{Author here again for a brief note; the music video attached is my main source of inspiration for this fic! Its aesthetic is virtually the same as what I'm writing/will write. I'm not sure if I'll add in all kinds of futuristic tech yet, but I might a little bit later—don't you think that would be fun?}

Static crackles through the headphones wedged firmly on his head, empty air hissing across the stratosphere in the form of radio waves; it irritates his ears, and he squints, eyes devoid of expression skittering from one end of the street to the other, eventually resting on a head of fluffy brown hair walking a bit ahead of him and to the left. Behind him, he hears his ginger-haired friend whistling a familiar tune, a bit off-key, matching the sound of the song's bass to the thumping of the nail-filled bat he carries on his shoulder. His loose light-purple hoodie swishes with the movement, its strings gently tapping against his chest; the sound of four pairs of sneakers traipsing across the cracked and uneven pavement almost but not quite covers their light tapping. Fortunately the man in the violet hoodie has no intention of being muffled. The man in the headphones rubs his left eye, growling softly as the static's volume grows obnoxious, grating on his ears. A blink, and then another, and he says, "Hey, Edd."

The brown-haired man in front of him twists, blinking wide eyes darkened by a lack of sleep. Green contrasts well with the dark grey tones of the shattered walls they pass, even if Edd's hoodie is more than a little dirty, wear and tear fading the once-brilliant emerald shade it held. "What's up, Tom?" Edd answers as Tom slides the headphones off his head. The ginger man behind Tom stops whistling, keeping the bat still too, and even though Tom can't see him, he feels eyes burning curiously into the back of his head.

"D'you ever wonder who runs the radio stations?" Tom ponders, shoving his hands into the wide front pocket of his deep-navy jacket. It's stained more by alcohol than dirt, the countless times Tom's passed out with a bottle still in his hands, but it still retains traces of its original bright and cheerful evening-sky tones in patches.

"Someone with too much time on their hands," a new voice pipes up, coated with a thick Norwegian accent, and Tom grits his teeth in irritation as his dirty-blonde hair seems to bristle in a manner similar to a dog's hackles rising. Turning to look over his shoulder, the man in the blue hoodie fixes a cold unfeeling stare on the owner of the voice as they continue, "Besides, why should we care? It doesn't matter." His apathetic expression doesn't match his tense gait; he walks as if holding himself back from pouncing at every step, the strings of his red hoodie bouncing with the movement.

"It's still a valid question, Tord," The man with the bat buts in before Tom can speak for himself, shifting it carefully from one shoulder to the other—trying to avoid stabbing himself with one of the myriad nails sticking out the business end of it—and shaking his tired arm a little. "Who the would be taking time out of their day to run a radio station? Everyone's always Running."

"It weird," Edd muses aloud, turning back around. "Especially since they're still trying to catch Runners. So Tom's right—why bother?"

Tord sighs, running his fingers through his dark brown hair in one quick sweep of a hand. "I'm not saying it weird, I just—How does that help us right now?"

"Wot?" The ginger man squints, tipping his head to one side. Irritated, Tord lets out another sigh, shaking his head; Tom raises an eyebrow at Tord, seeming a bit puzzled as well as Tord mumbles out something along the lines of 'forget it.'

"Tord, are you okay?" Edd turns back yet again, worry clouding his expression. "You've been really jumpy lately." Tom muffles a snort, quickening his pace to take the lead as Edd falls back to talk to Tord. The ginger fellow keeps the same pace, looking around a bit cluelessly, blinking at the broken windows, the glass littering the sidewalk.

Tord takes his time answering Edd's inquiry, eyes slipping left and right and then left again before he finally speaks up. "Surely Tom and I aren't the ones listening to the broadcasts," he says; Edd takes it as a rhetorical statement, waiting patiently for his Norwegian friend to start talking again. "Haven't you heard? Every they announce more Runners gone. The Hounds are getting better at their jobs. So why on earth wouldn't they try to go overseas, like everyone else?" He crosses his arms, letting out a huff. "That coupled with how much they know about Runners is pretty suspicious, don't you think? I don't think we should trust them, at all—I think we should listening. And I don't think we should talk about this so openly either."

Edd chews on his lip for a moment, considering what Tord has said. Tom, ever the casual eavesdropper, frowns to himself, wondering with mild anger why Tord would label his question as unimportant if he shares the same...curiosity? Or is it more along the lines of concern? Tom doesn't really know Tord well enough to figure it out, and he doesn't really care to either. After a short while, Edd finally opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, the ginger-haired man interrupts yet again. "Why all the doom and gloom, everyone?" He chirps pleasantly. "Their reasons for running the radio station aren't really impacting us right now. We've just gotta get out of here!"

Edd shuts his mouth, disappointment and a bit of irritation. flashing across his face, then smirks cheerfully. "Yeah, Matt, you're right." He speeds up a little to take his original place at the lead, but this time he decides to walk beside Tom rather than trying to pull ahead of the group. Tom shoots him a glance, but Edd couldn't possibly know that, since the entirety of Tom's eyes are jet-black; he quickly turns his gaze back to the road ahead of them, feigning disinterest. Tord growls, frustrated by being dismissed so easily, but he doesn't say anything, quietly stewing at the back of the group. The man in the blue hoodie reaches inside the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a flask that sloshes slightly as he pulls the cap off, lifting it to his lips. The other three take no notice, not even when Tom sputters, choking a little bit after having taken a bit too large of a sip. Wiping his chin, he coughs, then moves to seal his flask up again, grimacing a little at the bitter aftertaste; his eyes narrow suddenly and he shakes the flask from side to side, looking almost suspicious about something.

"Hey, guys," Tom starts, looking up. "I think we should hit another store soon."

"What, having a little trouble drinking yourself to death, Jehovah's Witness?" Tord sneers, but his smirk falls when Edd shoots him a rather frightful glower—an angry Edd is a rare sight, and a sure sign that the Norwegian crossed a line.

"Oh, stuff it, Commie," Tom fires back, unaware of Edd and Tord's nonverbal exchange, stuffing the canister back in his pocket. "That's not the reason—"

"But it a factor," smugly interrupting him, Tord smiles cruelly, tipping his head to one side; uncomfortable, Matt lowers his baseball bat, letting it swing idly beside him. Tension crackles through the air as Tom grinds his teeth together, twisting to face the crimson-jacketed man with murder in his eyes. The group's pace grinds to a halt; the sapphire-clad one's hands curl into fists, and his eyes seem to practically glow with blackness as he almost shuts his darkened eyelids.

"Guys, " Edd snarls suddenly, stepping between the two irritated boys. Tom recoils immediately, the glow dissipating as his eyes fly wide. "Tord, stop picking fights with Tom! This isn't getting us where." He reprimands the Norwegian, jabbing harshly at him with one finger; Tord flinches away, shocked by his friend's sudden and violent shouting. After a second, Edd relaxes slightly, shoving his hand back in his hoodie pocket, though he still glares at his two bickering friends. "We really try to find a grocery store 'rr something, to be honest. We've still got to stop for lunch time, y'know..." His scowl suddenly softens into a much sadder expression as he adds, "and anyways, I'm all out of Cola."

A pause, and then, "So... Shopping?" Cheerful as ever, Matt eagerly smiles down at his smaller friends, glancing from Edd to Tord to Tom and back again; Tom meets his gaze while Edd and Tord exchange a glance, knowing full well what's about to happen.

"Yes, Matt," Edd finally bites the bullet and answers their excitable friend. "We're going shopping."

"!" Matt screeches, flinging his arms above his head while Edd and Tom quickly scramble out of the way of his bat as it sails through the air, clattering against the wall behind them. Immediately Matt sobers up, eyes going hugely wide as he lets out a little, "Oops, my bad guys," scrambling to pick his weapon back up. Tom smacks one hand against his face with a muffled groan of exasperation, dragging it slowly down his face as the pink-faced Matt gets to his feet again.

"Yyyyeah, anyways..." Edd coughs. "Let's go."

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The mall is surprisingly deserted, and their footsteps echo eerily off its walls, the sound bouncing around its wide empty space as if desperately searching for a way out. Glass litters the ground here too, hidden between fallen leaves and grass growing through cracks in the once-pristine tiling; the trees that once meekly inhabited the small plots allotted them, ringed with concrete, have grown past their confines, roots further destroying the tiling and rendering it rather difficult to walk on. Surprisingly, Tom stumbles the least out of them all, despite being perpetually drunk—or, maybe, it's he's almost always drunk, and has therefore learned how best to deal with uneven footing. It's Matt actually who often stubs his toes on tiles sticking out, leading to an awful lot of whining on his end, but the other three pay him little attention. Even Tord is having difficulty keeping his balance, often relying on Edd for a steadying hand; the two work together, and if Matt could hurry up, Edd would help him out too, or so he says.

Tom rubs his eyes with the back of his right arm, keeping his left hand in his jacket pocket, mildly annoyed. "Guys, how are we gunna find food ?" He grouches, turning to scowl at his slower friends. Matt had insisted upon them going into the abandoned mall, despite Tom's protests, and while he hadn't truly been all miffed at first, his stomach was starting to growl and the alcohol was wearing off, a painful headache slowly replacing its warm and friendly buzz.

"Malls always have a food court," Tord offers helpfully, but he looks doubtful too. Matt pouts, glancing to one side, guiltily pretending to admire the myriad graffiti art pieces adorning the wall. Truth be told, Matt just wanted to try and find some cool new clothes, and maybe a mirror, two things he knew the mall would have, so he'd been a bit selfish in insisting on going in. There wouldn't actually be anything useful here, and he knew that, but luckily for him, his friends all think he's too stupid to have realized that (a fact that stings a little, but comes in handy from time to time).

Tom huffs out an irritated growl, turning back round. "That's not food we can take with us, and besides, you those guys always charge an arm and a leg for anything. We'd be lucky if we could get enough food for just of us—" he tosses his hands into the air, gesturing with frustration, "we don't even have anything to barter!"

"," Edd replies in a soothing manner, pausing to help keep Matt from falling on his ass, "we can have some fun at the very least. Maybe pick up some new clothes," his eyes brighten as he hopefully adds, "and I'm sure restaurant around here will have a bar you can visit, Tom!" The man in the cerulean hoodie only grunts tiredly, stuffing his hands back into his pockets; Matt takes this opportunity to point out a set of broken escalators nearby, nudging Edd towards them. The upper floor is less likely to have warped and strange flooring, a welcome change for everyone. The four reach the escalators in due time, quickly trudging up them with Tord and Tom at the lead, Edd and Matt wheezing their way along behind them, and they all take a moment's pause at the top. Edd and Matt are bent double, panting desperately after having had the most difficulty fumbling along; Tord immediately migrates to the edge of the second floor, not too terribly out of breath, while Tom stands stiffly over the hunched figures of Edd and Matt, like a guard.

"Wow," Tord breathes, looking down at the first floor. "There's more green down there than tile." Blinking a few times, he leans over the railing, curiously examining the bizarre fusion of modern graffiti and naturalistic plant life.

"That's what happens when nobody's around to keep the plants in line," Tom drawls in a bored tone, trying to mask his concern about Matt and Edd's exhausted expressions. His eyes narrow as he lifts his head to look around, trying to find some sort of directory, or at least a sign telling them the way to the food court. Thankfully he sees just what he's looking for dangling from the ceiling a few yards away, rotating gently by the one lone metal cable holding it up. "By the way, the food court's that way, but there's also a restaurant behind us."

"Which way should we go?" Edd straightens up, cracking his neck by tipping his head from one side to the other. Of course he knows Tom will want to head for the restaurant, hoping for some booze, but if the others don't want to they might have a problem.

"Food court!" Matt cheers, standing up tall again, seeming totally refreshed—the power of his positivity—and the man in the blue hoodie grimaces, rubbing a hand across his face. Hangovers and loud noise do not mix well, but of course, the man in the purple jacket isn't capable of being quieter than a shout.

Tord steps back from the railing, smirking quietly, and nods in agreement with Matt. "The food court is the better option." Tom scowls, crossing his arms, but says nothing; Edd hesitates uncomfortably, not wanting anyone (namely Tom) to be dissatisfied.

"Hey, I have an idea—" the green-clad one starts, perking up considerably with a hopeful smile. "Why don't we split up? Tord, Matt, you can check out the food court while Tom and I see if that restaurant has anything." Tom's eyes widen slightly, and his frown tugs at the corners just a little as he contains a smile.

"Good idea!" Matt chirps, grinning cheerfully as he grabs hold of one mildly confused Norwegian's arm, turning away to drag him off. "We'll meet back here once we find something, okay?" He calls over his shoulder, tugging Tord along before the man can even protest.

"Okay!" Tom and Edd echo, Tom using less enthusiasm than Edd, though the sentiment is still there. Matt had been getting on Tom's nerves since last night, and he never did like Tord; some time away from them will do him good. For a moment, green and blue stand still to watch their two friends vanish, Tord doing his best to get out of Matt's grip, and Matt too busy chattering on about something or other to really notice. Once they're out of earshot, though, Edd turns to Tom and says, "We should get going."

Tom blinks, turning his head to face Edd, his light brown hair bouncing with the movement. "Yeah, we should," he replies, uncrossing his arms and pivoting on his heel, starting to walk around the opening in the second floor that reveals all the chaos of nature below. Edd takes a second before following him, and the two trot side by side in a comfortable silence. The sunlight leaking in through shattered skylights casts strange light patterns across Tom's pale face, illuminating his empty eye sockets in a frightful manner and drawing long shadows on his cheekbones, accentuating the darkness under his eyes and the general gauntness of his face. The appearance of cheekbones on his friend's face further cemented in Edd's mind the idea that Tom's story about having a pineapple for a father and a bowling ball for a mother was just a load of B.S., since neither of the two objects could ever have cheekbones. That is, other than the fact that it's obviously physically impossible for a bowling ball to birth a human child. Of course, he hadn't ever exactly Tom if he had been lying, simply assuming Tom didn't want to talk about his actual childhood—maybe it had been traumatic, maybe he never know his parents... Whatever the case was, Edd didn't feel right trying to pry anything that personal out of Tom. He wasn't much for opening up.

Edd's stomach growls softly, and he grimaces, brain coming back down to Earth from whatever odd place it wandered off to. None of the four has had too terribly much to eat, especially in the past few months, and even Edd himself is starting to look a bit on the thin side. His hoodie sags in ways it hadn't before, not really fitting him anymore. They could all do with a wardrobe change.

After a few minutes of walking, Edd starts to slow down, but Tom keeps up the same pace, eyes half-shut and off in his own world as he stares at the opposite side of the second floor. Rather suddenly, Edd grabs the edge of a blue hoodie, yanking it and its owner backwards into an unlit store, clapping a hand over Tom's mouth to keep him from yelping in justified surprise. "Shh," he hisses, stepping further back into the store, not letting go of the now-irritated Tom. Despite being absolutely irate, however, Tom knows better than to struggle against his friend, and he ends up being rather grateful for that fact when two strangers clad in odd clothing stalk past, wild-eyed with insomniac paranoia, hands wrapped tightly around weapons dangling at their sides. They pass very quickly, and Edd removes his hand from Tom's face, shuffling backwards a bit, careful to avoid knocking anything over. Once the strangers are out of earshot, their footsteps no longer audible, Edd shifts uncomfortably, muttering out, "Sorry—by the time I realized they were about to see us, I couldn't've said anything, 'else they'd hear."

"I can't believe didn't hear them," Tom admits, frowning as he scratches his nose. "Good catch, Edd." The dark-brown-haired man smiles cheerfully, pleased with himself, then sticks his head out of the store's front door, glancing about.

"They're gone," he says to no one in particular, and his ebony-eyed friend steps up beside him, peering out as well but not saying anything. "That reminds me, though—" the two step out of the storefront and resume their original walking pace, "we need to get our hands on some weapons, because Matt's bat isn't exactly going to do us much good. 'Specially not from here."

"Yeah," Tom muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "but where would we get any?"

And so the two are plunged into another sort of silence, this time a thoughtful one.