The first thing you do is walk to the nearest bakery to get a sandwich and some coffee, since you can't remember the last time you ate. As you drink your coffee, you consider what you need to do. One thing is for sure: you can't look like this when you reach your destination. Your parka is torn, your fleece hangs in shreds, your gloves are more duct tape than leather. You need new clothes. You head to the pharmacy you don't normally use and buy a loofah with soap already in it, a pack of new white t-shirts, and thick wool socks. Then you lock the store's bathroom and clean yourself up in the sink. There's a lot of dried blood, but you scrape it off and dump everything in the trash can. The fleece and parka go, too—they're beyond saving. That means you have to hurry down the street, arms crossed, to the cheap consignment shop.
It's cold in here, too, a cold not helped by the ugly glare of the woman behind the counter. She looks like she's biding her time, picking out a really good slur to call you. But you have money now to buy clean clothes. Good ones, not so expensive that you can't afford to explode out of them in a burst of Rage, but not the dirty, sweat-smelling cast-offs Clay used to toss your way. You look for something that will get you out of town without problems. After searching the racks and making sure you have enough money for necessary cold-weather clothing, you pick out—
Tactical clothes. Functional and aggressive; easy to go from "ignore me" to "don't mess with me."
Hunter camo, a mix of arctic and woodland. If everything falls apart (and it probably will), I can retreat to the wilds.
Something half-decent for once, college boy clothes. Not too prep. "Regular human" clothes.
Black on black. Because it hides the blood while still being honest about what I am: a killer.
Something barbaric and intimidating. I don't want to "look like a werewolf," but I want regular people to know I'm not one of them.
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