Interlude: Infiltration
Infiltration wasn't about skill—it was about fitting in. Skill could be taught. Fitting in requires intuition. Adaptability. Presence.
That was how Elektra fooled the guards. She didn't break past them. She blended. The elevator doors slid shut behind her, sealing her within the belly of the beast.
What kind of security firm dresses its guards in luxury suits? Even the Yorks had raised eyebrows at the assets their young heir controlled, despite the trust being locked in court proceedings, frozen under judicial review.
If not for The Hand's ongoing prosecution and the devastation unfolding around the York legacy…
The evidence was damning: embezzlement, hidden accounts, and, above all, The Hand.
Did the boy think his security could keep her out? Only a Cobra thinks they can strike unseen. An Assassin strikes where you look. She moved like a whisper through Armacham, the guards never realizing a serpent had already slid past their defenses.
Her intelligence placed the boy in the upper floors. Supposedly, the little heir had a penthouse. Her problems started when she discovered the plans on the building weren't completely accurate.
Just past the outer doors, Elektra paused. Something was wrong. Too still. Too quiet. Her instincts screamed louder than any alarm. This wasn't a mutation—it was training. Brutal. Precise. Refined over years of chi training and battlefield mastery.
Talent meant little. Discipline mattered. Everyone had a threshold, but Elektra had found hers and carved through it.
She moved deeper. Boots were silent against flawless floors that gleamed unnaturally. Every corner is too composed. Every shadow is too perfect.
Then—a flicker. A ripple in the ambiance. Not hostile. Not yet. But waiting. Someone trained in the esoteric. Someone dangerous.
The corridor lights dimmed. Elektra slid into an alcove, breath steady. A wall hissed open. Out stepped four figures—sleek, uniformed, their gear whispering with power.
"Echo-12, report. Possible system malfunction in your quadrant."
"Understood, checking quadrant."
"Confirm. Stay alert. Echo command out."
First-generation Replica soldiers. Black fatigues. Satin-like masks. Movements are too fluid. Suits that shimmered unnaturally. These weren't guards. Combat suits. Neural syncs. Biofeedback integration. Designed to kill.
They didn't posture. No taunts. Just a shimmer of activation lights. Micro-fiber servos are tensed. Proximity systems primed. Elektra lunged.
The first Replica swept low—fast, piston-like. She vaulted over him, heel cracking his shoulder and launching him into a wall.
The second came at her with machine-guided strikes—predictive algorithms guiding his fists. But she was faster.
Her Sai slid free, silver arcs slicing through the dark. She deflected his combo, drove the pommel into his throat, then followed with an elbow that caved armor.
The third tried a grapple—mistake. She reversed it and slammed him headfirst into the floor. Sparks danced from his collar.
The last one surged forward—his suit igniting with an electric shimmer. Krav Maga mixed with AI-fed fluidity. Too fast. Too precise. But Elektra flowed with him—became his rhythm—then slipped a sai into the armpit joint. Twist.
He dropped. Silence returned. She breathed steadily. Eyes sharp. They weren't protecting something.They were delaying her. Something stirred below. She descended.
The air grew colder with every level. Clean corridors gave way to steel and shadow. An unmarked door waited at the end of a long hallway—a biometric lock was already scanning. It knew she was coming. It hissed open. No silence. A sound—a buzzing.
Low, at first. Then it rose. Not mechanical. Not ambient. Alive. She stepped inside.
A vast, dim chamber. Walls laced in mesh-like wiring and drone ports. Not mist—bees. Thousands.
The swarm pulsed, moved, then coalesced. Clicking chitin met synthetic plating. A body formed. Humanoid. Floating. Shifting.
Swarm. But not the mutant man she was aware of. No arrogance. No venom. Just cold, mechanized command.
"Target: Elektra Natchios. Directive: Terminate and Recover."
A flash of red gleamed beneath his hive-shell—a control module embedded in bone and circuitry. Not Swarm's tech. Armacham.
The bees surged. She rolled low and flipped off the inner wall, her chi igniting a radiant burst that scorched the cloud. Her blade glowed faintly, slashing with precise, burning arcs.
But the swarm always reformed. Swarm laughed—glitched, broken.
"Resistance: Futile. Adaptation: Ongoing."
He split—duplicates flanking her. One lashed silk-thread snares. Another fired nano-stingers that hissed through the floor.
She pivoted, flipped her grip, and drove a flash bomb to the floor—boom. Light shattered the formation. Bees scattered.
She hurled a kunai straight at the red gleam beneath the sternum. Direct hit. The hive spasmed. Swarm collapsed.
His voice broke. Raw. Panicked.
"Free. Me."
Her eyes widened—then flame consumed the swarm.
A scream. A fire. Fail safe override. Then—nothing. Elektra stood still, her sai smoldering in her grip. Above, the bees dispersed.
Then came the voice. Smooth. Unfamiliar. Inevitable.
"Hello, Elektra. I was hoping we'd finally meet."