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Date Posted: 19:38:03 10/31/25 Fri
Author: darknight666
Author Host/IP: 149.56.182.1
Subject: Re: New Smoke City - The Bride of Vecna RELEASED!
In reply to: AusNick 's message, "New Smoke City - The Bride of Vecna RELEASED!" on 05:59:54 10/31/25 Fri
Thanks Nick!
It was a pleasure working with you on this project. The complete story is now pretty much an exclusive for NSC, especially with the added images. I have to say, it turned out a bit more "darkside" than the outline. But, you go where the characters take you.
The dark Arrowverse Supergirl story that will follow (still finishing writing and then it will need an edit or two), is going to also lean into SF, and body horror. There will be sex and some drug use as well.
Darkseid's looking for some new Furies after the Crisis wiped out is current crop of deadly beauties. So, he had Desaad come up with a plan to get him new Furies and control of pesky Earth-Prime as well. The plan was simple - uses humanity's limitless search for excess to subjugate them willingly. What better place to start then with cigarettes?
Supergirl, the Paragon of Hope, is the first target.
There will be a series of three books, and since it's fan fiction, it goes out for free. All the books are plotted, but the next two outlines will need a bit of a re-write as some of the secondary characters spoke to me and ended up being major players.
Here's a bit of a preview of the unedited text (clean, as per board TOS). Someone comes to visit Supergirl's biggest fan:
National City had a talent for looking clean on the surface, but even at three a.m. there was always something rotten twisting below. The Hope Brigade mansion squatted in the dark, old Victorian bones, new security system, blackout curtains drawn tight against the street. Upstairs, Sierra Vaughn's room was lit only by a Supergirl nightlight and the blue glow of her phone, screen still open to the Brigade's group chat. She'd been doom-scrolling for hours, too wired to sleep, brain stuck on tomorrow's crisis-response meeting and the way the city seemed meaner every time she checked the news.
Outside, a haze pressed up against the glass. At first, Sierra figured it was fogâ€â€ÂÂÂÂmaybe the weird kind that drifted in from the bay, the kind reporters called "unseasonable." Then came the tap-tap-tap: sharp, deliberate, like someone drumming a claw against the windowpane.
Sierra sat bolt upright, heart jack-hammering. She fumbled for her glasses, but her hands were slick with sweat and she nearly dropped them. The tapping came again, more insistent. She edged toward the window, bare feet silent on the hardwood, pajama shorts riding up her thighs. The outside world was empty, black as pitch, except-
A face, inches from the glass.
Not just any face. Sierra's hero, the blueprint for every poster and tattoo she'd ever collected. Only now, the blonde hair was gone-replaced with a mane of jet-black, shaved brutally on one side, the scalp tattooed with an Omega that seemed to shimmer right through the glass. The eyes were solid black, pupils burning red, and the lips were painted the color of spilled oil.
Her breath caught in her throat. "Oh my god," she whispered.
The figure outside grinned, baring perfect, inhuman teeth. She raised one hand-fingers tipped with talons, each at least an inch and a half long-and flicked them in a lazy salute. Sierra's pulse hammered, part terror, part thrill.
Then the thing-no, the woman-flicked her tongue out and caught a cigarette between black lips. She lit it with a flick of her own burning-red gaze, the paper catching with a hiss. The tip glowed violet-black, smoke pouring out thicker than any normal tobacco. She exhaled, and the window fogged up, the vapor clinging to the glass as if it didn't want to leave.
Sierra's fingers shook as she unlocked the sash and yanked up the window.
The smoke rolled in instantly, curling around Sierra's face, caressing her skin. It didn't smell like any cigarette she'd ever snuck behind the sorority house; it was sweeter, edged with something metallic, something sharp enough to make her eyes water. Her brain lit up-dopamine, adrenaline, a crackle of excitement that bordered on panic.
The woman outside didn't bother to climb; she floated in on a lazy updraft, boots landing soft on the carpet. Her costume was nothing like the original-midriff bared, breasts almost spilling from the black leather, the House of El crest warped and raised with the Omega stamped on top. She looked like a dominatrix from hell, but her smile was pure mischief.
Sierra staggered back, mind tripping over itself.
"Supergirl?"
The woman laughed-a cold, raw sound that scraped Sierra's nerves raw. "Try again, sunshine." She tossed her hair, the black strands catching the city's sickly glow. "Supergirl's dead. Or maybe she just stopped giving a fuck."
She sprawled across Sierra's bed, boots leaving greasy marks on the comforter. She took another drag, exhaling a black stream that curled toward the ceiling. The ash on the tip glimmered, almost alive.
Sierra's mouth worked, but no words came out. She finally managed, "What happened to you?"
The woman propped herself up on one elbow, cigarette dangling between her fingers. "Hope happened. Or maybe despair. Honestly, who gives a shit? You waste your life chasing meaning and all you get is pain. Take it from me-life is pointless, hope is a fucking joke, and the only reason to keep breathing is pleasure. Excess." She stretched, bones cracking, and eyed Sierra with predatory affection. "You dig?"
The words landed like a slap. All the hero worship, the years of retweeting Supergirl's speeches and scrawling inspirational quotes in her day planner-obliterated in one hit. Sierra felt herself swaying, smoke already making her head spin. She tried to steady herself, failed, and gripped the edge of her desk.
The woman rolled onto her back, unbothered by Sierra's shock. "You can call me Narcotica. Darkseid's own little fuck-you to the universe." She blew smoke rings at the ceiling, each one pulsing with violet edges.
"Narcotica," Sierra echoed, the word thick on her tongue.
"Mm-hmm." The cigarette was almost gone now, burned down to the filter. Narcotica licked her lips, then flicked the butt across the room. It hit Sierra's wastebasket and fizzled out, leaving a streak of oily ash on the wall. She pointed a fresh cigarette at Sierra. "I want you, sunshine. First acolyte. Head cheerleader for the end of hope."
Sierra shivered. This was insane-but also, deep under the panic, she felt a sick kind of pride. Out of everyone in the city, she'd been chosen.
"Why me?"
Narcotica grinned wider. "Because you believed the longest. Because you're ripe for the fall. Besides," she added, her voice dropping to a purr, "I like pretty things that think they're immune to addiction."
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