xp_logs | Shatterstar & Namor

Shatterstar and Namor spar.

While Shatterstar may have never met the man, he was well aware of the winged Adonis who haunted the lakehouse from his various runs around the lake. Some said that he was some sort of king. Shatterstar had no idea if that held any water as the truth. He had never been stopped by the man before, never exchanged more than a glance. He had no reason to expect today may be different. The only difference in himself is that he had taken to running with the Cassidy family sword on his belt — not one of his training ones. (He didn't allow himself to think about why).

It was, at least today, the sword that did it.

"We see they are finally arming their soldiers," was delivered with a casual, condescending tone. The voice came on top of the boathouse porch, where the aforementioned Adonis was apparently soaking up the winter sunlight. Or he had been, before Shatterstar had crossed his territory. "Yet I understand it is traditional to disarm within the bounds of the pomerium."

Shatterstar had learned many words in his lessons with Mr. Gibney that he hadn't known otherwise. Pomerium wasn't among them.

He had to look up to the skies to see the figure. He felt himself straighten at being called a soldier, at being spoken to in such a way as if out of time. It tapped into part of himself that he had sanded away as he allowed himself to become a real person. The words came easily from his mouth as he bowed his head to the maybe-king. "I am no soldier or warrior, yet. I am just running by."

This seemingly caught the Atlantean by surprise, and he looked forward to more closely to study Shatterstar. All this got, however, was a conclusory: "A waste. The way you people talk about who you will be instead of embracing who you are now. Tell me, Not a Warrior," he challenged idly, "what is the use of a broken sword?"

"A broken sword can still be a weapon in the right hands," Shatterstar said, imagining a sword with a blade shattered- but still enough to drive through someone if you absolutely had to.

And who was he now? A warrior in training, perhaps. Someone who could be mistaken for a soldier for someone out of a movie or storybook.

Namor hardly seemed real to him. Shatterstar felt almost as if he was walking in a dream.

"Incorrect," the figure on the roof sighed. "It is a symbol. A broken sword may be sharp as hell, but it is still missing a point." Namor launched himself from the roof with a single push, and landed on a single bent leg, one arm splayed out behind him. His steely gaze held judgment. "There are no right hands in war, only ready weapons."

He even moved like he wasn't quite real, Shatterstar thought jealously. He wished, for a moment, to be able to move like that. "What are you asking of me, then?" He said and shifted his own stance, somewhere between placating and proud.

The stance a palace guard would take, perhaps. Someone ready to both defend and attack. The type of person who bent before a king but stood at their side.

But Shatterstar was still a boy, even if he denied it. And he was not well versed enough to know what Namor was saying to him.

The Atlantean rose. Shatterstar was a hair taller than him, but where he was a lean, tangled youth, Namor simply commanded the world around him to appear larger than life. He was a figure straight-postured, proud, and unyielding.

Grey blue eyes against black locked with the boy's. "I have been studying the reports from District X. For my people," and it was clear that this wasn't the mansion, "wetting your blade was a true first test of character. I loathe how this place coddles its citizens with promises of illusory substance — dreams of a forever peace, coexistence, growth. You have been battle tested, and you choose to still carry your sword. Own it. Mean it."

If Shatterstar had been looking for direction, and he had been, then here it was. It did not get much clearer than this — a king who seemed to command the very air around him telling Shatterstar to own what he was becoming.

He broke the eye contact first — of course he did. But it was in something similar to a bow, at least if the head. "You're right," he said as close to softly as Shatterstar got. "I know what I am now. It is high time I accept it."

He had taken the steps of a protector, a warrior. He had to accept the responsibility that came with it — that he may someday take a life.

He could just hope to hear the weight as well as Namor did. There was no doubt in his mind that this was something Namor carried.

(Perhaps he was too caught in his own thoughts lately).

"High time I accept it," Namor echoed in clear mockery. He circled the youth, nose lowered in clear contempt. "Listen, human. The fact that I am giving you my attention is a gift I bestow upon you. You are not some lost puppy. Either learn to carry that sword with pride, or I swear upon the seven seas that I will break it."

"I don't care who you are. I wouldn't let you while I was breathing." Star found himself saying and was surprised by how much it felt like the truth. He met Namor's gaze, even, when he said it.

The air around him buzzed just slightly with promise. He probably would not be able to beat Namor, and he knew this, but he was not going to take these words from him laying down like a "lost puppy" either.

"Hmp. Show me." Namor's face twisted into a cruel smile as he beckoned with a single, open palm.

It was the perceived threat that made Shatterstar wild eyed like a cornered animal as the high pitched whine of the air vibrating broke out as he directed his powers in a wide arc, catching the Atlantean in it. Enough, it had to be enough to knock him aside, give Shatterstar enough space to get away.

Again. He knew this was a fight he would not win. And, in his mind, he had just invited Namor to try to bring him to the brink.

It wasn't rational thought — it wasn't really thought at all. It was a result of the mental hoops he had been jumping through ever since Death came to District X — the tension spun into himself and Benjamin.

The sonic wave was like a hammer. The arc fanned wide, and Namor wasn't ready for the display of power. He was pummeled backward, and would have been knocked over if not for two pairs of tiny wings that were beating rapidly.

The king didn't have many words, despite the disorientation in his ears, but he did laugh. Raucously. "Good! There's your claws, little minnow." There was a blur of motion as he moved, gliding over the ground, to block any retreat. "Now let me see your teeth."

Namor was fast — and Shatterstar had never fought an opponent that could fly like him, move like him before. He still wasn't processing that Namor wasn't a genuine threat and moved as quickly as he could, drawing his sword and letting his powers flow through it like a tuning fork, the sound high and sharp as he slashed at Namor's exposed stomach, more instinct and fear than thought still.

The sound hit like a whip. Shatterstar's blood was rushing to his head, his arms burning even though he was channeling his power through his sword and not just his bones.

There was the sound of struck steel in the air, and it was accompanied by a peel of laughter. Namor held the strike in one hand, and let the sonic attack roll through him, an immovable object, until a trickle of blood came from the Atlantean's nose. The madness of battle in his eyes never relented.

"Yes!" Namor casually turned the blade aside, obviously physically rattled, but caught in the rush of adrenaline nonetheless. "You do not simply carry your sword, minnow! It is you who decides if the blade is broken or whole. Trust in yourself and no one else. "

Trust in yourself and no one else. It echoed the advice that Jack had given him, which rattled Shatterstar enough to realize that Namor wasn't actually fighting him. He barred his teeth in a snarl at the other man, angry that he had been baited into a fight like a dog — baited into feeling sick and woozy and thinking he had actually been in danger.

It was a cruel trick. It proved that he could only trust himself. It showed him, also, that he was more than willing to hurt. The worst part, even more than the stars of dizziness behind his eyes, was that he admired Namor for it — this was a man who commanded the world around him. This was a language he understood.

He did not sheath his sword, but he did lower it. "I do not need to prove myself to you, even if you claim to be a king."

The opening was a mistake. Namor struck back, using his forearm as a gauntlet. “"You,” another lunge, “are not,” and a sweep for the legs, “my subject.” The smile, though, that smile never left his face. The once-king was clearly enjoying himself.

They pulled away, and Namor used a free hand to wipe away the trickle of blood still flowing down his face. “There is nothing that clears the mind like pure fury. Remember, this is a gift.”

He lunged forward again.

Shatterstar realized in a slow way, even as his body moved on quick instinct to avoid tripping, that Namor didn't truly mean to hurt him. He was playing, as much as sparring was playing. The strike was hard, the lunge was difficult to keep upright from, but he was in no danger of death here. A smile bloomed on his own face. He found he wasn't afraid to bring his sword up to block Namor, though he didn't bother using his powers- he was still dizzy and he didn't want to stumble or have to throw up.

It wasn't fury that was clearing his mind, but exhilaration.

So they continued, trading blow for blow, wrath bleeding to joy as the adrenaline flowed. It was a furious dance, but it ended with the two men sweaty and breathing heavily. Namor looked a little worse for wear — the culmination of many hits received. Still, he laughed.

"There!" It was a proclamation. "Now at least you are not feeling sorry for yourself, minnow. You feel better, don't you?"

Shatterstar shrugged, not wanting to give Namor the satisfaction of his answer, but it was clear from the smile on his face that he did feel much better. The burden of knowing the weight of his violence seemed to have disappeared. He looked down at his blade. he hadn't meant to catch Namor when he had with the blade, but Namor was no worse for wear from it either. A half formed thought of training with the man again should he ever have to practice blows that would kill others crossed his mind and he shoved it back.

"I feel like a good sword.”

Another laugh. “Sometimes, that is enough.”