Stepping onto the bus, he’d remembered how his colleagues had always given him stick over his clothing, through sharp smiles they’d tell him “you look like one of those space men from the black and white photographs we saw!”, “It’s called a bomber jacket”, he’d defend, but they continued to tell him that he’d stand out, that people would never take him seriously. He, however, believed that the clothes he wore made him look harmless and bumbling, perhaps even father-like but still, their criticism had continued to be relentless the entire journey and though it was a distant memory, thinking of it now began to reignite an inner anxiety, a deep panic which began in his chest and constricted his breathing. He very nearly cried out, before allowing himself to relax by reminding himself of their panicked faces, twisted in anguish as they rasped for help. Wiped out one by one, their discovery made all too easy by their stubborn egos. He’d tried teaching them how to look human, but they just wouldn’t listen.