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At a cafe on the edge of Harlem, with tables set out on the pitted sidewalk a tall man with hard blue-grey eyes and black hair sat and surveyed the area. A few minutes prior he had been brunching with Jaja Anucha Ndubuisi Wachuku, Nigerian ambassador to the United Nations, about as far into Harlem as Jaja dared to tread. The man who remained was now alone at his table, the empty chair sat invitingly askew.
His off color skin tone and pointed ears spoke to a genetic ancestry not entirely human. He was dressed in a suit with tie absent and collar undone. The brilliant white shirt was beautifully pressed and crisp, tapered lapels colored to barely accent. Black on black on black again, each color of non-color discernible from the next. Something about him stuck out, but whether he ached for attention or unconsciously commanded it was not clear.
He looked like a pampered gangster, or a ruthless politician, perhaps even an actor. He cut smooth lines out of the air even sat still, and anyone who got close enough and cared enough to look could easily identify the media favorite: Namor, Prince of Atlantis. A manfish who seemed to show up in places one usually expected heroes, whos loyalty and motives remained under constant critical scrutiny.
*
The world around her had been one of madness and mystery since before she arrived in New York. But now, it was even more so. She had found a place to at least consider her 'home' for the time being, but the floofy haired girl with lean, lanky limbs, was searching for other possibilities. Someday, she'd be off that sofa, but sofas were often better than boxes and old print. This time, however, her search had not panned out.
Muttering curses in French, the girl balls up a slip of paper and tosses it into a near by bin. Her hands reach up and scratch, and rub into her curls, causing them to spring and sway until returning to their spot, dominated by its natural kink. The odd vision of a stately looking figure with pointed ears does, however, give her pause. Silent, she watches him, her teeth settling into her full, lower lip, as she nibbles away at silent possibilities. Her toes tap, she rocks forward, and back on her feet; her attire was nothing like the Prince's what so ever. Where he was regal, she was dressed simply. Red capris, stained white sneakers, and a woven top with an empire waste, belling sleeves, and patterns stitched along their hems. Everything was second, or even third hand, and smelled of such.
*
"Don't just stand there staring." his voice a rich baritone filled with equal parts command, contempt, and allure. "Have a seat. I can hardly live up to my bastard reputation if you don't start by being affable." he explained mildly, gesturing to the recently vacated chair. Despite this, he seemed not to know whom she was.
*
Lynette blinks, her dark eyes growing wide as she glances around, making sure he was speaking with her. Embarassed, too, a heat touches her cheeks and she clears her throat. "Sorry…" She then slips into the chair offered to her, those onyx orbs looking over his angular features. "M'sorry," the Creole murmurs once more. "Seen 'lot since comin' t'dis city. Ain't seen 'nybody like you, dough." She pauses, her brows sloping, her curiosity apparent. "Y'a fae or somet'ing?"
*
Namor murmured, "Something like that." although he had no idea what the word Fae meant, the first of many misunderstandings to come. "You're just a girl." he said cooly, "Theres a lot you aint seen." borrowing her contraction. "I'm Namor, and you are?" he asked, inviting her to identify herself, or just lie.
*
"I…sorry." She frowns, lowering her gaze now and just sitting, her fingers curling around the frame of her seat. "Didn' mean t'be disrespectful or anyt'ing. Jus'…t'ought I'd ask." She glances up once more once his name is spoken, nodding his way and offering her own. "M'Lynette. I didn' mean t'int'rupt y'or anyt'ing. I jus'…y'lookd int'restin'."
*
Namor seemed wholly disinterested in her apologies and by no measure disrespected, his face could easily turn to scorn, almost as if it was built to do just that. Today though, his brow was level with a hint of brooding. "Do you know the man who just left here?" he wondered, probing to see how deep or shallow her interests went. "Lynette." he added almost parenthetically, as if to taste her name on his tongue. He glanced toward an approaching gentleman, a bulky man in a dark suit with round sunglasses, and Namor shook his head to warn the guard away. He was content with his plaything for now, he lifted one leg to rest it on the other and waited for her to answer with the patience afford those who do mostly nothing all day, men like him.
*
"N-no, I…didn' know y'were wit anybody." She admits then, her eyes following after Namor's own to look up and upon the figure who was ready to shoo her away, or worse. "I was jus' walkin'…well, I'd say home but it ain't m'home." She tries to explain, though her own wording choices, or lack there of, seems to silence her tongue. "Nev'mind. No, I don' know who was here b'fore me."
*
"A man who wanted much and presumed to offer little. That's who he was." but even in saying this his disappointment was evident. "Lynette offers the prospect of conversation, and asks for nothing in return. So that makes you a welcome guest at my table, and a damn site better negotiator." he explained, making her no less comfortable with his awesome gaze. His gaze was a thing that tried to pin you in place, stammer your words, and evoked wonder at when the Tempest slither out from behind his eyes and exit scalding hot from his mouth; at least from smaller men. "I'm half human." he explained, finally answering the question she originally posed in a quid pro quo, the other half of his ancestry was left to the realm of her assumptions.
*
"Oh! Oh, um, oh…well d-dat's nice. T-t'ank you." The girl does, indeed, stammer, thanks to his piercing eyes and the compliment that was offered her way. Her mocha cheeks flush all the more, and her teeth set about that nervous chew of her inner cheeks and left corner of her lip. Her grip on her seat tightens, but she has yet to move. "Y'are?" She perks, finally getting some type of information about the man, and his odd looks. "I, well, I don' know what I am jus' yet. Still figurin' dat out." For some reason, this confession is made with a softer voice, meant only for the man who was sharing his table with her. "I t'ink m'human, dough. Least somewhat."
*
Namor emitted a little grunt from closed lips, exiting his nose as he looked away and nodded to a man some paces back. He was silent, and waiting, and the long black car rolled to the curb like a shark on the prowl, louvers in the side paneling even looked like gills. "Well, since its still up in the air; might I suggest not being human." he smiled into something that was almost a sneer, "Far too many of them on this planet already."
The door to the limousine lifted up on a gull wing, and Namor rose to take his leave after plunking down enough currency to keep Lynette in coffee for the foreseeable future. He walked by her and the smell linen and personal fragrance followed; a smell like wealth and apathy but without the sick of it, it smelled like the bed-sheets just before the mistake.
He left without saying goodbye, walking with slow confident strides until he had one hand on the top of the door and prepared to bow into its belly. "Lynette." he said, almost an after thought. "The next time I see you, I shouldn't have to ask you to join me." and this was some kind of gilded ticket, haughtily delivered, but there was a hint in his eyes of self-parody if she was want to notice it. He watched to see how she would react.
*
"Y'tink? I was startin' t't'ink it was de other way 'round." Lynette murmurs softly, her head up and turning, following after the svelte figure as he moves to his expansive, and expensive, car. Her eyes catch and linger when he speaks her name, and taking but a breath, she stands and reclaims his money off the table. Her sneakers do 'sneak', her form soundless as it strides closer to his car. She eyes the men in charge of keeping him safe, so she keeps a distance from him, and offers out her hand, and his funds. "Y'wan' me t'join y'now?" She questions softly, waiting for him to take back his cash.
*
Namor gave her an odd look, slightly bemused. "You lack the gills for it." then he wagged his head toward the table, "Leave it for the staff." he explained, "I was running a tab for the meeting." raising his eyebrow as if her behavior was a little peculiar but still benign. Now it was obvious that their chance meeting was over, and he'd be whisked away in glassy black. "Orevuar, Lynette."
*
"Gills?" She repeats, taking a step or two back and looking at the money in hand. To his order, she nods, and watches as the door tucks him away into the privacy of his ride. "Adieu, Namor." She breathes out, watching the limo pull away before turning and leaving behind the bills for staff, just as instructed.
*