Sweating nervously, eyes darting from side to side in an apparently subconscious movement, looking for a route of escape, a girl is stood in line. The queue weaves around for what seems like miles until coming to a stop at a rather heavily manned security checkout desk. The girl is not the only nervous looking person there, many people dislike flying, but she is the only person there who's wearing a huge hoodie which hides her face and sunglasses. People are looking at her suspiciously, and as she gets closer and closer to the check-out desk she can't help but notice a certain increase in activity down there.
Oh hell. Someone is walking towards her. Someone with a dumb uniform and a police dog and a -oh shit - very large looking gun. Nat tries ell herself to relax, that it isn't exactly different, that everyone in the whole damned country carries guns anyway, that she may as well get used to it, any one of a hundred different reasons why she shouldn't be especially alarmed, but it just isn't working.
The security guard gestures for her to get out of the line, and she does so, sighing as she sees the gap she leaves behind close. The guard tells her to follow her and she slouches along behind him, trying to look as normal as possibly, no mean feat for someone whose legs make up just under two thirds of her body height. He pulls her into a small brightly-lit room and sits her down in front of a desk. He however, doesn't sit. Instead he strides about the room as he talks, presumably in an attempt to be intimidating. It doesn't work; Natalie just looks straight ahead as she answers endless meaningless questions.
Yes, she is a mutant. No, she's never been a member of any terrorist organisations. No, neither has any of her family. Yes, she does have a valid passport. No, her parents don't know she's here. No, she's from Manchester. Absolutely, she's aware of the severity of the situation. Yes, she understands the many and varied non-reasons why the American government feels the need to encourage mutant registration. Yes, she knows damn well that as a foreigner and a British citizen she doesn't need to be registered. No, she doesn't want to volunteer. No, really she doesn't.
Finally he begins to get the idea, and opens the door to let her out. As a final insult he demands that she removes her hood and glasses "In case of accidents". Nat walks away fuming, fortunately able to now bypass the huge queue.
She is totally, completely and utterly unprepared for the reaction she gets as she walks out of the building.
Back home, in Manchester, people would look, the occasional small child would stare or point, very occasionally someone would make a comment, but most of it was fairly gentle.
But as she steps out past the queue people grow silent to watch her. The noise starts up again, murmurs of "mutant" and "freak" and, for some reason, "terrorist" grow to very audible whispers as she walks to the door, and she can feel the hundreds of eyes on her.
They itch.
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In his cell, several hundred miles away from where the girl Nat stands now, a man reads a note written on yellowed newspaper, smiles to himself and turns on his bunk to go back to sleep, his only escape from the six-by-six room he inhabits. That is, untill tonight...
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Sorry about the length, blame it on the Prozac-happy polecats.