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Marvel: King of The Swarm Chapter 44: Setting an Example (II)
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 01:54:05 +0000 UTCDespite the carnage unfolding before him, Fisk did not flinch. His broad shoulders remained square, his stance unshaken. He locked eyes with Elektra through the inch-thick wall of reinforced glass, even as hairline fractures began to spider across its surface. The pressure in the room changed—thickened—as if the air itself were bending under the strain of her psionic presence. And yet, the Kingpin stood still, a mountain of a man unmoved by gods or monsters.
Fear had long since been scorched out of him. Ruling New York's underworld had demanded a steel resolve. Death, when it came, would come violently—and Fisk had made peace with that long ago.
Across the divide, Elektra tilted her head and smiled—not with mirth, but with sharp, clinical hunger. She saw it in his eyes: no fear, just grim inevitability. And that delighted her.
“Good,” she purred, voice dripping like venom, “This wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t put up a fight.”
With an eerie calm, she raised one clawed finger and pressed it lightly to the fractured pane. For a moment, it was anticlimactic—no explosion, no tremor—just silence.
Then, like oil weeping from a wound, a viscous black-violet fluid began to leak from her fingertip. It slithered across the glass like it had a will of its own, crawling into the fractures and branching deeper, following the spiderweb of cracks as if feeding on structural weakness.
“Knock, knock,” she whispered with a voice that fluttered at the edges of sanity, her grin stretching unnaturally wide. Then, softly—chillingly—“I’m coming in.”
With a slight push from her finger, the corruption spread. There was a pulse, and then a thunderclap CRACK—the psionic pressure and alien corruption erupted outward as the entire wall of glass exploded into a cascade of shimmering shards. The room was suddenly filled with a crystalline rainfall, the fragments catching the light like falling stars.
Neither of them moved.
Elektra stood amidst the wreckage, framed in silver and shadow. Fisk remained rooted behind his desk, staring her down as if their eyes alone were locked in a battle of dominance. For a moment, time stilled. The final shards danced in the air, suspended by tension.
Ding.
The elevator behind Elektra opened with a subdued chime—and time snapped back into motion.
A dozen heavily armed soldiers flooded into the room, clad in state-of-the-art armor, each one bristling with weapons and precision. Their helmets gleamed with red visors, tracking her every movement. Within seconds, a dozen rifle muzzles were aimed squarely at her back.
Fisk’s voice boomed from behind his overturned desk as he flipped it over with surprising speed. “Shoot her! Now!!”
But Elektra was already in motion.
The moment the elevator doors had opened, she'd felt them—before they moved, before the air pressure changed, before Fisk spoke. Their thoughts buzzed like insects in her mind, each one illuminated by her third eye’s psionic web. Her precognition hummed like a live wire at the base of her skull, every intent laid bare.
Without turning, she launched backward in a high arc, twisting mid-air with feline grace. Bullets streaked through the space where she had stood milliseconds before, tearing through office décor in a storm of fire and noise.
She landed silently behind the initial wave of fire, but the squad was better than expected. No panic. No wasted movement. They recalibrated instantly, fanning out in a synchronized maneuver and opening fire again with disciplined, three-round bursts.
But they were still human.
And she was something else entirely.
Her third eye flared.
A psychic pulse burst from her forehead, radiating outward in a translucent purple dome. The field expanded five feet in every direction, warping the air like heat over asphalt. As the bullets entered the zone, their velocity dropped dramatically, allowing Elektra to watch each one drift in slow motion—tiny metal comets frozen in time.
She didn’t wait.
In a blur, she surged forward. Her obsidian claws extended with a hiss, sharper than scalpels, and she raked them against the ceramic armor of the nearest soldier. Sparks burst from the contact as her talons carved deep grooves—but didn’t pierce fully.
It didn’t matter.
The force of the blow sent the soldier flying across the room like a missile, slamming into the far wall with a sickening crunch. His armor cracked. His body didn’t move.
Elektra clicked her tongue. “Hmm. I thought that would be enough."
Her claws glowed as the air around them began to shimmer, spatial distortion swirling around each finger. The edges of reality itself seemed to fray, as if her claws had sliced through existence. “Much better.”
Suddenly, her head snapped sideways as a burst of bullets struck her temple, the impact denting flesh and cracking bone—but she didn’t fall.
Instead, her head slowly turned back toward her attacker, eyes glowing, expression dark.
As the damaged flesh began to regenerate, her skeleton was briefly exposed—blackened, molten, and alien, not bone but something forged in a crucible of cosmic corruption. A heartbeat later, her skin regrew in smooth, perfect layers.
She smiled.
With a whip of her hand, she carved the air. Three invisible blades—shaped by psionic force—ripped across the floor in a crescent pattern, slicing through desks, cables, and walls. The lead soldier had no time to scream. He was bisected into neat thirds—his body falling apart before he even realized he’d been struck.
Then Elektra became a storm.
She launched into a blurring dash across the office, her body twirling, flipping, and pivoting as her claws carved arcs of invisible death. Each swing cleaved through metal, drywall, and flesh with surgical precision. Invisible blades lacerated the air with psionic force, shredding soldiers like paper.
The office became a battlefield of chaos—blood sprayed in spirals, sparks rained from gutted fixtures, and walls crumbled under invisible pressure. Each movement she made was purposeful, brutal, and hauntingly graceful
Fisk remained behind the desk, listening to the death rattles of his elite soldiers. Sweat beaded at his temple as the death screams continued to echo out until everything went silent.
Fixing his face into a stoic mask Fisk stood from behind his desk and found Elektra standing amongst the aftermath of her fury as blood pooled in the massive furrows across the floor, "Should I be expecting any more guests?"
Fisk stared at the eldritch horror in human guise in front of him before letting out a disgruntled sigh "Enough of the theatrics, come finish whatever task your false god sent you to accomplish."
Elektra smiled but there was no warmth as her claws extended growing into foot-long scythes, "Just for that remark, I'm going to take special care of you."
“You can certainly try,” Fisk growled, his voice low and thunderous, thick with rage. Then, with a bestial roar, he surged forward, fists clenched like concrete blocks, each step pounding against the marble floor with the force of a charging rhino.
Elektra tilted her head slightly, watching him come—not with alarm, but fascination, like one might observe a rare animal moments before it struck the glass of its enclosure.
Then, with a wet, sickening sound, her back split open down the spine.
From the newly formed wound, a swarm of tendrils erupted—glistening, fleshy cords like flayed muscle, each one tipped with a snarling, eel-like maw lined with jagged, crystalline teeth. The tendrils lashed through the air in a blur, snapping with feral hunger as they spiraled forward to meet Fisk’s charge.
The first tendril pierced his shoulder.
The second tore into his thigh.
The third stabbed into his side, embedding deep into the muscle beneath his ribs.
More followed, puncturing flesh with rapid, rhythmic strikes. Each eel-mouth latched on like a leech, chewing into him—not just physically, but chemically—injecting their paralytic payload into his bloodstream.
But Fisk didn’t stop.
To Elektra’s amusement—and slight curiosity—he kept coming.
His eyes bulged red with fury. Spittle flew from his lips. And despite the pain, despite the tendrils burrowing into his flesh and pumping him full of toxins, the Kingpin refused to fall. He roared with primal defiance, dragging the tendrils behind him like ropes of gore. His massive frame crashed forward like an avalanche, one meaty hand reaching for Elektra’s throat with the singular intent to crush the life out of her.
But physics—and chemistry—had other plans.
His sprint became a stagger.
His stagger became a stumble.
Then, just inches from Elektra, Fisk collapsed to his knees with a sound like a falling tree, his breath rasping through clenched teeth, lips pulled back in a snarl of hate and disbelief.
His once-pristine white suit was now soaked in crimson and ripped open in too many places to count. The tendrils still writhed, still fed, their mouths chewing with wet mechanical precision—shredding silk, muscle, and ego all at once.
“Hm…” Elektra purred, descending to a crouch in front of him. Her violet eye blinked once, slow and deliberate, as her forked tongue flicked between her teeth.
“Good. The paralytic is working.”
She placed a clawed finger under his chin, lifting his head so their eyes met. Fisk tried to snarl, but his jaw trembled, frozen in place.
“I don’t want you to miss this,” she whispered, her voice a lullaby sharpened into a dagger. “I want you fully present for what happens next.”
She leaned in closer, her breath cool against his blood-slick face.
“Stay still now. I want to make sure... everything is just right.”
Fisk’s eyes blazed with impotent rage as his limbs twitched weakly, unresponsive under the compound venom swimming through his nerves. His muscles—once weapons—were now just meat. His empire, a crumbling throne built on secrets and fear, was being reduced to kindling by a monster in a woman’s skin.
And the last thing he saw as the world began to blur and darken... was Elektra smiling.
Comments
Bob Joe
It is, I ran a poll awhile asking if people were against me using it for editing and most people didn't care either way. Haven't used it a lot in a while though and probably won't going forward
kiddeath1998
This ai? Instead, her head slowly turned back toward her attacker, eyes glowing, expression dark. As the damaged flesh began to regenerate, her skeleton was briefly exposed—blackened, molten, and alien, not bone but something forged in a crucible of cosmic corruption. A heartbeat later, her skin regrew in smooth, perfect layers.
kiddeath1998
What's up with all this needless deception in the chapter. Feels off
