of shape she was to such an amazon would be embarrassing, but equally, she didn't want to be rude. Amara was doing her - and Mel - a favor here.

"I haven't really thought about it," Emma replied sheepishly. "Honestly, just getting some real exercise at all would be a win. I can't remember the last time I made it to a gym."

Amara arched an eyebrow. "Well, you're in one now."

"What?" Emma barked a nervous laugh. "Oh no, I... I'm just here for an interview."

"I'm here to help you." Amara folded her arms. "As per Mel's request. But she made it sound like you needed more than one kind of help, and I can see that she's right."

Emma cringed. It was still that bad, apparently.

"You feel fatigued because you're not eating right," Amara went on, staring down the journalist with a professional eye. "Your spine hurts because you never stretch. You've clearly gained some weight, because your clothes don't fit like they should, and even though you're exhausted, you can't sleep because you never move your body."

"Jesus," Emma exclaimed. "Is this how you talk to all your rich, powerful clients?"

"Yes," Amara replied at once. "They pay me to be truthful."

"And the truth is, I'm a total write-off?" Emma laughed.

"Absolutely not," Amara told her, with perfect confidence. "You look good, Emma. You just need to take care of yourself a little better. From what Mel tells me, you have an amazing work ethic, and if you could put a little of that towards some self-care, it would make a world of difference. I could put you through three workouts a week, and in a month you'd feel like a million bucks."

Now, Emma found herself blushing a little. "Maybe someday," she said wryly, "if I get the time for it. And the money to afford your time."

"You've already got my time," Amara pointed out.

"You..." Emma found herself spluttering. "You're not serious. Right?"

"Deadly," Amara insisted. "Consider it a matter of pride. I won't have a woman show up at my door, and then leave without being in better condition."

Emma started shaking her head uncertainly. "I-I'm really just here for the interview."

Amara wasn't to be deterred. She started tapping her foot. "Let me sweeten the pot for you. I know you're not just working on a puff piece about the lifestyles of the one percent. You want some real answers."

That was more than enough to trigger Emma's journalistic hunger. "Yes."

"Then I'll give them to you," Amara said seriously. "But you'll need to work for them. One set of exercises. One question. One answer, full and true."

Emma hesitated. She didn't like the idea of being drawn into some silly game. But her instincts were telling her that Amara knew something, and that unless she played along, she wasn't going to share any of it.

Besides, Amara had made working out sound tempting. Maybe getting some exercise for a change wouldn't be so bad.

"You're on," Emma laughed. "Just don't make fun of me if I get winded and fall over or something."

"Never," Amara promised. "All I want to see is your best. Gym newcomers have to work twice as hard as everyone else, just to get started. They deserve twice the praise."

That attitude was helping to soften Emma's self-conscious embarrassment. "Well, um, how do we get started?"

Amara clapped her hands together. "That's what I like to hear! First: clothes. I keep outfits for every size, and I'm a good guesser. Get limbered up a little, while I go grab you something."

Emma started stretching as best she could, and Amara soon returned with clothes similar to her own: some stretchy leggings and a light, breathable tank top. The only difference was that it was all bright, girly pink. Emma threw Amara a look.

"It's all I had in your size," Amara said apologetically. "But hey - maybe you'll come around to it."

Emma rolled her eyes, but didn't argue. She quickly got changed into Amara's clothes and went back to warming up.

"So," she said, "what's first?"

"Let's begin with some squats." Amara winked at her. "A set of ten. Who doesn't want a better ass?"

Emma giggled. "Sure. You might have to show me the proper form, though."

"We can worry about that later," Amara said, as Emma planted her feet apart and straightened her back. "For now, I just want to get you moving. Pay attention to your breathing, though. That's important."

"OK. Right." Emma took a deep breath. "Let's go."

Under Amara's watchful eye, she started squatting. She bent her legs and lowered herself as much as she could, doing her best to keep a steady pace and her back straight. After another moment, she raised herself back up again, feeling her muscles burn at the unfamiliar exertion.

"Good," Amara said. "Count out loud."

It was easy to listen to Amara. She spoke with a natural authority that left Emma with no doubt she was a personal trainer who got results. Emma nodded.

"One," she said, and started her next squat.

"Two," she counted a few seconds later.

"Three."

She wasn't sure of her form, but Amara was right there to correct her with a gentle hand pushing against her lower back.

"Four."

"Five."

"Good," Amara said. "Remember to breathe. Deep breaths. In at the top, out at the bottom."

Emma nodded and did her best to obey. "Six."

"Seven."

"Eight."

"Almost there!" Amara cheered.

"Nine." Emma could hear how out of breath she already sounded.

"One more!"

"Ten!"

Emma pulled herself upright, and then bent double to catch her breath. Her thighs were killing her - but in a way that wasn't completely unpleasant. Amara clapped her on her shoulder and smiled down at her, warm pride showing on her face.

"Great job!" the muscular woman said. "I knew you could do it."

"Thanks." Emma couldn't help but smile at the praise. "So now I get my question. Right?"

"You earned it." Amara nodded.

Emma was feeling a little fuzzy after the short workout but managed to slip back into journalism mode with relative ease. She mentally reviewed what she'd been intending to ask.

"Do your clients ever hire you to train other people?" she asked. "People besides themselves, I mean."

This was one of several threads she was chasing. Unethical mind controllers often liked the idea of having their victims 'trained'. Altered, through exercise and conditioning.