Not Another Teen Dimension: Paige & Namor
Jun. 20th, 2025 12:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_submariner posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsIn this heightened reality, the Student Government rules with an iron fist. Namor, outgoing SGA President, uses a strategy meeting with the alternate Paige Guthrie to interrogate on the missing science project.
The rooftop garden was a lie, and that was precisely the point.
Imported koi—rumored to have been smuggled from the superintendent’s private pond—glimmered beneath waters lit not by sunlight but by a rig of theatrical gels, no doubt lifted from the A/V club. Corinthian columns loomed overhead, rising like delusions from a concrete campus better known for vending-machine burritos and asbestos warnings. Every brutalist angle of the school recoiled from this rooftop, which stood apart: a sacred, baroque fever dream swaddled in velvet and delusion.
And yet, it was a seat of power. The Bastion of Student Government. A holy court of adolescent tyranny, elevated above the lunchroom rabble and junior hallway skirmishes like Mount Olympus overlooking a food court.
Upon it sat Namor.
Or rather, the version of Namor who had clawed his way to power through debate-club bloodsport, backroom Model UN deals, and a campaign ad set to Linkin Park. Rex "King" McKenzie. His varsity jacket — stitched from the hides of seven rival council members (or possibly just pleather) — sagged with medals, merit pins, and a badge that declared him PRESIDENT FOR LIFE in Comic Sans, gilded in cheap metallic foil. The rest of him was less overt, and textbook prep-school aspiration: a navy sweater emblazoned with a collegiate crest, a button-down starched into submission, and a red-and-blue striped tie that might as well have been tied with a blade.
Namor held a campaign poster delicately between two fingers. Though this universe’s pageantry belonged to King, it was Namor who now sat on the throne. Good thing. He knew the language of spectacle far better than its original speaker.
"Guthrie’s Got Your Back," he read, each syllable drawn out with Shakespearean contempt. "Miss Guthrie, is this what you bring to your campaign? A slogan fit for a yogurt ad? Tell me. Are you campaigning for leadership . . . or winning friends?"
He rose, letting the poster drift to the tiled floor like a defeated standard.
“A chick that cannot crack the shell of the world dies within it. Break something. Or do not run.”
This universe’s Paige Guthrie wasn’t all too different from the one Namor knew. She was still academically motivated and competitive, probably taking more AP classes than was advisable, and she had far too many siblings to look after. Taking Lewis to and from band practice had, apparently, eaten into her slogan planning time. Still, he suspected she hadn’t thought she’d done too badly with what she had.
“Who’s selling yogurt with Guthrie’s Got Your Back? Clean, simple, easy to remember.” Paige watched her poster flutter into the pond, which in her opinion was overkill. Did they really need fish to worry about with their other responsibilities? “Don’t hear you coming up with any better ideas. Besides, I’ve practically got the job, anyway. Who cares if my slogan is a bit bland?”
Namor’s eyes followed the drifting paper.
"In this world? All that matters is that they feel," he said coolly. "You win with spectacle. Sense comes later."
He let the silence stretch before turning to her fully.
"Drama is not weakness, Guthrie. It’s memory. Seize their gaze. Trust will follow. Never the other way around."
He snapped his fingers, and, as if summoned by divine rite, an underclassman appeared bearing a pitcher of cucumber water and a tray of bedazzled buttons. The options were many: You Don’t Need to Like Her, Just Follow Her. Remember Her Name. And the one Namor selected – Guthrie. No Apologies. No Permission.
He held it up, gaze unwavering.
“I had these prepared. You must make the average sophomore believe wearing this makes them superior. Then you’ve already won.”
Paige studied the button, and she had to admit. No Apologies. No Permission. was a better slogan than anything she had been able to come up with.
"Alright, we can give your way a go. What else do I have to do to win?" She had already been Vice President for two years now, but that alone didn't necessarily mean she would win the election. SGA President would look amazing on an application, and she intended to apply to as many Ivy Leagues as she could manage. Paige needed this win.
Namor needed many things. To find the missing science project. To leave this Atlantis-less reality behind as soon as possible.
"You seem capable enough, Guthrie," he allowed. "But capable is rarely compelling. Become inevitable."
He turned the button in his fingers before offering it to her.
"Rule is not about slogans. It is about permission. Most of them are waiting for someone to tell them what matters. You can have their back once they believe that is you."
He lingered just long enough for the point to settle, then added, almost as an afterthought:
"Speaking of rule . . . tell me, has your quaint cabinet said anything about the science club? A shame what happened to them. Bad optics."
Paige eyed the button before taking it from Namor. Become inevitable. She had to admit, she liked the sound of that.
“Yes, truly a shame. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about what caused that, would you?” Quaint as her cabinet may be, they had their ears to the ground in all the important areas. Paige had known about the science club for days.
Namor's gaze drifted to the koi pond, as if they were the only ones in this universe he understood. He sighed deeply.
"I should be negotiating the fate of land and sea,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Instead, I am cornered into petty rituals involving glitter glue crowns and teenage ambition.”
His eyes snapped back to Paige, sharp again.
"Do not play games with me, Guthrie. I can still unmake you."
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Paige said honestly. For all his quirks, she did like Rex. It would be a very different place without him next year.
The rooftop garden was a lie, and that was precisely the point.
Imported koi—rumored to have been smuggled from the superintendent’s private pond—glimmered beneath waters lit not by sunlight but by a rig of theatrical gels, no doubt lifted from the A/V club. Corinthian columns loomed overhead, rising like delusions from a concrete campus better known for vending-machine burritos and asbestos warnings. Every brutalist angle of the school recoiled from this rooftop, which stood apart: a sacred, baroque fever dream swaddled in velvet and delusion.
And yet, it was a seat of power. The Bastion of Student Government. A holy court of adolescent tyranny, elevated above the lunchroom rabble and junior hallway skirmishes like Mount Olympus overlooking a food court.
Upon it sat Namor.
Or rather, the version of Namor who had clawed his way to power through debate-club bloodsport, backroom Model UN deals, and a campaign ad set to Linkin Park. Rex "King" McKenzie. His varsity jacket — stitched from the hides of seven rival council members (or possibly just pleather) — sagged with medals, merit pins, and a badge that declared him PRESIDENT FOR LIFE in Comic Sans, gilded in cheap metallic foil. The rest of him was less overt, and textbook prep-school aspiration: a navy sweater emblazoned with a collegiate crest, a button-down starched into submission, and a red-and-blue striped tie that might as well have been tied with a blade.
Namor held a campaign poster delicately between two fingers. Though this universe’s pageantry belonged to King, it was Namor who now sat on the throne. Good thing. He knew the language of spectacle far better than its original speaker.
"Guthrie’s Got Your Back," he read, each syllable drawn out with Shakespearean contempt. "Miss Guthrie, is this what you bring to your campaign? A slogan fit for a yogurt ad? Tell me. Are you campaigning for leadership . . . or winning friends?"
He rose, letting the poster drift to the tiled floor like a defeated standard.
“A chick that cannot crack the shell of the world dies within it. Break something. Or do not run.”
This universe’s Paige Guthrie wasn’t all too different from the one Namor knew. She was still academically motivated and competitive, probably taking more AP classes than was advisable, and she had far too many siblings to look after. Taking Lewis to and from band practice had, apparently, eaten into her slogan planning time. Still, he suspected she hadn’t thought she’d done too badly with what she had.
“Who’s selling yogurt with Guthrie’s Got Your Back? Clean, simple, easy to remember.” Paige watched her poster flutter into the pond, which in her opinion was overkill. Did they really need fish to worry about with their other responsibilities? “Don’t hear you coming up with any better ideas. Besides, I’ve practically got the job, anyway. Who cares if my slogan is a bit bland?”
Namor’s eyes followed the drifting paper.
"In this world? All that matters is that they feel," he said coolly. "You win with spectacle. Sense comes later."
He let the silence stretch before turning to her fully.
"Drama is not weakness, Guthrie. It’s memory. Seize their gaze. Trust will follow. Never the other way around."
He snapped his fingers, and, as if summoned by divine rite, an underclassman appeared bearing a pitcher of cucumber water and a tray of bedazzled buttons. The options were many: You Don’t Need to Like Her, Just Follow Her. Remember Her Name. And the one Namor selected – Guthrie. No Apologies. No Permission.
He held it up, gaze unwavering.
“I had these prepared. You must make the average sophomore believe wearing this makes them superior. Then you’ve already won.”
Paige studied the button, and she had to admit. No Apologies. No Permission. was a better slogan than anything she had been able to come up with.
"Alright, we can give your way a go. What else do I have to do to win?" She had already been Vice President for two years now, but that alone didn't necessarily mean she would win the election. SGA President would look amazing on an application, and she intended to apply to as many Ivy Leagues as she could manage. Paige needed this win.
Namor needed many things. To find the missing science project. To leave this Atlantis-less reality behind as soon as possible.
"You seem capable enough, Guthrie," he allowed. "But capable is rarely compelling. Become inevitable."
He turned the button in his fingers before offering it to her.
"Rule is not about slogans. It is about permission. Most of them are waiting for someone to tell them what matters. You can have their back once they believe that is you."
He lingered just long enough for the point to settle, then added, almost as an afterthought:
"Speaking of rule . . . tell me, has your quaint cabinet said anything about the science club? A shame what happened to them. Bad optics."
Paige eyed the button before taking it from Namor. Become inevitable. She had to admit, she liked the sound of that.
“Yes, truly a shame. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about what caused that, would you?” Quaint as her cabinet may be, they had their ears to the ground in all the important areas. Paige had known about the science club for days.
Namor's gaze drifted to the koi pond, as if they were the only ones in this universe he understood. He sighed deeply.
"I should be negotiating the fate of land and sea,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Instead, I am cornered into petty rituals involving glitter glue crowns and teenage ambition.”
His eyes snapped back to Paige, sharp again.
"Do not play games with me, Guthrie. I can still unmake you."
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Paige said honestly. For all his quirks, she did like Rex. It would be a very different place without him next year.
