Honestly, between Mackenzie's curiosity and Namor's own sense of self--it was a surprise that this had never happened before.
Namor was always careful to follow Mackenzie's routine to keep himself off Thanos' radar. Not that he presumed that the Mad Titan had no idea that Namor was in play (He was NAMOR, of course he would be a force to be reckoned with) but it was not conducive to his other to become engaged in fisticuffs or other activities that would both draw questions to what happened and to cause his other more confusion when he came to the fore once again. Mostly it was to keep the litany of complaints to a minimum. His other was aggravatingly troublesome at times. The only time he seemed to shut up for any length was when Namor chose to head to his vessel. It was one of the few reasons Namor had any bit of tolerance for the human; the small boat was well maintained. Every rope hale, every bit of brass shined to a high gloss, the deck well maintained, the sails trim and newly replaced. How a man cared for his vessel said much about him. For all of his faults, Mackenzie cared for the sea and cared for the tools he used to study it and it was something that Namor could respect.
Today's routine activity was a sail through the Main Channel and into Massachusetts Bay, rounding Spectacle Island and back to the wharf again. In the earlier summer months Namor knew that Mackenzie would go as far as Hull to the south, or swing by Winthrop to visit family. Namor felt confident they could go further than that but again, it was important to stick to the routine. To call no unwarranted attention to himself by changing Mackenzie's mannerisms too drastically.
It took longer than normal to cast off due to the large vessel that was now planted at the end of the Wharf. It had pulled in during the afternoon, drawing curiosity from the Aquarium staff. On occasion, the Aquarium would temporarily dock one of the whale watch boats, which were converted ferries, but no-one knew anything about a new sleek blue vessel that was slated to join their fleet. It was cumbersome with the way it was settled and Mackenzie was not the only mooring-holder annoyed by its presence disturbing the usually calm atmosphere of the Boston Waterboat Marina.
He turned the sails in order to catch the breeze so to take the boat away from shore, into the channel and then towards Quincy Bay. He had mocked this once, how surface-dwellers could not propel themselves through the sea under their own power, had to depend on fragile bits of wood and metal, tanks filled with air to breathe, masks of glass to protect fragile eyes. They could never see a reef the way he could, never swim amongst the creatures of the deep as he did. That had been long ago, when had had been a youngling with no idea of the world above his head. Now, this was the only comfort his beloved ocean could give him, to skim along its surface, driven forward by the wind, only feel the spray of the salt water on his skin. He almost thought that he could feel his strength returning to him as it always did when it lit on him but it was more like a ghost sensation. A ghost. It seemed that Namor's life revolved around ghosts.
The sour thoughts made him turn the wheel harder than he meant to. Mackenzie knew this coastline with unerring accuracy. He knew every cove, landing site, even the occasional bare outcrop barely visible over low swells. What, then, was that structure on Hangman Island? Hangman was a bleak, deserted outcrop, a place where he'd occasionally go to watch the sun slowly set but as the equinox grew closer, it was his habit to stay closer to shore. There would only be time for another trip or two up the North Shore to his beloved Gloucester...but none of that mattered. In all the years Mackenzie Almeida sailed these waters, he never remembered seeing the imposing building on the small island, and Namor was inclined to trust his other's judgement. What then was it?
He changed the tack of the sails to pick up the wind. It was not a long distance, he could round the tiny bit of land and head back to the mooring without losing any time at all.
He did not need his Atlantean senses to hear the motor boats in the water. Mackenzie was so attuned to the sea that the smell of the fuel reached him before the high pitched and tinny noise of the Zodiac inflatables his his ears. If the wind had been stronger, he could have out maneuvered them and headed back into the safety of Savin Hill Cove, well in sight of the Kennedy Library where he was sure that none would attempt to board him. But that was Mackenzie's plan, cut and run. No, Namor was King of Atlantis and no mere man ran him off the surface of his own kingdom.
The fight was short and did not go Namor's way and the blue-clad men boarded the vessel and took control of it away. He must be one of them--bring him. Boss' orders. Namor heaved a mighty sigh as Mackenzie's complaints about the predicament they now found themselves in filled his ears.
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