America rolls her eyes. .oO(Idiot in one world, idiot in the next, big surprise) Exhasperated, she walks over to a corner where Namor has left a trident. She grabs it firmly and then holds it up.

"I'm not going to repeat myself, here." With one swift move of her two arms, she reduces the trident into a ball of gilded metal, tightly compressed and with no apparent effort. She lets it drop on the floor for added meaning.
"I'm not here to harm your interests. I could punch my way through every ship in your fleet and not break a sweat. I'm nobody's agent, and chico, you need to learn how to speak of yourself in the first person."


Namor watches wordlessly as his guest flexes her muscles. As someone who is also prone to dramatic displays of physical prowess and temper tantrums, he seems to accept this as something that normal people do, rather than as proof of bad behavior.

"I see. Perhaps your friends will be more cooperative."

The Atlantean draws himself up to his full height, sticks his chest out, and prepares to bellow an order into the ship's intercom. But just as he prepares to do so, the unfamiliar female voice is broadcast over the ship's systems. Or, rather, it's broadcast in the bridge and in Namor's room.

"Captain, tell the occupants of the vessel to prepare to be boarded. And have one of your men fetch one of the diplomatic environmental suits from cold storage. Don't bother cleaning it. We're pressed for time and my guest is being uncooperative."

He turns to look at the woman again, his sneer as intact as ever, but mingled with a bit of worry. "You aren't one of those mutants that explodes, are you?"


"I'm worse." America says, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm a Princess."