xp_logs | Emma, Namor | Talk Dirty to Me

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Emma offers Namor a gift of understanding.

His mind was a city.

More of a fortress, honestly. Tall arches of red and pink marbles lined the city streets, dotted by colorful metallic domes and glowing pillars that, as seen from above, would prove to encircle three layers of the island. Yet it was all dominated by a palace at the center and the walls that lined the perimeter of the shore.

A figure sat, enthroned, elevated high enough in the palace to view all of his dominion.

A woman appeared in the landscape, glanced around it long enough to get a general sense of what it was and what it showed about the man who sat upon his high throne.

"Well," said Emma dryly. "That'll impress the neighbours."

For a moment, just long enough to make sure he saw it, a great ice crystal throne grew in front of the fortress, a sudden eruption of dazzling light and power that towered high into the sky and, seated upon it, a Queen — fair and pale and diamond scintillation, as terrible as a goddess. In a blink it was gone and Emma hovered at eye-level with the man upon the throne.

"All hail Pallas Athene, savior and doom of men."

The words echoed through the stone and the man's mouth didn't move as he spoke. Perhaps he was out of practice, saw no need in this mindscape, or was trying for a show of power.

The king shifted his weight on the throne, and his grey-green eyes gave Emma an appreciative once over. He leaned back, his body relaxing; lithe, limber, and confident as a cat. "Are you to be my jailer or my executioner?"

It was interesting, Emma thought, to be in the mindscape of a man whose language and culture had nearly no intersection with her own. But he was still at least mostly human and with the ease of long practice, Emma found his mental dictionary and snaffled it for her own. Her download of it was almost instant but she tilted her head as she saw the gaps that may need to be filled by some fairly lengthy explanations.

But as she translated the words he had spoken, she smiled suddenly. "Neither," she responded. "I am to be your translator." She raised her hand and, suddenly, balanced on her hand, stood a owl made of diamond that nonetheless hooted softly and preened its breast feathers in a manner entirely natural. "I ask that you accept a gift from me. It is freely given and incurs no obligations on either parties, nor will it harm you. I pledge this on my honour."

The king tapped his fingers on the throne. "A gift. Tell me, goddess," and his tone certainly took a turn for the playful there, "What have I left to gain? I have been told that I was asleep."

The scene in the city suddenly shifted. It was full of people going about their business. Guards moved in the side corridors of the palace, and Emma could hear the sound of ships at a harbor. They all moved in ghostly mimicry of real life.

"My empire."

The color palette of the mindscape then shifted toward red. The streets were now filled with violence, but it was incredibly artificial: only about four or five faces in fall, repeated in meme.

"Atlantis was promised to fall without royal blood."

Emma bowed her head gravely. "And Atlantis fell," she said softly. "Beneath the waves, many long years ago. It lives now only in memory. Nonetheless," she said, and her voice sharpened considerably, "Atlantis's fall is not yours. Unless you are but a little king."

Bensaylum froze. Every spectral image — be it attacker, peasant, guard, noble, or peasant — turned to stare with lifeless eyes at Emma as the king stood from his throne. He voice, sharp as razor wire, boomed across the landscape:

"I am Namor the First, The Avenging Son. I am no small king. My empire will be reclaimed."

Emma smiled, a smile that was a promise, a threat, the edge of a knife. "There are more and larger empires than you can dream of, Namor the First, The Avenging Son.” Around her, Emma created pictures, the shining towers that housed Frost Enterprises in great cities around the world, the workers that filled them, a dazzling swoop of images from business awards ceremonies, fashion shows, technology that shone and swooped and soared. “I am Queen and empress, ruler of more people than lived in your great city, controller of more wealth than ever ran through your fingers, courted by men and women that have more power than even great Atlantis. And I have only a small part of what is available in this new world that awaits you. Your empire could be greater than ever you dreamed of, Namor the First.” She inclined her head slightly, raised the crystal owl again. “If you accept my gift.”

The city sat motionless, silent, as the King considered her words. His eyes were squinted in dangerous deliberation, and he brought his hands into fists. "I see," his tone was ice, "You offer me what you call a gift, but is there room in your empire for a King, Athene? A place where men make themselves onto gods?" The ice sharped, crystal sharp, into a promise fueled by passion. "I promise you that I will serve no one. I will do as I desire and no force will hold me back." …

“I bet you’d vote libertarian,” murmured Emma, behind the cover of the crystal owl. She considered, for a moment, sending this Namor the First back into endless sleep, but while he was filled with an overweening pride, she did not sense any particular cruelty or sadism in him, nothing that set off danger signals. Besides, the thought of him encountering the X-Men was amusing. Emma’s deliberations flashed through her mind in a second and she lowered the crystal owl. “There is always room for another King, Namor the First. If you are worthy of your place, then a place for you there shall be.”

There wasn't even a beat before he accepted.

"I accept this challenge," and Namor's tone was now indignant, "Do unto me what you will."

At his words, the crystal owl spread its wings silently and alighted from Emma's hand. It hung, beautiful and sparkling like a disco ball, over the city landscape before its flight ended. Its form twisted as the bird screeched and swooped down upon Namor, turning at the last minute to light as it merged with him.

Bensaylum went white as understanding — custom, language, years of idioms and cultural idiosyncrasy — washed across Namor's conscience, its pillars and towers turning to white diamond.