Days after the poachers' wipe, Fisk Towers loomed over New York like a monolith of polished steel and glass. Inside Kingpin's opulent office, towering windows framed the glittering skyline, while a white marble desk groaned under stacks of damage reports—smashed drones, lost shipments, vanished crews.
A nervous lieutenant shuffled forward, sweat beading on his brow. Subordinates cowered in corners, eyes darting. He extended a trembling hand, offering the flash drive recovered from the memory-wiped poachers.
"From the... the ones who came back empty-handed, sir."
Kingpin—Wilson Fisk—sat motionless, a massive figure in a tailored black suit that strained against his bald, broad-shouldered frame. His pale eyes fixed on the drive, unblinking, as immense hands accepted it with deliberate calm. He plugged it into his console. Screens flickered alive.
Leaks poured out: shell companies exposed, poaching ops mapped, hires named in digital betrayal. Porygon's digital fingerprints danced across encrypted files, unraveling threads straight to Pokémon Home.
Fisk's fist clenched slowly, knuckles whitening. Silence thickened, brooding menace radiating from his controlled rage. A subordinate gasped softly.
"Someone dares audit me?" Fisk murmured, voice soft as velvet over gravel. "Efficiency demands correction."
He crushed the drive in one grip. Plastic cracked. The room held its breath. Retaliation brewed.
Kingpin's pale eyes narrowed, pinning the lieutenant like a specimen under glass. He leaned forward slightly, his massive frame casting a deeper shadow across the marble desk.
"How was this taken?" His voice remained soft, each word precise.
The subordinate swallowed hard, hands twisting at his sides. "I do not know, sir. They just... came back with it."
Kingpin's fingers drummed once, a low thunder. "You do not know? Press the men. Now."
"Sir, the teams we sent to Pokémon Home—they were arrested." The lieutenant's voice cracked nervously. "When questioned, they remembered nothing after stepping inside. Blackout. Total wipe."
Fisk paused, suspicion coiling tighter. Failed buys flashed in his mind: shell bids rejected, Sanctuary portals repelling his scouts with invisible force fields, Pokémon slipping through digital nets like ghosts. No chaos, just organized denial.
Volcanic fury simmered beneath his calm facade, cheeks flushing faintly. This Orion Oak guarded a goldmine—exotic assets, infinite utility for his empire. Pokémon as enforcers, logistics, infrastructure. Greed ignited fully.
Kingpin's hand whipped across the lieutenant's face in a brutal backhand. Bones crunched audibly under the force.
CRUNCH
The man crumpled, blood spraying from his shattered jaw. He wheezed on the floor, clutching his ruined cheek, eyes wide with shock and agony.
Fisk rose slowly, his massive frame eclipsing the windows' glow. He loomed over the gasping subordinate, voice dropping to a silken whisper. "You bring me scraps and excuses."
The lieutenant gurgled incoherently, wheezing through broken teeth.
Kingpin turned away, disgust etching his calm features. He paced to the skyline view, mind racing back to the Mole Man fiasco. Those creatures—Pokémon—had dismantled an army with effortless power. Pikachu's thunderbolts felled Moloids like wheat; others shielded heroes, disrupted giants. He'd watched footage obsessively, calculating their worth: enforcers unbound by law, logistics perfected, infrastructure revolutionized.
Kingpin's gaze swept the room, subordinates shrinking under its weight. He had craved those Pokémon since the Mole Man debacle. Footage replayed in his mind: electric rodents toppling armies, spectral wisps binding foes, all with effortless precision. Perfect enforcers. Infinite utility.
He dispatched scouts to Pokémon Home immediately. Lottery prices soared into hundreds of thousands—pocket change, yet Orion Oak rejected bulk bids outright. Sanctuary access? Denied to "corporate interests." Fisk withdrew, biding time. No longer.
This flash drive? A velvet warning from Oak. Leaks that his lawyers would smother like embers. Minor sting. Pokémon remained the prize: assets to revolutionize his empire.
"Contact Electro," Kingpin commanded, voice level as glacial ice. "Tell him I have work."
* * *
The subordinate's slick suit hung rumpled on his lean frame as he slipped into Electro's dimly lit warehouse lair. Power conduits snaked across the scarred concrete floors like veins pulsing with stolen grid juice. Bulbs flickered erratically overhead, casting jittery shadows from ambient surges that made the air hum with menace.
He clutched the burner phone tightly, sweat slicking his palm under the relentless buzz of fluorescent lights. His eyes darted through the gloom, scanning for the electrified host amid crates of fried circuit boards and sparking generators.
"Electro?" His voice cracked hesitantly, echoing off rusted walls. "Kingpin's got a job. Big one. Says you're the guy for... power plays."
Silence swallowed his words. No footsteps, no manic laughter—just the warehouse's low groan, isolation pressing in like a gathering storm. He edged deeper, heart pounding.
Faint crackles answered from the shadows ahead. Blue-yellow arcs danced along a conduit, spitting sparks that singed the air. The hum built, voltage thickening the atmosphere, drawing him forward into the volatile heart of the lair.
A silhouette crackled into view, hair spiking wildly, eyes glowing with pent-up charge. "Power plays?" Electro's voice boomed, theatrical and hungry. "Finally, someone who gets it. Spill it, suit—before I light you up for fun."
The subordinate swallowed hard, his throat dry amid the warehouse's electric haze. "Kingpin needs Pokémon. From that store, Pokémon Home. Powerful critters—ones that fight like heroes. He wants you to... acquire some. Quietly. Or not."
Electro—Max Dillon, once a humble electrical lineman fried by a catastrophic high-voltage surge during a freak storm—stepped fully into the light. Blue-yellow electricity crackled ceaselessly across his body, arcing from wild, spiked hair that defied gravity. His insulated suit glowed with neon accents, overdesigned for maximum flair, hugging a frame that hummed with raw, uncontainable power. The accident had not just empowered him; it amplified his every insecurity into theatrical fury, turning a forgotten worker into New York's most explosive showman.
Electro leaned forward, arcs of electricity snapping between his fingers like eager serpents. His glowing eyes narrowed, pinning the subordinate in place. "Pokémon? What, some kinda cartoon zoo? Never heard of it."
The subordinate shifted uneasily, the warehouse's hum vibrating through his shoes. He wiped sweat from his forehead, careful not to touch the live wires coiling nearby. "Doesn't matter. Kingpin says they're game-changers—loyal muscle, fight like pros. He wants a handful from this Pokémon Home joint. Quiet grab if possible. Pays five mil upfront, double on delivery."
Five million. The number lit Electro's mind brighter than any blackout. Kingpin's cash flowed like a grid overload—reliable, massive, and always shorting out his insecurities. Max Dillon faded; Electro surged. A job was a job, and his volts didn't come cheap. No more scraping for respect in the shadows. This payout screamed validation.
A grin split his face, wild and crackling. Sparks showered the concrete floor, sizzling into steam. "Millions, huh? Kingpin knows quality when he juices it. Tell the big man Electro's in. I'll light up that store, snag his pets, and make the headlines."
The subordinate nodded rapidly, relief flooding his tense posture. He backed toward the exit, dodging a stray bolt that fused a nearby fusebox. "Delivery drop at the usual pier. Don't... overdo the fireworks."
Electro laughed, a booming thunderclap that rattled crates. "Overdo? Kid, I am the fireworks." He flexed his hands, pulling raw power from the warehouse conduits. Lights dimmed citywide as energy funneled into him, his suit glowing fiercer. Pokémon Home? He'd Google it mid-storm—zap the joint, grab the goods, bask in the chaos.
The subordinate bolted out, door slamming behind him. Electro hovered an inch off the ground, electricity propelling him toward a grimy monitor. He punched in the address, screen flickering to life with Pokémon Home's cheerful facade. "Cute. Real cute." His voice dripped mockery. "Time to crash the party."
Blue lightning coiled around his form, propelling him through a shattered skylight. He rode the power lines westward, a living storm toward New York's quirky pet shop. Kingpin would get his prizes. Electro would get his spotlight.
***
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