at the bank final

The walk to the bank is brief, and quiet. Soon enough, you're stepping through the front door, and the bell above it is ringing to announce your arrival. No one in the long line ahead of you turns to look. The bell over the door rings again, and the shuffling footsteps that follow slowly come to a stop behind you. A gust of air from the closing door brings with it the faint smell of rotting flesh. You glance over your shoulder, and-- Yep. The person behind you in line is another one of the risen. She's a little less well-kempt than you are, a little less well-disguised, a little less vigorously perfumed to cover the natural smell of decomposition that all of you exude. It's not unusual to see people like her, who can't afford to completely disguise themselves. A good head to toe cover-up is expensive, especially for certain chronically underemployed sections of the population. Her eyes meet yours, and it's clear your colored contacts haven't fooled her either. She ventures a half-smile at you. [[Ignore her.|ignore]] [[Act digusted.|disgust]] [[Say hello.|greet]] [[Loudly rebuke her.|yell]]

Her expression falls as you turn away, but what did she expect? That you'd undo all of your own hard work by talking to her and outing yourself? She's a stranger. You owe her nothing. The line crawls forward another foot. The bell over the door rings again, and a new stranger joins the line. A stranger who audibly sniffs the air, then makes a gagging noise. You glance over your shoulder to see a young man staring at the woman behind you. "Look out, folks, there's one of the walking dead in line with you," he says, still staring. The woman keeps her gaze on the floor, head down and shoulders hiked up nearly to her ears. [[Step in.|defend]] [[Join in.|attack]] [[Stay out of it.|neutral]]

You wrinkle your nose at her and turn away. Hopefully this will be enough to make her think twice about considering you an ally. With any luck, she might even second-guess your own status as one of the risen. The line crawls forward another foot. The bell over the door rings again, and a new stranger joins the line. A stranger who audibly sniffs the air, then makes a gagging noise. You glance over your shoulder to see a young man staring at the woman behind you. A flash of panic lances through you, seizing up in your throat. Did you cover up well enough this morning? Can he smell you, the real, awful, //rotting// you? Does he know-- "Look out, folks, there's one of the walking dead in line with you," he says, still staring. The woman keeps her gaze on the floor, head down and shoulders hiked up nearly to her ears. [[Step in.|defend2]] [[Join in.|attack]] [[Stay out of it.|neutral2]]

"Hey," you say. "I hope you're not in a rush, it looks like we'll be here for a while." It's banal, to be sure, but anything more than that and you risk exposing yourself. As it is, a few people do turn to look, but they glance away again just as quickly. Good. The woman, though, grins widely. You recognize the relief on her face--the sigh that lifts the weight from her shoulders. She has an ally here, in you. "Thanks for the warning," she says, and you nod back, and the line crawls forward another foot. The bell over the door rings again, and a new stranger joins the line. A stranger who audibly sniffs the air, then makes a gagging noise that makes panic lance through you, hot and sharp and constricting your throat. You glance over your shoulder to see a young man staring at the woman behind you. "Look out, folks, there's one of the walking dead in line with you," he says, still staring. The woman keeps her gaze on the floor, head down and shoulders hiked up nearly to her ears. [[Step in.|defend]] [[Punch him|punch]] [[Stay out of it.|neutral3]]

"Excuse me," you say, loudly enough that the other people in line turn to look. "Can you not stare at me like that, creep?" The woman's face falls. Hmph. Serves her right. You turn to face forward and the man in front of you stares back with a reproving expression. He holds your gaze for a few more seconds, then turns around. A stifling silence descends on the room. Someone near the front of the line coughs. The line crawls forward another foot. The bell over the door rings again, and a new stranger joins the line. A stranger who audibly sniffs the air, then makes a gagging noise. You glance over your shoulder to see a young man staring at the woman behind you. "Look out, folks, there's one of the walking dead in line with you," he says, still staring. The woman keeps her gaze on the floor, head down and shoulders hiked up nearly to her ears. [[Step in.|defend2]] [[Join in.|attack]] [[Stay out of it.|neutral2]]

"Looks like there's an asshole in line with us, too," you say, trying to sound more self-assured than you feel. The man finally looks away from the woman, and narrows his eyes at you instead. "You have a problem?" [[Tell him off.|berate]] [[Punch him.|punch]] [[Back down.|retreat]]

You turn back around and keep quiet, tensed and ready for the worst. Best not to step in and add more fuel to the fire--he might target you, too. And there's no telling who the rest of the people in line will side with. "Maybe you should step outside," the man says. "You're starting to stink up this place." "Hey," the man ahead of you in line says, before you can even begin to react. "She's fine where she is." He gets a sneer in response. "What are you, some sort of zombie-lover? Or are you one of them, too?" "My brother's one of the risen," the man says. He steps out of line and puts himself between the newcomer and his target. "I think you should leave. Now," he adds, before the other man can say anything. The next moment stretches out for what feels like a lifetime. But, finally, there's a belligerent //huff// from the other man and then the door is closing behind him on his way out. You can finally relax again. When your fists unclench, they leave sore crescent imprints in your palm. You hope you haven't broken the skin. Bodies like yours don't heal well, or quickly. "Thank you," the woman breathes. You--just barely--stop yourself from voicing your own thanks. The man smiles, nods, and takes back his place in line. [[The line moves forward.|onwards]]

Maybe it's the long wait in line, or the shitty week you've had, or the loud neighbors who've kept you up for hours on end each night. Maybe it's just that you've heard this a dozen times before, in the form of different words coming out of different mouths. Whatever the reason, it's more than enough to make you take a swing at the offender. Your fist connects with a satsifying //thwack//, and the man stumbles sideways with the force of it. The woman between the two of you skirts to the side, wide-eyed and shaking. The other people in line gasp. All movement in the bank stops. Your knuckles have split against the man's jaw. That's going to cost you--people like you don't heal quickly, or easily. You don't tend to bleed, either, something which the man has noticed now that he's regaining his footing. "Of course," he says, wiping his jaw. "Of course you're one of them. Bet you want to eat my brains now, don't you?" [[Punch him again.|punch2]] [[Shove him outside.|outside]] [[Leave him.|leave]]

"I won't if you leave her alone," you say evenly. "Likewise." The man ahead of you in line has turned to stare the new arrival down, arms crossed over his chest. The interloper sneers, but keeps his mouth shut. Someone else in line coughs, breaking the tense silence. The woman glances up to give you a smile. [[The line moves forwards.|forwards]]

You look away. Men like this don't back down. It's better that you do, and save yourself the trouble of an escalation. "Yeah, that's right. You better not--" "Hey," the man ahead of you in line says, cutting him off. "Can you stop? We're all here for the same reason. We just want to get our business done, and leave." He gets a sneer in response. "What are you, some sort of zombie-lover? Or are you one of them, too?" "My brother's one of the risen," the man says. He steps out of line and puts himself between the newcomer and his two targets. "I think you should leave. Now," he adds, before the other man can say anything. The next moment stretches out for what feels like a lifetime. But, finally, there's a belligerent //huff// from the other man and then the door is closing behind him on his way out. You can finally relax again. When your fists unclench, they leave sore crescent imprints in your palm. You hope you haven't broken the skin. Bodies like yours don't heal well, or quickly. "Thank you," the woman breathes. You--just barely--stop yourself from voicing your own thanks. The man smiles, nods, and takes back his place in line. [[The line moves forward.|onwards]]

"Looks like there's an asshole in line with us, too," you say, trying to sound more self-assured than you feel. The woman looks up at your with wide eyes, shocked. The man finally looks away from her, and narrows his eyes at you instead. "You have a problem?" [[Tell him off.|berate]] [[Punch him.|punch]] [[Back down.|retreat]]

"I was wondering what that smell was," you say. The woman looks up at you. It's the most confused and betrayed you've ever seen someone look at one time. "Why don't you go outside?" the man says. "Make the air a little more breathable for those of us who deserve to be in here." "Hey," the man ahead of you in line says. "She's fine where she is." He gets a sneer in response. "What, are you one of them, too?" "No," he says. "But my brother's one of the risen." He steps out of line and puts a hand on the woman's shoulder, staring down both you and the newcomer. "I think you should leave. Both of you. //Now//," he adds, before the other man can say anything. The next moment stretches out for what feels like a lifetime. But, finally, there's a belligerent //huff// from the other man and then the door is closing behind him on his way out. "Well?" the man asks you. The woman keeps her gaze on the floor. [[Go outside.|follow]] [[Stay in line.|line]]

You keep your mouth shut. It's not your problem, and if you tried to help he'd just target you, too. And there's no telling who the rest of the people in line will side with. "Maybe you should step outside," the man says. "You're starting to stink up this place." "Hey," the man ahead of you in line says, before you can even begin to react. "She's fine where she is." He gets a sneer in response. "What are you, some sort of zombie-lover? Or are you one of them, too?" "My brother's one of the risen," the man says. He steps out of line and puts himself between the newcomer and his target. "I think you should leave. Now," he adds, before the other man can say anything. The next moment stretches out for what feels like a lifetime. But, finally, there's a belligerent //huff// from the other man and then the door is closing behind him on his way out. You can finally relax again. When your fists unclench, they leave sore crescent imprints in your palm. "Thank you," the woman breathes. You--just barely--stop yourself from voicing your own thanks. The man smiles, nods, and takes back his place in line. [[The world moves on.|onwards]]

You turn back around and keep quiet, tensed and ready for the worst. Best not to add any more fuel to the fire--and besides, if you try to step in, he might target you, too. Never mind that you can feel the woman's desperate gaze itching at the back of your neck. "Maybe you should step outside," the man says. "You're starting to stink up this place." "Hey," the man ahead of you in line says, before you can even begin to react. "She's fine where she is." He gets a sneer in response. "What are you, some sort of zombie-lover? Or are you one of them, too?" "My brother's one of the risen," the man says. He steps out of line and puts himself between the newcomer and his target. "I think you should leave. Now," he adds, before the other man can say anything. The next moment stretches out for what feels like a lifetime. But, finally, there's a belligerent //huff// from the other man and then the door is closing behind him on his way out. You can finally relax again. When your fists unclench, they leave sore crescent imprints in your palm. "Thank you," the woman breathes. You--just barely--stop yourself from voicing your own thanks. The man smiles, nods, and takes back his place in line. [[The line moves forwards.|onwards]]

The skin on your knuckles splits even further, but it's worth it for the satisfying sound your fist makes against the man's face. He takes this hit even harder, and lands sprawled on the floor. It's hard not to feel powerful, standing over this pathetic man while he cradles his bloody--maybe even broken--nose. "Help! It's attacking me!" he yells, and your lip curls back in a snarl. "It's gone rabid! Help! It's going to bite me!" There's a shout on the tip of your tongue, but before you can get it out there are hands on your wrists, yanking them behind your back. A glance over your shoulder reveals two security guards. Both of whom look incredibly uncomfortable, and are leaning as far away from you as they can while still shoving you bodily towards the door. [[Comply.|comply]] [[Resist.|resist]]

He puts up quite a struggle as you manhandle him towards the door, but you've got the elevated strength of the undead on your side. He stumbles out onto the sidewalk, and the bell over the door rings as it closes behind of him. You turn to get back in line, and find yourself face to face with two security guards. Neither of them look particularly excited to be dealing with you. One of them clears his throat. "We, um, we have to ask you to leave. You're causing a disturbance." [[Leave.|bye]] [[Stand your ground.|stay]]

You turn back to face forward. You've made your point, and if he wants to spout off at the mouth some more, that's his problem. What //is// your problem is the approach of the bank's two security guards. Neither of them look particularly eager to approach you, and are glancing between you and the other risen woman as if afraid they might get bitten. "We have to ask you to leave," one of them says, sounding a bit nervous. "You're causing a disturbance." [[Leave.|bye]] [[Stand your ground.|stay]]

The bank deposit and your subsequent trip home pass by in a blur. Between one breath and the next, you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can finally take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will notice the smell. Another anti-rising poster has taken up residence on the wall across the alley. This one is a graphic red, emblazoned with the words //YOU COULD BE NEXT.// The world moves on.

You let yourself be pushed towards the door. Resisting would only land you in more trouble, and you'd like to be able to come back here without immediately being kicked out. Eventually. The guards don't so much as say a word to you, seeming pretty satisfied to dump you out on the sidewalk and be done with it. They linger by the door, though, unwilling to give you a chance to get back inside. There are more than a few people staring at you. You suppose that's fair enough; it's not every day you see someone get tossed out of a bank. Then you see a child point at you, only to be quickly tugged away by his visibly nervous mother. A quick glance at your reflection in the bank window and you can see that one of your contacts has been knocked out. It's not just your ejection from the bank that's caught these strangers' attention, then. [[Lash out.|lash]] [[Run home.|run]]

"Afraid I'm going to bite you?" you snarl at the guards. They flinch back at the sight of your bared teeth, but keep pushing. You dig your heels in. "I have a right to be here!" "You're causing a disturbance," one of the guards says, as they wrestle you towards the exit. "You're the ones manhandling me out of the bank," you growl, just as they open the door to shove you out. There's no answer. Your cheek hits pavement, and one of the guards leans in close, pressing you into the ground. "Don't even think about coming back here again," he says, breath hot on the side of your face. It smells like onion and cream cheese. Your breath, when you huff back in his face, is closer to the smell of carrion. He coughs and sputters and releases you. "Don't even think about it!" he calls again. The bell over the door rings as it shuts behind him. Both guards linger by the entrance, unwilling to give you a chance to get back inside. You get to your feet with no small amount of effort. As you brush yourself off, you realize there are more than a few people staring at you. There's no question as to why; your encounter with the sidewalk rubbed off most of the cover-up on the left side of your face, and you felt one of your color contacts fall out. This is probably the first time these people have seen one of the risen so exposed in person. [[Lash out.|lash]] [[Run home.|run]]

"Take a picture, it'll last longer!" you call out, and the sudden noise spurs the majority of the lollygaggers back into action. One person actually does have the nerve to take a picture, and you're sure you look quite the stereotype: a spitting-mad zombie, disguise half-stripped away. Hopefully the picture doesn't go viral. That'd put a real damper on your career prospects. The guards are still watching you from the door. A few people nearby on the sidewalk are still glancing nervously at you, afraid to walk past you. There's nothing left to do but shove your hands in your pockets and trudge home. The trip feels like an eternity, but finally you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will complain about the smell. The cash you needed to deposit sits heavy in your pocket. You'll have to use the bank on the other side of town, at least for a while. The walk is three times as long, and goes through a few of the more zealous anti-rising neighborhoods. But that'll have to wait for another day. Today, you need to order a new set of color contacts, and attempt to patch up your split knuckles. You take a deep breath, and go to the bathroom to put antispetic on the wounds, for all the good it'll do you. The eyes that stare back at you in the mirror are mismatched: one brown, one clouded white. You take another breath. The antiseptic stings. The world moves on.

The trip home feels like an eternity, but finally you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will complain about the smell. The cash you needed to deposit sits heavy in your pocket. You'll have to use the bank on the other side of town, at least for a while. The walk is three times as long, and goes through a few of the more zealous anti-rising neighborhoods. But that'll have to wait for another day. Today, you need to order a new set of color contacts, and attempt to patch up your split knuckles. You take a deep breath, and go to the bathroom to put antispetic on the wounds, for all the good it'll do you. The eyes that stare back at you in the mirror are mismatched: one brown, one clouded white. You take another breath. The antiseptic stings. The world moves on.

You sigh, but see yourself out the door without any fuss. Resisting would only land you in more trouble, and you'd like to be able to come back here without immediately being kicked out. Eventually. No one on the street pays you any attention at first. Then, a child sees your face and points. Her mother glances at you and blanches, picking up speed and pulling her daughter along behind. A quick glance in a passing store window confirms it: one of your colored contacts has fallen out. A fiscally and socially expensive loss. You keep your head down, and powerwalk home. Despite your haste, the trip feels like an eternity. But, finally, you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will complain about the smell. The cash you needed to deposit sits heavy in your pocket. You'll have to use the bank on the other side of town, at least for a while. The walk is three times as long, and goes through a few of the more zealous anti-risen neighborhoods. But that'll have to wait for another day. Today, you need to order a new set of color contacts, and attempt to patch up your split knuckles. You take a deep breath, and go to the bathroom to put antispetic on the wounds, for all the good it'll do you. The eyes that stare back at you in the mirror are mismatched: one brown, one clouded white. You take another breath. The antiseptic stings. The world moves on.

"And he wasn't?" you ask, feeling frustrated but unsurprised. As if this could have gone any other way, with you being what you are. "Please," the other guard says, and then they're advancing on you, palms out, as if you're a rabid animal they think might lash out. [[Walk outside.|bye]] [[Force their hand.|resist2]]

"I'm not going to hurt anyone," you say, hands up and open. "I just want to deposit a few bills." "Sorry," one guard says, sounding both extremely uncomfortable and not very sorry at all. "You'll have to make me," you say. The guards exchange a look, and together they turn you around and push you towards the door with your hands behind your back. [[Comply.|comply]] [[Resist.|resist]]

You duck your head and walk outside without another word. You'd like to be allowed back inside the bank sooner rather than later. The bell over the door rings behind you, and then you're out on the sidewalk. The man who shared your fate stands a few feet away, glaring at the bank. At the sight of you, he grins and spits at the bank's facade. "Didn't deserve our business anyway," he says, as if you've accomplished anything but being thrown out of a bank. He eyes you. "Stay strong out there. The walking dead are everywhere. Constant vigilance." He winks and taps his forehead. It's the motto and salute of the anti-rising factions. Something in your stomach churns uneasily. You manage a nod, and he nods back before walking off. Your own trip home passes by in a blur. Between one breath and the next, you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will notice the smell. The cash you needed to deposit sits heavy in your pocket. You'll have to use the bank on the other side of town, at least for a while. The walk is three times as long, and goes through a few of the more zealous anti-rising neighborhoods. It occurs to you that the man from earlier might live in one of them. And that he now considers you one of his own. Another anti-rising poster has taken up residence on the wall across the alley. This one is a graphic red, emblazoned with the words //YOU COULD BE NEXT.// The world moves on.

"I haven't done anything," you say. "I'm staying in line." "You know what you've done," the man says. "And you should really be going now." You open your mouth to respond, but the bank's two security guards have begun walking towards you. Neither of them look particularly motivated to do so. Both of them glance at the woman out of the corner of their eyes as they pass her. "We have to ask you to leave," one of them says, sounding almost bored. "You're causing a disturbance." [[Leave.|bye2]] [[Stand your ground.|stand]]

"I'm not going anywhere," you say. The two guards exchange a look, and then they take you by the shoulders and lead you out. Their grip is casual, but firm. The bell over the door rings behind you, and then you're out on the sidewalk. The man who shared your fate stands a few feet away, glaring at the bank. At the sight of you, he grins and spits at the bank's facade. "Didn't deserve our business anyway," he says, as if you've accomplished anything but being thrown out of a bank. He eyes you. "Stay strong out there. The walking dead are everywhere. Constant vigilance." He winks and taps his forehead. It's the motto and salute of the anti-rising factions. Something in your stomach churns uneasily. You manage a nod, and he nods back before walking off. Your own trip home passes by in a blur. Between one breath and the next, you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will notice the smell. The cash you needed to deposit sits heavy in your pocket. You'll have to use the bank on the other side of town, at least for a while. The walk is three times as long, and goes through a few of the more zealous anti-rising neighborhoods. It occurs to you that the man from earlier might live in one of them. And that he now considers you one of his own. Another anti-rising poster has taken up residence on the wall across the alley. This one is a graphic red, emblazoned with the words //YOU COULD BE NEXT.// The world moves on.

The bank deposit and your subsequent trip home pass by slowly but surely. Finally, you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will notice the smell. A few of the posters on the wall across the alley have been torn down. The brick behind them is clean and red, like a fresh wound. The world moves on.

The morning comes, as it always does, with the need to renew the disguise that prevents the majority of the population from immediately recognizing you for what you are. The foundation goes on first, giving your skin the rosy glow it hasn't had for almost a year now. Then the contacts, colored brown to cover up the deadened milky white of your eyes. A good tooth-brushing and a generous application of eau de toilette to cover up the fetid stench your insides constantly produce, and you're done. Luckily, today is a weekend, so none of this has to hold up for very long. The only chore you have to get done is a trip to the bank, to deposit this week's wages. You stuff the bills into the pocket of your fall jacket, and shrug it on. You don't really need it--people who have died and risen again don't feel the cold nearly as keenly as they did during their first go around. But it helps to keep up appearances. And to make yourself feel more...normal. The one window in your apartment faces an alley, and the brick wall on the other side of it is plastered with posters. They're mostly anti-rising, voicing the fervent opinions of people who would rather you had just stayed dead. It's not a great view, especially when you're about to venture outside, but at least it reminds you to gird yourself for what's out there. //KEEP AN EYE ON YOUR BRAINS!// one of the posters loudly proclaims. You snort, and reach for the door. [[The bank awaits.|bank]]

The bell over the door rings behind you, and then you're out on the sidewalk. The man who shared your fate stands a few feet away, glaring at the bank. At the sight of you, he grins and spits at the bank's facade. "Didn't deserve our business anyway," he says, as if you've accomplished anything but being thrown out of a bank. He eyes you. "Stay strong out there. The walking dead are everywhere. Constant vigilance." He winks and taps his forehead. It's the motto and salute of the anti-rising factions. Something in your stomach churns uneasily. You manage a nod, and he nods back before walking off. Your own trip home passes by in a blur. Between one breath and the next, you're back in your tiny apartment, where you can take a deep breath and let it out without having to worry anyone will notice the smell. The cash you needed to deposit sits heavy in your pocket. You'll have to use the bank on the other side of town, at least for a while. The walk is three times as long, and goes through a few of the more zealous anti-rising neighborhoods. It occurs to you that the man from earlier might live in one of them. And that he now considers you one of his own. Another anti-rising poster has taken up residence on the wall across the alley. This one is a graphic red, emblazoned with the words //YOU COULD BE NEXT.// The world moves on.