The President run his hand along the balding top of his hair. The foundation was wearing off, and the edge of a scale rubbed against the tip of his fingers. He kept playing with it for a while, running it under his nails, one after the other, as deep as it could go without hurting his flesh. Social etiquette was an unnecessary concern in the depth of his underground bunker. There was no need to conceal his nature any more than a man would silence his bowels in the privacy of his bathroom. After all, it was only a few years earlier that his mutant nature had won him millions of votes during the elections. He had to tame it down to the minimum necessary visual proof, so to appear as reassuring to pure-breed humans as he was to the mutant underclasses. Hence the foundation, the human mannerisms and the elocution classes to help him control the intonation of his speeches – only dropping the mutant accent when required.