At one point, Emory thought he heard people talking in hushed voices outside his door, but nobody came in. He couldn't blame them; dealing with someone being banished was like dealing with someone diagnosed with a terminal illness. What can you say? What can you do? They must have just decided to let him come out in his own time. That would have to be soon, he realized. The metal vendors would be busy exchanging digital wealth for raw metals that could be sold outside the wall. There would be lines and limited supplies; Emory didn't want to leave the wall without anything but the clothes on his back. Clothes made of synthetic materials, at that. They'd surely begin rapid decomposition as soon as he was outside.<br/><br/>That's what everyone was told, at least. Anything unnatural or unnaturally manufactured would break or rot on the outside. That meant almost all food and cloths in the city, and definitely all tools and electronics.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Everything I own.</span><br/><br/>Something to sell, like gold or silver, would be the difference between life and death in that first month, he felt sure.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">I better get some while I can.</span><br/><br/>The once-student clicked off his game and stood. He had to go, but really didn't want to deal with his housemates. That would just be too uncomfortable for everyone. So he grabbed his bag, wrote and slipped a message under his door: “Gone to prepare. Be back sometime.” and climbed out his window. His power-bike clicked on almost silently and sped off without concern for speed limits.<br/><br/>There was already thirty people or so at the metal vendor, but many of them were likely family and friends of exiles, there for support and aid. Emory parked his bike carelessly, just like the others had, and got in line. There was a lot of crying going on; the person at the window was bawling especially loudly. The vendor himself looked willfully stoic. One can imagine how hard a person would become after years of dealing with the exiles just before they leave.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Maybe I'll go to a bar before I head back home. I recall hearing exiles often drink free.</span><br/><br/>He laughed.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Maybe I'll even meet a girl. An attractive one, sympathetic to my storybook plight. Wouldn't that be a worthy sendoff.</span><br/><br/>He laughed even harder. A few people looked, but most were understandably preoccupied.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">She could be a politician’s daughter and fall instantly and madly in love; she'd urge her father to spare me. We'd sell the movie rights later and I'll become a famous actor, portraying myself. I dare say I'm perfect for the part.</span><br/><br/>The man in front of Emory looked back and shuffled a little farther away when he saw the young man shaking with laughter. The poor old fellow must have thought he was standing in front of a guy about to snap.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Hell, and while I'm at it, I don't see why I can't use my new father-in-law's influence and my own new fame to become the new Prime Citizen. It would only be natural, after all. <br/><br/>Yeah. Sounds like a good plan. I'll just bank everything on that until something better turns up.</span><br/><br/>Emory sighed heavily and followed the queue.