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 “Come,” Namor said, voice low and unhurried, lifting one like a coronation relic. “Adorn yourself with the sacred light of antiquity. Or the mid-’80s. The distinction grows murky." A pause, drier than dust. “Two for a dollar. Support the senior trip.” Felicia laughed, bumping into him with a half bared shoulder possibly a little harder than necessary as a collection of sophomores timidly handed her ones. Hair teased within an inch of its life and sprayed pink, face a map of glitter and stars, Felicia was a glam rock queen in metallics and neon, her pointed toe knee high boots keeping her only a couple inches shorter than her companion, but still less of a heel than she'd like. Her smile would glow under the black lights. "Isn't he the most?" she asked, tucking the cash into her belt bag as he began doling out black plastic wrapped bulk buy toys as if they were gold bars. "Truly outrageous." “Outrageous is an aesthetic,” Namor replied, glass-smooth. “Reckless is a flaw. I happen to be neither. But I understand the confusion. Altitude often looks like spectacle to those watching from below.” He scanned the crowd with the casual confidence of a man who believed he could name every threat in the room. “They did elect me, after all. One assumes for the gravitas. It appears I’ve confused spycraft with discernment. Try to keep up.” "Oh, King," Felicia replied, saccharine but only mostly unkindly. "They elected Rex McKenzie. And possibly as a pretty figurehead, given Guthrie is second in command." "Tubular!" she said, shifting with a pretty smile at a junior, taking their ticket and a fist of ones before gesturing them towards Namor. "It's an 80s party. A human era full of neon, and this is lingo. Which you'd know if you'd bothered to read anything we spies sent you. Try to keep up, or at least your head down for those of us who aren't just cheekbones." Namor handed off another bracelet with a motion that could have been mistaken for benevolence — if it weren’t so imperious. “Ah. Tubular. A word with too many limbs and no spine.” He regarded her attire, faintly amused. “You’ve embraced the era’s glitter with devotional fervor. I presumed camouflage. Operative strategy. Reflected light.” Then he looked at her — not briefly, not politely. As one might observe a star and count its gravity. “But no,” he said softly. “Not disguise. Bait.” He tilted his head just slightly. Not indulgent. Not fond. Something quieter. “This crown they placed on my double — ‘king of the court,’ such endearing theater — is camouflage enough. Tailored, bestowed, and as performative as your shine.” His gaze dipped — slow, intentional — not to objectify but to study the radius she carved into space. “Tell me,” he asked, voice lower now, almost intimate, “do we wear these roles because they fit... or because it’s easier to hunt when no one’s watching for claws?” "I can only answer that for myself," Felicia said, watching a stream of teens crack their glowsticks and head inside the gym. A moment alone, her smile moved to something else, still dishonest but without veneer, an eyebrow raising. "I can fit any role, but in my experience? People seem to mind getting stepped on less when it's from a pretty face they don't see coming." |