The poison was working. Not as well as it might have, had Roxie not been who she was, gifted with the gifts she'd been given - the mixture of divine Greek and Kree DNA (or, as Roxie liked to call it, being Kreek) - helped stave off a lot of the stuff that a normal human would be susceptible to. This was part of why she'd never gotten mono (despite the many, many men she had kissed in her life before Joe Rogers had come along.)

Still. Roxie did fall to her knees, and the yellow-and-red-glow that had been surrounding her lessened as the bees died.

By the thousands of bees that had attacked her, she'd been stung maybe a few dozen times.

It had been enough.

Maybe it was time for her to redesign a costume with sleeves.