We stopped using the streets when the Bánfaet remembered their appetite. They were meant to lose it once they stopped being human, they'd just wander about trying to be their old selves and failing over the years until they were nothing other than Bánfaet. Not even removing their stomachs when the changes began could put a stop to their hunger and when it started to spread the rest of us found ourselves adapting our cities to avoid them altogether.
Where wide cobblestone streets were became dark passageways between conjoined overhanging upper floors and merging all of the buildings into one large mass with a labyrinthine system of pathways outside glass windows so thick that even the starving Bánfaet couldn't break through. We found new solace inside greenhouses made from the same thickened glass, our main sources of light, food growth and general well-being.
In hindsight it was pretty foolish to centre ourselves so thoroughly around these areas, not realising that in the night the Bánfaet would crawl over every inch they possibly could, scouring for weak spots to exploit and windows left even slightly ajar. There was always one who'd be found in the morning utterly torn to shreds to the point where the chances of them becoming Bánfaet were impossible.
That was a blessing at least. It was also the basis for every door being hydraulically sealed and coded. By the time the doors were open with no code presented (as much of a time-consuming pain as it was) the closest residents would have their chance to seal all surrounding rooms, trapping the Bánfaet inside until they either left or rotted to nothingness.
They generally left before sunrise, finding that it quickened their physical decay tenfold compared to the night and the moon's softer glow. Still it would never be safe for a human to be outside of the citadels and the pathway-homes, not until all Bánfaet had either decayed or their hunger had ceased and they had tried to claim so before.
They were such good liars, still wearing the faces of our former loved ones and using their voices to beg us for food (usually someone they knew was weak, though how they knew was anyone's guess). There was always someone who took pity and gave up their newborn or their dying grandparent which did nothing to appease the never-ending hunger of the Bánfaet. If anything it made them worse as those who hadn't eaten before began to remember how good it felt to consume something alive and screaming.
Where wide cobblestone streets were became dark passageways between conjoined overhanging upper floors and merging all of the buildings into one large mass with a labyrinthine system of pathways outside glass windows so thick that even the starving Bánfaet couldn't break through. We found new solace inside greenhouses made from the same thickened glass, our main sources of light, food growth and general well-being.
In hindsight it was pretty foolish to centre ourselves so thoroughly around these areas, not realising that in the night the Bánfaet would crawl over every inch they possibly could, scouring for weak spots to exploit and windows left even slightly ajar. There was always one who'd be found in the morning utterly torn to shreds to the point where the chances of them becoming Bánfaet were impossible.
That was a blessing at least. It was also the basis for every door being hydraulically sealed and coded. By the time the doors were open with no code presented (as much of a time-consuming pain as it was) the closest residents would have their chance to seal all surrounding rooms, trapping the Bánfaet inside until they either left or rotted to nothingness.
They generally left before sunrise, finding that it quickened their physical decay tenfold compared to the night and the moon's softer glow. Still it would never be safe for a human to be outside of the citadels and the pathway-homes, not until all Bánfaet had either decayed or their hunger had ceased and they had tried to claim so before.
They were such good liars, still wearing the faces of our former loved ones and using their voices to beg us for food (usually someone they knew was weak, though how they knew was anyone's guess). There was always someone who took pity and gave up their newborn or their dying grandparent which did nothing to appease the never-ending hunger of the Bánfaet. If anything it made them worse as those who hadn't eaten before began to remember how good it felt to consume something alive and screaming.
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