"Stop waving it around! You don't disrespect weapons like that!" For a small boy, Diarmuid's voice is suddenly very sharp and very angry--something he had not been able to pull off just a short time ago, "If you don't like it, that is your problem. Father made it for me. I like it. Give it back."

That...almost sounds like an order.

Order or not, Diarmuid holds out his hand, waiting for Deadlock to return the sword to him, "We don't have guns where I am from. We use swords, spears, shields and things like that. Things that take skill to use. If I am faster than your gun, it's of no use, now is it?"

He doesn't seem to realize just how impossible that sounds. Or maybe...he does and it just doesn't matter.

Something very adult glints in his eyes for a moment, "I have no doubts about myself. I will practice and I will become great and when the time comes I will do what I must do. Don't push your doubts on me."