"," the Norwegian begins in a sugar-coated tone, smiling up at the tall, purple-clad ginger walking beside him.

Matt perks up, turning to face the man in the red hoodie with a cheerful grin. "Yeah, Tord?" He chirps brightly, one hand in his pocket and the other aimlessly swinging the nail-filled bat from side to side.

"Can you shut up for, I don't know, ?"

Matt's face falls, embarrassed pink tinging his cheeks, and he looks away, muttering out a little 'sorry' as Tord too turns in the opposite direction, scowling tiredly at the ground. Their footsteps echo hollowly about, clattering in their ears, but the two have grown used to it by now; Tord's eyes rove from one side to the other, sweeping across the hall in a paranoid fashion. Matt simply glues his eyes to the floor, almost dragging the nail-filled bat on the floor but not wanting to be further scolded by his friend for making noise. With each step the impulse to speak grows, but Matt bites his tongue, trying so incredibly hard to keep from irritating Tord; eventually, the pressure is just too much to bear, and Matt blurts, "Why are we the people here?"

"What?" Caught off-guard by the concept of a sensible question coming from Matt, Tord flinches, dragging himself out of his thoughts as he turns back round to stare at his dull friend.

"It's a mall." Matt states blandly, blinking down at Tord (who is just ever so shorter than him). "... Why haven't we seen anyone else?"

The Norwegian scowls suddenly, suspicion painting itself across his face so plainly even Matt can pick up on it. Glittering eyes rove across the vine-choked storefronts as Tord hunches his shoulders up instinctively, hands balling themselves into fists inside his jacket pocket as the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "You're right," he growls, his accent becoming more prominent on the 'R's. "That isn't normal."

Tord's worry is infectious; Matt's brows crease together, showing a rare wrinkle as he says, "Uh, Tord?" Fidgeting a bit, taking his hand in and out of his pocket, twisting the wrist of the hand holding the bat, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he answers grimly. "But we should stick close to each other..." Tord trails off, brows furrowed, and turns to look back the way they came, hoping for a glimpse of green or blue; of course, that's a silly idea, since Tom and Edd had immediately rounded a corner once they'd started walking. Even if they were very close, Tord obviously wouldn't be able to see them through the wall.

"O!" Matt chirps, smiling again, and glad to be (seemingly) allowed to talk again. I mean, Tord hadn't told him to shut up, so clearly that meant he could talk... Right? "Where were we going again?" He inquires, scratching an itch on the side of his face, the other hand still aimlessly swinging the bat around.

Tord sighs, frustrated. The tall ginger flinches ever so slightly, expecting to be shushed, but his friend merely raises one eyebrow a bit and answers with a grumpy "The food court, Matt."

"Oh right!" He grins cheerfully. "Wot d'you wanna get when we get there?"

"Whatever's cheapest," Tord replies, brows knitting together again as he thinks of their dwindling cash supply. For the most part, they'd been surviving off of what they'd been able to snatch. Most places still took a combination of trading-goods and money, but the British pound was slowly going out of vogue, its value dwindling as less and less of it was available—and really, it wasn't of much use anymore, unless you had to start a fire. Tord was rather worried the money they had wouldn't be acceptable currency here anymore, that they might have to barter off the bat, or one of the two guns the Norwegian had hidden in his jacket, or, worse of all, some of their clothes. The bat, guns and their clothes were all they had other than about 40£ between them. That could get them a small pizza, maybe, or takeout for all of them, but that was just one meal. The worst part was, Tord couldn't decide if they ought buy enough food for all four of them or just enough for Matt and himself.

Matt interrupts his thoughts with a loud, "I'm going to buy some Chi!" The hand that was scratching his face flails about slightly, balled with excitement into a tight fist.

Tord glances at him out of the corner of his eye, a mite bit irritated by just how silly his friend could be. "Matt. We don't even know if they'll Chinese food."

"I'm betting they do." The Brit answers stubbornly, stuffing his hand back in his pocket and lifting the bat to rest on his shoulder. Tord eyes it, silently grateful for the fact that the both of them are armed. He knows Edd, despite his sweet and fluffy demeanor, can hold his own in a fight, as can Tom (unless he's drunk, )and they're also quite unlikely to run into anyone, anyways. At the same time... He was glad they had weapons.

"ph," Tord replies, rubbing his nose. He really isn't in the mood to argue, and wants to be left alone. Unfortunately for him, hardly anything ever goes the way Tord wants it to. That's just life.

Fast footsteps were heard behind them, growing in volume quickly. Tord's eyebrows shoot up, back straightening as if struck by lightning as all of his instincts scream worst-case scenarios at him; he and Matt turn in near-perfect sync, staring wide-eyed at the strangers approaching them. Clad in bizarre clothing, clashing garish colors with patches sewn at random odds-and-ends places, the duo dash straight for Matt and Tord; their eyes hold murder, and the guns they're raising are just as bloodthirsty. Tord reacts first, drawing both guns out of his pockets as he immediately moves to lunge sideways and out of the line of fire, screaming, "!" For once in his life, Matt does as he's told, immediately falling to his right, out of Tord's way. Gunshots ring out, echoing in the vast empty space, as the two strangers open fire earlier than Tord can. The red Norwegian dives behind a now-empty plant pot, using its cement surface as mild protection. Matt has already leapt behind a trash can; the two strangers seem more fixated on taking down Tord, maybe a bit too much—the one in the rear hardly notices the purple blur sneaking up behind them until it's too late. The bat comes down hard on their head, and they immediately crumple, their mismatched sneakers screaming where their mouths fall silent, eyes rolling back into their skulls as their jaw goes slack. Blood splashes across tile when their face connects with the floor, nose instantly shattering on the unforgiving stones; their partner whirls around, only a foot or so away from the fallen one, and slashes diagonally across the air with the hand not training a gun on the Norwegian's hiding spot. Matt and Tord cry out at the same time, Tord shouting his friend's name as Matt clutches an arm and ducks backwards, almost dropping the bat. A gunshot rings out, burning through the air, as Matt falls squarely on his ass, letting go of the bat and clapping a hand to the cut on the side of his arm, already oozing blood and ruining his jacket even more. Sniffling, the ginger Brit shifts position, clutching his arm to try and stop the flow of blood, as Tord slithers out from behind the plant pot, eyes wild with alarm. "Matt, are you okay?"

Matt looks up at his red-clad friend as Tord kneels down to look at the wound. "Y-Yeah, I think so," he answers in a meek tone, looking a bit embarrassed. "Help me up?"

"Sure," Tord grabs Matt's bloodied hand and carefully hefts him up, leaning back down again to grab the bat as well. Almost as an afterthought, Tord rolls over the stranger Matt knocked out and rifles through their pockets, pulling out some ammunition, a thin roll of bandages, and a few PowerBars. Smiling to himself, the Norwegian stuffs his own jacket pockets with his newfound bounty, already stepping over the first body to poke at the second.

The ginger Brit watches him uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot. He's never liked this part of meeting new people, the fighting and the chaos and, lastly, the stealing, but he's only voiced that concern , and it didn't go well...

Flashback...

The ginger stands up, brushing the dust off his already-dirty jeans, frowning sadly at their faded blue hue, ruined by so many months of hiking through the forests and overgrown suburbs of England, torn and patched and torn yet again. They'd run into group of unfriendly assholes, fortunately this time as unarmed as them. Naturally, Tord's guns had won out against their enemy's lone nail-laced bat. The other three wouldn't have had to lift a finger if it weren't for one rather fast, rollerblade-wearing young girl making a beeline for Tom—who's drunk —and trying to knock him out. Luckily Edd has better reflexes than a drunk Tom, and intercepted said speedy girl, knocking her out with sheer brute force. Matt hadn't done much but get knocked to the ground for being in the way, something he's pretty grateful for, because if he doesn't get involved there's no chance anyone could hit his pretty, pretty face.

Looking around, he sees Edd poking a nasty bruise around Tom's eye...socket? Eye? Who knows. Matt's never had the courage to ask. In any case it looks like the rollerblade kid got one good shot in before Edd could come to the rescue, and Tom's too intoxicated to even feel it, waving off his brown-haired friend's concern with a drunken, "Ah'm , Edddd! 'S jusss' a scra'chh," and a broad grin. Better him than me, Matt thinks, turning his focus elsewhere again.

Tord is doing something to one of the bodies, crouched beside it, and muttering to himself. Curious, he approaches his Norwegian friend; "Tord, what are you doing?"

His red-hoodied friend starts, turning around. "What does it like I'm doing?" He drawls, giving Matt an are-you-stupid? look. Turning back round, he resumes what he was doing before, this time under the watchful ginger's duotone eyes.

"Ummm..." He thinks aloud, blinking. Tord turns another one's pockets inside out, and something clicks; Matt frowns, upset a little. "It looks like you're from them!"

"No shit, Sherlock." Matt can practically Tord rolling his eyes. Stepping over one of the bodies, Tord leans down to pilfer through another person's pockets, pulling out a few packages of food, and some cash; satisfied, the Norwegian moves on, and Matt watches mutely for a few moments, the gears of his brain slowly grinding along. Edd and the drunk Tom he supports make their way over as well, coming to a standstill beside Matt, also watching Tord work. Tom squints down at the Norwegian, then starts giggling.

"H-He called Matt... ," Tom snickers not-too-quietly to Edd, hiccuping in his friend's face. "Matt. He called—"

"," Edd shushes him, squeezing Tom tightly; in response, Tom wheezes as the air leaves his lungs, and peace is temporarily restored until Matt finally figures out what to say.

"Isn't that," he starts, thinking carefully, "?"

This time, the whole group stops to stare at him. Tom is the first to break, of course, his inebriated brain having little to no self-control, and by the time Tord and Edd can even think of reacting he's bent double with laughter. Confused, Matt looks over at the drunk blue-clad Brit, as Edd sighs, running a hand down his face.

"Matt," He says, "I don't want to you or anything, but we're not...exactly..." The green-hooded man trails off, trying to figure out a way to explain this clearly enough that Matt will understand it.

"Ah, knulle skyld, they're !" Tord gripes. "What the are they gonna need this stuff for now?"

Matt pales. "Oh, I didn't think about that..." He gulps.

"Er, actually, Tord, that one—" Edd points to the rollerblade-girl, "—isn't dead."

Tord lifts his gun again, and Matt covers his eyes with a squeak. "Well, sh—"

Luckily for the girl, Edd has fast reflexes.

Matt blinks, suddenly aware that someone is talking to him. "Sorry, wot?" He asks of Tord, who stares up at him with a worried look on his face.

"I , is your arm going to be alright?" The red-hooded man holds up the thin little bandage roll. "We should probably wrap it up at least." Matt mutely lifts the arm, looking at it for the first time; it's his right arm, the one he swung the bat with. The gash traces from the inner side of the crook of his elbow down the side of his arm, almost to his wrist, the wound much deeper there. There's already scabs crusted over the shallowest bits, but the deeper parts still ooze fresh blood; Tord winces sympathetically, tugging Matt's violet sleeve up over his elbow to see the injury properly, unraveling the the bandage spool carefully. There isn't much left of it, so they need to avoid tearing it at all costs. "Banne, he got you pretty good, didn't he?" The Norwegian grimaces, starting to wrap the bandage around the ginger's arm.

"Ow!" Matt yelps, flinching involuntarily and trying to pull his arm back, tears threatening to fall at the corners of his eyes. "Tord, that !"

"Of it hurts," Tord snaps a bit tiredly. "You've been cut. Stop being such a ," he sighs in a reprimanding tone, though after Matt's outburst he does his best to be gentle. Tord isn't exactly Mr. Bedside Manner, and he's definitely a doctor or a nurse—hell, he's probably not even the quality of a public school nurse. Edd's always been the Mom Friend of the group, and Tord sorely wishes they hadn't decided to split up. Edd would know what to do. But Edd isn't here and Tord has to make do with what little skills he has; in a short while, Matt's arm is more or less bandaged, and he isn't even sniffling anymore. "There you go," Tord says to no one in particular, stuffing the remaining gauze back into his pocket.

"Wow," Matt marvels at his arm, twisting it, testing his mobility. "Thanks, Tord!"

"'S nothing," his friend answers cheerfully, scratching his nose. "We should probably get going if we want to make it there and back in time, and not leave Edd and Tom waiting for us."

"Okay!" Matt answers, his face once again a radiant mask of sunshiney happiness.

————————————————————————

"Are you that's a good idea, Tom?" Edd asks dubiously, peering around his short and very grumpily sober friend.

", Edd," Tom snarls, growling intensely as he struggles to lift the gate blocking the restaurant's entrance. "This is a idea." Wheezing, he gives up, and the metal grate slams down on the tile, falling the whole three inches he'd managed to lift it. Twisting to glower at his green-clad friend, he snaps, "Are you going to help or what?!"

Edd sighs, then steps up beside Tom, crouching down to reach the bottom of the gate. Wrapping his hands around the convenient handles sticking out of it, he tenses, then looks over at Tom, who's also in a ready position, his own hands wrapped around a set of handles. "On three," Edd tells him, and he nods, light hair bouncing with the movement. "One... Two... Three!" The two men strain and groan, the gate slowly lifting with a lot of protesting on both ends. Edd shuffles closer to the gate, lifting it above his waist, trying to put his back into it; for a moment, the hinges seem to falter for a second, halting their progress, and the two whine irritably in unison, muscles trembling, but eventually the gate starts moving again, and once the two have it balanced on their shoulders, Tom looks over at Edd.

"On three," he says with a smirk; Edd nods, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. "One... Two... !" They shove the gate up in near-perfect unison, lunging forward and into the empty restaurant, just barely escaping being smashed by the gate crashing down at their heels. For a long moment, they lie facedown on the floor, gasping for air, until Tom rolls over and shoves himself into an upright position, still panting, while Edd stays on the floor like a beached whale. Eventually, the black-eyed man stands, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of a hand; looking down, he wheezes out, "Hey, Edd."

His friend rolls over, making a noise that sounds like it could be a "What?" or something similar, so Tom stretches out his arm.

"Need a hand?" He offers, and Edd smiles thankfully, grabbing hold of it and letting Tom help him up.

"Thanks, man," he says, looking around the rather dark restaurant.

"No problem." Tom lets go, surveying their surroundings as well; most of the tables and chairs are still standing, but a few have been upended, a chair or two broken. Nothing major, but enough to let them know they aren't the first people to pass through. Stepping towards the cash registers, barely visible in the darkness of the shop, whose power is clearly beginning to fail, since the lights flicker eerily, Tom quietly nudges aside some furniture. Edd takes a bit more time to look around, brightening up when he notices a soda machine practically wedged into a corner. As Tom climbs over the counter to get to whatever the place might have hidden away, Edd makes a beeline for the machine, hope radiating off him. The man in the green hoodie bounces up to the machine, suddenly filled with newfound energy, and a little squeak of delight escapes him when he sees the familiar red-and-white logo of his favorite drink company. Glancing left then right, he reaches for one of the cups sitting on the counter beside the machine, then promptly fills the cup—

—with air. He frowns, trying again, but the machine just utters an apologetic cough. With a scowl, Edd drops the cup, then stomps on it, frustrated. "Aww..." He whines, wilting, good mood vanishing. On the other side of the store, he hears a frightful crash, and a familiar voice cursing; with a sigh, Edd goes over to the store counter. "Tooooooooom?" He calls, peering around. The black eyed-man must have gone further into the store, because Edd can't see him. "You okaaaayyy?"

More swearing, and then a muffled "'M fine, Edd!" from somewhere in the depths of the restaurant. After a short bit, Tom shuffles into view, wringing his hoodie out, the reek of alcohol overwhelming even from far away.

"Whoa!" Edd coughs, covering his nose as his friend smiles in an embarrassed way. "The hell'd you do, in it?"

"I dropped a bottle...or two...and it broke," Tom replies a bit sheepishly, finally giving up on wringing out his jacket, "aaaand then I...slipped and fell in it..."

"Yeah, I could piece that togeth—" he interrupts himself as Tom begins to try and clamber over the counter again, Edd's expression turning from mildly disgusted to firm and almost parental as he plants one hand firmly on the blue-hooded man's chest and pushes him backwards. "No, , go back and try to find a side door that leads out here, do NOT try to climb over the counter."