Toxic, Part 2

Toxic, Part 2

By Smokedawg (aka JbouleyJdog)

Blog: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com

E-mail: pseudojeff@msn.com

All DC Comics characters used for entertainment purposes only, and remain the
copyright of DC Comics and its affiliate and/or parent companies.

NOTE 1: This story is inspired by an idea presented to me by Blackbladder,
the author of many memorable smoking fetish tales, including the Buffy the
Vampire Slayer fan fiction story, "Demon Weed."

NOTE 2: If you find the mention of Superman's harsh actions toward Nick
O'Teen in this story and its follow-up chapters to be out of character, I
should mention that in one of the early 1980s anti-smoking campaign
commercials featuring Nick O'Teen, Superman is indeed depicted as doing just
what I describe him doing (although the injury and aftermath is my own
creation). There were several different commercials featuring Nick O'Teen,
but the one I refer to can be found on YouTube (in November 2009 anyway) at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CfBO83xBZNw

----------------------------------------------

"This is just so wrong, on so many levels, Nicoletta," remarked Annabeth
Shields, who outwardly functioned as Nicoletta's administrative right-arm but
actually served as bodyguard, confidante, and the favorite-as well as most
frequent-of Nicoletta's several lovers. It was the sort of intimacy and
closeness that gave her allowance to not say "Dr. Teena" or "Ms. Teena"-or
"boss" for that matter.

As long as she calls me Nicotina when we're in field operations against
metahumans, with her costumed up as Cigarillo, herself, Nicoletta thought
with no small amount of amusement.

"And what, exactly, is wrong, Beth?" Nicoletta asked, though the woman's
attitude for days now had already telegraphed the source of her irritation.

"You are the head of Teena International, and now you've got on an auburn wig
and glasses to pretend that you're a salon owner in downtown Metropolis,"
Annabeth growled. "A salon owner! This is beneath you, mistress."

That last sentence Annabeth offered in a near-whisper. It excited her,
Nicoletta knew, to think of her as `mistress,' even though Nicoletta had
mostly bound the woman with sex and rewards for loyalty, and not much with
drugged cigarette smoke. Though, to be honest, there was a certain amount of
the latter, and Annabeth actually found that part of things a bit arousing
too. Her mix of domineering and commanding attitude with so many others, and
yet a competent, confident submissiveness to Nicoletta, was an endearing if
odd combination.

"It's not like I opened up a barber shop, Beth," Nicoletta answered, looking
out the broad front windows of the salon to admire the façade of the Daily
Planet news building across the street and half a block to the south. "This
is a full-service, highly upscale salon. And if all goes according to plan,
you and I won't have to play our roles long before we flush out Superman and
get the ball rolling. First, of course, I'll need you to take care of our
little problem in England."

"My flight leaves tonight. It is a nice place you had set up here," Annabeth
admitted grudgingly. "And as long as you-or for that matter, I-don't have to
do the hair, pedicures, manicures, massages and all the rest."

Annabeth gasped as Nicoletta slipped up silently behind her, and pressed her
body close, one arm snaking around the bodyguard's chest and Nicoletta's lips
brushing against her ear. Nicoletta thought about the lungs inside that
chest, nanotech-enhanced like her own, but programmed to let certain of
Nicoletta's drugs through their defenses. "Oh, but you'll be giving more than
a few manicures and pedicures and massages and such over the coming days and
weeks, Beth," she said hotly. Fiercely. Quietly. "It's just that you'll be
giving them to me alone, and behind the closed doors of my office here."

* * *

With a measured but determined stride, Lois Lane hurried to work. Taking the
subway or bus was an old habit, but using them was also part of her need to
retain independence, so matter how easy it would have been to have Clark fly
her to this part of downtown with no one the wiser.

I've already been to one funeral for Superman, and I know all too well that
as invulnerable as he seems, the next time there might not be a second
chance, she considered mordantly. I'm still Lois Lane, and still need to be
my own woman, love or not-super powered husband or not.

As she passed by the new salon that was set to open in a few days, just down
the block from the Daily Planet building, she noticed a well-dressed
auburn-haired woman quickly but intimately kiss an only fractionally less
well-dressed blond woman at the doorway. The redhead slapped the other woman
on the ass and then stepped outside to have a smoke.

As she watched the woman light up her cigarette with a slow, satisfied air,
Lois sniffed slightly, thinking: Filthy habit.

Then as she passed by, and as the woman gave her a friendly smile and a wink,
Lois felt a little pang deep inside as she scented the wafting of second-hand
smoke in her direction. Truth be told, it's a `filthy habit' that I still
kind of miss, she admitted. I was down to sneaking furtive smokes when Clark
first came to work for the Planet because of all the peer pressure to quit,
and I've been off the butts for years now. Sometimes I wonder why I don't
just buy a pack again sometimes, aside from dreading the lecturing I'd get
from Clark. Not like he'd miss the signs of me smoking with those
super-senses of his.

As Lois continued down the street, Nicoletta puffed contentedly and watched
that firm ass swish in the short, clingy skirt the famous and world-renowned
journalist was wearing. She sighed, and wondered how long it would be before
she could get that hot piece of ambitious and tenacious flesh into the salon
for a makeover.

* * *

In a stunning display of both grace and force, Superman dropped from the sky
and came to rest on the ground beside the negotiation team.

"Lieutenant?" Superman asked the ranking police officer of that team. "What's
the situation?"

"Well, we've been in radio contact with him for a few minutes," the police
officer responded. "We haven't detected any intrusion into the vault of the
bank, nor the safety deposit boxes, so we're not sure why he's in there-or
it. I think it's a he, but...anyway, all he's asked for so far is for the media
to come here in full force. Calls himself Vitriol. He released one hostage as
a show of good faith, but still has 10 others, we believe."

Superman nodded. He'd already gleaned much of that by monitoring the police
bands himself from the Daily Planet building and then during his short flight
here. But a couple of facts were new to him, and therefore useful.

"You left out one thing, officer. Do you feel you can handle this, or do you
need me to intervene?"

"Oh, shit. Sorry. Yeah, we want intervention, Superman. We've seen the video
of him, and we're pretty sure he's metahuman, and he destroyed all the
cameras with what we think is some caustic or acidic substance. He's all
yours if you want him. Please."

Superman smiled faintly and nodded. Always better to ask than to simply take
charge if there wasn't any imminent threat, he thought. And so far, this new
player on the scene doesn't seem to be a complete lunatic, so I have some
time.

His x-ray vision gave him a good view of what was inside the bank, and enough
of a sense of this Vitriol character to put him in mind of another villain
he'd faced so many times-and his quick examination gave him ample assurance
that whatever Vitriol was, it probably wasn't alive in any traditional sense,
so that would simplify things. Then he caught the attention of a Metropolis
Fire Department crew nearby, no doubt there because of any potential
biohazard threat Vitriol might present. "I see you already have your hose
hooked to the hydrant. Mind if I borrow it?"

The firefighters gave him the thumbs-up, and Superman grabbed hold of the
fire hose, took a deep breath, rushed at supersonic speed through the wall of
the bank, and then blasted Vitriol-a man-sized, roughly human-shaped
transparent shell filled with some kind of seething yellow-green fluid-with a
rush of water as he hit that water, a split-second thereafter, with his
chilling super-breath. Within seconds, the entire left side of Virtiol's
torso was frozen in place. Putting himself in between Vitriol and the
hostages, Superman directed his heat vision toward the villain's right
shoulder, and severed the arm. Caustic fluid poured out the hole left behind,
spilling away from the hostages and onto the ground, where it burned through
the floor. The containment suit emptied quickly and then fell to the ground.

Superman kept his senses alert as the hostages vacated the building, but
after several minutes, there was still nothing and very little lingering
trace of the acidic soup that had filled Vitriol's body before. He quickly
examined the containment suit, but found no sign of any advanced robotic
systems or anything that remotely hinted at intelligence. Aside from some
mechanical systems that gave the suit mobility and the remains of the
communications array on the "head" of the body, there was nothing of note. 

It makes precious little sense, but at least the hostages are safe, Superman
reminded himself, as he left the building to report back to the authorities
outside.

* * *

In the Stryker's Island prison complex, Nicholas Teena sat almost
meditatively, his fingers drumming on the arms of his wheelchair, holding his
eyes half-open and smoking lazily as some thug with a slightly enhanced
metabolism-some mid-level henchman who'd served under at least two super
villains-sauntered up to him.

"Nick-O, Nick-O, Nick O'Teen. Man, that was some sweet piece of ass that
visited you yesterday," said the man-Nicholas remembered now that he called
himself Steroidal, but that his real name was Al Stoffer. "Mind if I borrow
her for a few minutes next time she comes around?" he taunted, blowing
Nicholas a very loud "mwuuuah!" of an air-kiss.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you that well, buddy," Nicholas said. "I'm not as
young as I used to be, and Superman fucked up my hearing a bit."

The man drew closer and leaned in. "I said I liked that piece of ahhhhh!"

Nicholas' hands shot out and grabbed the man by his collar, dragging him
close. He deftly swiveled the cigarette in his mouth around with his tongue
and lips and took a deep drag, so that the man was now looking at a red-hot
end of a Marlboro pointed straight at one of his eyes, mere centimeters away
from it.

"Move and you lose the eye, bitch," Nicholas growled, immensely satisfied to
remind yet another idiot that while the lower half of him might be for shit,
Nick O'Teen kept his arms in shape these days-pushing around a wheelchair
certainly didn't hurt that process, either. "That `hot piece of ass' is my
daughter, and she pays a small fortune to make sure that six men in this cell
block watch my back. The only reason they didn't take you down is that you
were flapping your lips about fucking with little old crippled Nick O'Teen
today, and I told them to stand down."

"Look, I'm sorr..."

"I don't give a shit about sorry, boyo," Nicholas told him, puffing acrid
smoke into the man's eyes and enjoying the way they began to tear up. "Next
time you so much as mention my girl, or talk shit about me, one of my boys
will drag you over here and I will rip off one of your ears with my big, fat,
fucking yellow teeth, and make you eat it after I've gnawed on it for a few
minutes. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes sir, Nick O'Teen...or Mr. Teen...umm..."

Nicholas shoved him away, disregarded him, and retuned to the solitary and
meditative joys of smoking.

* * *

Through a poly-ceramic grate in the floor, a thick mass of swirling yellows
and greens rose, and assumed a vaguely human shape, if any human had ever had
four legs and tentacles for arms at least.

The thing had a voice, grating and bubbly and hard to understand, but it used
it to say, "That was fucking embarrassing."

Nicoletta stepped closer to Vitriol, smoking a pale green cigarette with a
silver filter, and smiled. "Thomas, the point was not to pose a challenge to
Superman, but to gain intelligence on him, and you did quite well."

There were no facial features to read on Vitriol's "head" but Nicoletta
watched with interest as the smoke she exhaled swirled around the two of them
and as some of it was absorbed into Vitriol's form, carrying with it
semi-vaporous nanotechnology that bonded with the nanos holding him together,
thus ensuring his loyalty. Whether he knew she was drugging his caustic form
she couldn't say, but she doubted it. Not that he would care, anyway, with
his psyche bound to her whims.

"And what did we discover?" asked Vitriol, who had been Thomas Kolvichek
before a lab mishap-the same one that had claimed Nicoletta's cousin Justine,
but in a different manner-turned him from a Teena International lab tech to
one of Nicoletta's super powered thralls. 

"As usual, and as with the various mundane criminals we have employed to pull
off various jobs, Superman's response time, especially during standard
business hours, is marginally quicker the closer a crime occurs to the Daily
Planet," she answered, blowing more smoke toward him, and noticing how the
swirling of his form slowed slightly when she did. Pleasure, perhaps? "It
doesn't confirm that Superman works somewhere in that building, but it's good
enough for me, especially given his friendship with Lois Lane and others
there."

"Glad that my stunning defeat did some good, then," Vitriol said.

"Don't be cross, Thomas. Or prideful. I'm very happy with your performance. I
still marvel, though, at the differences between you and Justine, not just in
physical changes but also in temperament."

"You know as well as I do that we got colonized by different types of nanos
before we fell into the Cauldron," he burbled. "As for the mental thing,
Justine can keep the angst to herself. I don't mind being a pile of
ambulatory intelligent acid. I never much liked having to eat, piss and shit
in my previous life anyway-and sex was rarely good enough to bother with. So
this is an improvement. Or, it will be an improvement with a better
containment suit. I don't move fast in my natural form, but that
shit-for-parts suit your people put me in was worse. I had the response time
of a narcoleptic slug."

Nicoletta laughed, and let out a long, slow exhale as she leaned forward,
having no fear of the slightly caustic fumes wafting from Vitriol. "That was
just for show, Thomas. To make you look as much as possible like a miniature
version of Chemo. It will confuse our Man of Steel. He can wonder if Chemo is
spawning children. Or if Chemo has taken a new form. Or if something else is
going on. This is your real suit."

She let one arm swing in a graceful, slow arc to indicate an alcove, which
lit up to reveal a properly man-shaped suit of powered armor, with gray
breastplate, arms and legs; a smooth, featureless green helmet; and golden
fingers, heels, and shoulders.

"Nice. Very nice." Vitriol said.

"Based on Cigarillo's own armor, but with more enhancements. You'll move five
times as fast as any normal man in it, thanks to the fact your real body is a
mass of liquid, nanos and electromagnetic grids, and you'll bench-press three
times what the most pumped-up prison workout junkie can boast, thanks to the
servos and synthetic muscles in this baby."

"Sounds good to me," Vitriol said, flowing into his new shell. Then his
electronically modulated voice came out in a clear baritone from the helmet.
"As long as we skip the prison part of things."

Nicoletta smiled, and exhaled again toward him as she shook his hand and
said, "We'll make sure of that," and taking note of how relaxed his posture
seemed as the armor drew in the tainted smoke, intensified it, bound it to
the nanos that held his psyche in their electromagnetic web, and made him
ever more her slave.

* * *

In a small but classy pub in London the man known as Manchester Black sat and
smoked, using his telepathic powers to convince everyone around him that he
was doing nothing of the sort. He smoked, and waited for his noon meeting.

She arrived, and he was immensely pleased to discover that not only was the
contact a woman, but a pretty bird as well, lithe and strong, like a dancer.
Or a martial artist. 

Not that I have much to worry about, if it happens to be the latter, with
telepathy and telekinesis on my side.

"Oh, smoking is allowed here? Thank God," the woman said.

"It isn't, really, but they don't know I'm doing it, and I'd be happy to help
a damsel in nicotine distress by making sure they don't notice her doing it,
either."

"Well," she said, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. "Do that, and I may
have to kick in a little extra money for you on our deal."

Realizing it wouldn't do to let a pretty face distract him, Manchester Black
tried a quick read on her mind. Illusions, mental domination and the like
were his telepathic strengths, and not so much mind-reading or even emotional
reads, so he wasn't surprised to come up empty. She might even have some
natural psychic defenses.

"I need a certain metahuman dealt with, Mr. Black. Or Mr. Manchester?" she
floundered, as she exhaled.

"Simply Black is fine, duck. What's the nature of this meta?"

"I didn't know he was, not when I started dating him," she responded, taking
a quick puff on her cigarette, "but now I not only find out he can alter
matter, but he's a criminal as well. He won't let me leave London. Says he's
keeping me, and he'll hurt me if I turn him in. I heard that you
sometimes...deal with...violent metahumans in a...violent way."

"I certainly do, but...wait a bloody minute. What kind of dodgy shite are you
up to? If he won't let you leave London, how the hell would you be able to
slip away and see me about dealing with him?"

"Because I'm lying, Black? Through my beautiful teeth. My oh so smoky mouth?"
she said, blowing a smoke ring toward him.

Reacting instinctively, Manchester Black put up a telekinetic bubble, keeping
her smoke away from him, wondering if there was something in it that he
should be concerned about, and then held her fast to her seat with his
telekinesis. "Start talking, bird, or I start squeezing your ribs until
something pops."

"Please stop, Black. Please. You must stop."

Confused, he loosened his mental grip on her, then shook his head. "No, not
that easy..."

"Stop, Black. Calm down," she said soothingly. She took a deep drag, and blew
smoke across the table at him. He realized his telekinetic bubble was down,
and the smoke was filling his lungs. He reached out with his mind, and seized
hers. It was a weak hold, but enough to...

"Stop, Black. Be Happy. Enjoy the company of two ladies," said a voice from
off to his side. "Just settle down while Annabeth and I have a talk with
you," the other woman said, pulling up a chair.

"Your timing is excellent, Marjie," Annabeth said. "I was concerned he might
stop being a gentleman," she said, blowing smoke at him as she did, adding to
the effect of the perfume Marjie was wearing, which had already been subtly
at work on Manchester Black while he had been waiting for Annabeth's arrival.

His thoughts were a quiet, jumbled mush now. His brain was being tossed
around like a piece of wood on the tide, and he couldn't focus his
thoughts-or his powers.

"There's no sense in struggling, Black," Beth said quietly. "Marjie's perfume
and my smoke are designed to block your powers. We just needed it to kick in
a bit more. And everyone around us here is far too blissed out on the smoke
and perfume themselves to complain about us violating any smoking rules."

Marjie smiled distractedly, and nodded vaguely, then began to touch her
breasts and sigh.

"In fact, Marjie is quite under my control now, too. The agent she took to
prevent her from succumbing to the perfume she was wearing does nothing to
protect her from my smoke, only delay its effects slightly. You don't mind,
though, do you Marjie?" Beth said, giving her a quick kiss on the lips and
pinching one of her nipples. Marjie simply sighed some more and let one hand
drift under her skirt to play with her cunnie.

"You're gorgeous," Manchester Black said, focused on Beth and oblivious as
Marjie slipped to the floor and began to writhe around, frigging herself.

"Thanks, love," Annabeth said. "That might be the last coherent thing you
say, because your blissed-out, powerless ass is about to be introduced to a
shitload of other chemicals. All here in my purse. All designed to burn out
your neurons until you are nothing but a quivering pile of jelly. A new
resident for the nearest psychiatric ward. It just doesn't pay to cross the
Teena family, Black. It really doesn't. Especially in that petty, vindictive
way that you did. They protect their own, and they avenge their own. Who'd
have thought smoking would be this bad for your health."

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