Do you know how many times I would rescue someone—a human—from death or a labor camp only to have them spit on me? Call me a freak? Say it's all my fault? I lost count. But more than that they would just tremble. You'd think, sure, they're in shock from what they went through. It would get worse if I'd get close. So I never got close if I could help it.
Aside from giving directions to safer territory I hadn't really spoken to a human since I was on the street. Not until Marina. Everyone just kept treating me like a person and not a monster there. For a long time I was just waiting for them to change their minds. I'd even try to scare them. Push it in their face. It didn't make any sense.
I spent my life hated and hunted because of what I am, and then suddenly no one cared what I was. It's like everything I went through didn't matter. None of it needed to happen. I would snap at people who called me human like it was a compliment. Like I was close enough to be one of them, but I wasn't. I'm a mutant. That's who I am. Anything else is just a little girl talking to people on the street about how awful those mutie freaks are so she won't get caught. So they won't suspect she's one of them.