The gray mist settled like a carpet over weed infected pavements and pathways.
Over head, the sky was hidden by a thick layer of clouds, clouds that attacked a figure with bullets of cold water as he ran through the streets of the carnaged world. Broken and worn converse trainers beating a tattoo against pavements, their blue colour darkening from absorbing the rain and puddles.
Tightened around his neck for extra protection against the chilling English weather and possible identification was a fifthy blue hoodie, his eyes bluer than the pigment of his hooded jumper only just visible through the small gap the tightened hood gave for vision. A pink nose poked out, it's surface smooth from the cold and wet rain. After running more than he can handle, he stopped to take a breather behind a skip. His pause heighted his awareness of the danger he was in. Careful to keep the sleeves of his hood firmly over the tips of his fingers, he rubbed his nose and began running at full pelt once more. It is only a mile from home and the thought of one of his brothers at home with a welcoming cup of tea urged him on.
Lower down, over his legs are torn up jeans barely protecting the soft, pale flesh of his knees that have the fading signs of grazes from tumbles past.
He didn't run as fast as he wanted to have. He reached another mile before a white landrover crashed around the corner in tow of several dozen others- their aim set on the running teen. As a attempt at diversion, he had cut off down a dusty path leading to what he believed was the town wreck and with a adrenalin inducing amount of hope, he glanced back to see if he was being followed.
With a smile and a exhausted laugh he realized he was not being persued. With this in mind, he slowed and clutched his side, still careful not to show his hands just in case there were Standards near-by: the park is empty, the children's play swings needed a good oiling as they screamed in protest when he sat own on one of the seats. The CCTV camera hidden in the tree covered fence taking in every detail of the exhausted teen.
With a long sigh and a light chuckle he threw his head back. A smile graced his lips through dog-like pants as the cold rain hits his face. His hood fell back and his mop of water sodden hair was explosed, revealing his pale, impish features for the hidden camera to take in every tiny detail. He is no older than eighteen but anyone could mistake him for a handful of years younger.
As the thrill wore off, Louis become more aware of how quiet it was. It was almost as if-
Barely even a mile away a young man in his mid-twenties, perhaps twenty-five, taps his fingertips on a table top. The sound this action makes is not what fingertips usually made for the man's fingers had no nails but instead had metal scales on the underside of his fingers were the prints should have been: the silvery metal hitting the plastic worktop with a clear clanging sound.
"He really should be back by now" James commented, pausing his tapping to look over at his elder brother who was lounged on their battered and faded sofa.
The caravan they live in is situated in a field once owned by their father, land which Andrew now techniqually owned if Wilds were actually permitted to own land. To say their home is a caravan is a weak term: it is more broken and battered than anything else within a thiry mile radius, there are more holes leeking with water than they had buckets and for people with very little belongings their cramped, dim home was surprisingly cluttered.
From somewhere, source unknown, there is a strong smell of mould and the distinct smell of three men living together with only enough water to cook with and wash once a week each.
Andrew is older than James at twenty-nine but somewhat more laid back about their younger brother's absense "I'm sure he's fine"
James muttered something and continued his tapping, his metal scales seeming to beat out a tune that both men knew but could not place. The beat is lost once more when James starts to hit his hands down on the table with growing irritation and worry.
"What if someone saw his hands?" James barked, taking the moment to push his glasses back onto his nose from where they had been knocked away in his rough turn to face Andrew "It's only a trip to the bloody vegetable plot... I should have gone! Or better yet, you could have gone-"
Andrew looked up from his chosen literature, the title of Arabic language "James"
The tone silences the younger man but does not quell the gitters. To save himself from tapping, James ran his hands through his dark hair: he always kept his shorter than Louis or Andrew and noted in the back of his mind that he needed to get the razor out on both his hair and his developing beard.
Irritated, James then scrubbed his hands over his torn jeans, they were in better condition than Louis' ever had been, and spun around on the bar stool to face Andrew again- his mouth opens and closes several times unable to believe his elder brother's attitude.
"You could at least act like you care"
"Of course I care-"
"I'm not saying you don't, it would just be nice if you showed it" James snapped back, not letting Andrew finish "What if Louis has been found? He's a Triangle, that means he's going to get experimended on no doubt for weaponry... or... or he could just be dead! You know how dangerous he can be, I- Oh god..."
Andrew's blue eyes snap up, noting the change in his brother's voice instantly. This tone is not just the irritated and gittery concern than James had twittered on with for the last hour, no, this was a tone than Andrew had come to dread. This time the Arabian book was put away back onto a pile of books written in a multitude of languages.
"What if..." James whispered, his shoulders crawling into themselves and his head ducking. Quickly he rips his glasses off and rubs his eyes "What if he's Turned?"
Andrew frowned, shaking his head "No, not Louis-"
"That's what you said about Maddy! And look where she is: in prison for killing seven Standards and two Wilds" James moaned, his metal scales clinking together as his nervously wrung his hands "We all Turn at some point... what if Louis has Turned and... Oh god, we might not-"
James is not permitted to say more as a book written entirely in Japanese is thrown at his head with admirable aim. Sky blue eyes meet with his brother's sky blue eyes as they mutually agree to discard that scenario and concentrate on the other things.
The tallest and eldest man stood up to his full height, having to tilt his head and finch when a drizzle of cold water runs down from a crack in the plastic ceiling before sitting down on a bar stool beside James and place a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"If he has been Taken, we will find him... If he's Turned then it's the same thing, we will find him and keep him safe until he has Reverted- on the other hand, if he bursts through that door with fists full of potatoes for our dinner then I'll beat him to a pulp for making us worry so much" Andrew grinned.
James allowed a single chuckle, unable to shake the feeling of fear. The heavy, pressured feeling in his chest that he may never see his younger brother again.