Christian Calaway- London, England
A big lady wearing a coat entered the room holding up a clipboard, squinting through her glasses that sat on the bridge of her nose, "Oaklay North?" she called out, the majority of the people looking at the woman wishing for their names to be called. "Oaklay North, Christian Calaway..." she yelled the three next names before coming finally to the last name on the list, "and Michael Cale." Christian titled his head up towards the door in which the woman entered, his name awakening from his day dream. It was a quaint dream in which he envisioned himself winning the presidential election 20 years from now running an honest campaign that swore to transform the country into a utopia for all. He grunted at the thought of having to move. He always had neglected to control his power at this time, seeing his shoulders and lower body slowly evaporating into a smokey substance. Focusing for a moment, he reassembled his body into its more solid form and rose from the ground, wiping his eyes of fatigue.
Christian was one of the last to rise up to heed the call, with a young man about his age and a younger girl beating him to the woman. They were chatting, as if they were long lost friends being reunited. They even displayed admirable linguistic skills, speaking in French. He was not sure if he should be surprised or not at the versatility of their ability to communicate, being that England and France were relatively close together, but he shrugged it off as some unimportant detail. It was eye opening to see this in Europe, being that in the United States, few people demonstrated such skill with languages, often speaking English and nothing else (if they could even speak English at all).
"Christian Calaway," He directed to the woman with the clipboard. He stood next to the reunited couple, towering over them with his arms crossed. He nodded to them with acknowledgement, trying to be polite at the very least.