Buses aren't running yet, but walking into town warms you up. You stop at the first bakery you see and get donuts and coffee. It's a fancy little place and the early-morning crowd doesn't like obvious maniacs hanging around, so you finish the donut quickly and carry the hot coffee with you toward Rite Aid.
There, you 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 help you in your investigations. 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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