If travel is searching.And home has been found.I'm not stopping



A mottled grey sky dampened the city like a cloth smothering flames. People retreated indoors, and curtains were drawn as the lights inside flickered on. A thin, misty drizzle coated everything in a fine layer of water, making the concrete and the cobble stones glisten and dirty puddles swirled at the edge of the road. A young man of seventeen years walked slowly down The Lanes, one gloved hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette. His dark burgundy hair was frizzy and wet, plastered to his thin cheeks and the back of his neck. Yawning slightly, he tossed away the cigarette and rubbed his shadowed eyes. Another night had passed with no sleep.

The boy didn’t look too bothered by the rain, and he wandered aimlessly as he lit another cigarette and drew on it like it was breathing air. Black metal piercings glittered in his eyebrow and nose, and black and white striped socks flashed through the rips in his baggy burgundy trousers. Teal braces rested against his thighs, bumping against his legs as he walked slowly along The Lanes. He stopped to look longingly into several shop windows, but his stomach clenched in hunger every time he thought of scraping together money to buy something new. He passed a music store; he nonchalantly picked a CD off of a rack outside, and slipped it into his back pocket. No one paid him a second glance. He was just another one of those homeless kids that caused trouble because they had nothing better to do. No one ever did anything about the growing number of kids on the streets. Old grannies and granddads just liked to complain about them to each other, never bothering to get off their fat old asses to do something about it.

Unable to keep up his unfazed façade any longer, the young man turned into a coffee shop and sat at a table near the back. Pulling off his tatty gloves, he ran a hand through his bedraggled hair. It had been nearly two months since he last dyed his hair, and the black roots were prominent. Closing his sharp blue eyes for a while, he leant back against the chair and almost seemed to doze off. The door slammed as someone hurried in, and he was jolted from his daydream. Leaning his elbows against the table, he propped up his chin with both hands and sighed, reaching out for a packet of brown sugar. Shaking it, he then tore it open and tipped back the whole contents of the little bag into his mouth, sucking on the sugar thoughtfully.

After only a few minuets of sitting still, he started bouncing his leg up and down on the ball of his foot, his nervous energy begging to be released. He was on his third packet of brown sugar, and the sole worker at the counter was glaring at him irritably (it was a Thursday afternoon, not many people came to the shop at that time of day, so staff were cut down to bare minimum). There was a lot on the boy’s mind. The most prominent thought was how useless he felt. He was only seventeen, and he’d been a down and out since he was twelve. Was this any way to live his life? He didn’t feel opposed to it … he didn’t really see himself getting too far with only prep school education. He liked stealing and begging, it made him feel alive. It was like the rush that a skydiver got when his feet touched the ground. A rush of adrenaline that was almost as good as when you first slide the needle into the vein in your arm to inject a drug you’d been saving up for, for weeks.


I'm going hunting.I'm the hunter.I'll bring back the goods.But i don't know when

Graffiti yawned again, and after a fifth packet of sugar, he crossed his arms and laid his head down on the table. It was the most comfortable place he’d rested in for days. He heard the door open and heard the hollow sound of someone walking across the wooden floor, but he paid no mind to it. He was revelling in the slightly sick feeling in his stomach and the warmth that dried his cold, wet skin and clothes. He breathed deeply, his sleeve pressed against his nostrils. It smelt musty and slightly smoky. He wouldn’t be surprised if his clothes were slightly mouldy. He hardly ever took them off and never changed. The only time the young man got to wash was in a sink in a public toilet, and only then it was infrequent. He had to wait till late, but not so late that they had been locked for the night, or people would barge in when he was standing in his undies trying to get as try as possible under the hand drier.

Shivering slightly as a cold dribble of water rolled down his bony back, he glanced up. His wet burgundy hair tickled the back of his neck and he scratched at it irritably. His eyes were hooded tiredly, but he didn’t fail to notice a Southerner boy sitting on the next table over. Graffiti couldn’t quite think who it was, so he didn’t make a motion to talk to him. Gang hostilities were running strong at the moment, and he couldn’t risk getting in a fight when he wasn’t even on anyone’s side. Some gang members despised Graffiti, because there had been some stupid rumour going round that he wanted to become ‘king of the city’ or something pathetic like that. In all, it was probably just the Northerners trying to get everyone to hate him so they could more easily take control of the Train Station.

Glancing behind him as a flash of paranoia flared in his mind, he sighed and cursed himself silently, before ripping open a sixth sugar packet. The person at the counter looked like they were about to tear their - or Graffiti’s - hair out at any moment, so the young man stood up like he was going to leave as he tipped back the sugar. Instead, he walked casually towards Talon’s table and sat down without looking at him. With his head tipped downwards, his hair fell in his face, and a smirk grew on his face. He’d just recognized the younger boy.
“Afternoon, Talon,” he said formally, looking up and giving the black haired boy a stiff smile. He wasn’t really in the mood to be friendly - he never was - so he opted to being formal. He hated the Gangs’ way of live, but he tried to act as polite to them as possible. Sighing, he reached for the first brown sugar packet at this table, glancing at the table he’d just left where there was a small pile of ripped up sugar packets.

Graffiti licked the end of his finger and stuck it in the sugar packet, popping it into his mouth and repeating. He liked eating sugar. It gave him a quick boost, and he stole as much as he could when he left.
“No. I don’t suppose you have,” he said, looking at Talon like he was looking through him. Tiring of eating his sugar slowly, he tipped back the last of it, and screwed up the packet into a ball before tossing it over his shoulder. Cracking his knuckles, he then folded his arms on the table and leant forwards slightly.
“I don’t care much for meddling in Southern affairs, but I wonder…Are you lot still bickering with the Northerners over the boarder between Kings Road and Marine Drive?” his voice brought on a casual tone, and he glanced around quickly in case there was anyone else watching. The coffee shop was empty however, and he turned back to smirk slightly at Talon.

Being on neutral grounds with everybody had its advantages - you could easily have a broad idea of everything happening in the city - but it also had its down sides. Being a nosy little gossip whore like Graffiti could land you in a whole load of shit if you didn’t keep your knowledge to yourself, and the Gangs had mighty big egos and hated it that people outside the Gangs knew what was going on. It was important for Graffiti to know if Northerner’s attention was still directed towards the junction - it was no man’s land right now, but neither Gang would let the other have it. If the Northerners had lost interest in their bicker with the Southerners, he knew it would only be a matter of time before they started muscling in on the train station.
“I’m sure you’d hate to see them get their dirty paws on the Train Station as much as I would,” he said, looking sombre. His bedraggled burgundy hair and the dark rings under his eyes only emphasised this look, as did his thin wrists that were just visible past his sleeves.

His stomach growled in hunger, and he sighed. Eying the cooler near the counter which was full of sandwiches and fizzy drinks, he formed a plan in his mind to try and nab a few. His clear blue eyes lighting up as he hatched a plan, he reached for the sugar. This time, however, instead of tipping it down his throat, he poured it onto the table and chased the fine white grains around with his finger. He then ripped up the paper bag it had been in and mixed it in.
“Make a mess,” he murmured almost incoherently to Talon, and picked up one of those mini milk cartons, drank the milk then put the empty pot upside down on top of the sugar. If they made enough of a mess, they could tell the worker at the counter that they needed to wipe it down, and nab some sandwiches whilst they were busy. Graffiti hoped Talon would cotton on, and not just think he was a nutter.

Talon’s rather passionate reply to his query made him grin like a warped scientist. The Northerners were too busy with their age old rivalry with the Southerners to pay too much mind to Graffiti and the Outsiders.
“Well they can bloody well carry on as they are,” he said, his voice taught. He knew that one wrong word, one hint of favour to any Gang, and he’d have his guts strewn on the floor. However, he decided that Talon was hardly much of a threat (unless you were a packet of sugar), so Graffiti was comfortable with being a total git to him.

It amused the burgundy haired boy at how much the Gangs liked to bicker about nothing in particular. Because, seriously, the Southerners and Northerners were on the brink of gun war over a small T junction that didn’t actually belong to either of them. It wasn’t even that strategic. There weren’t any places to easily steal from, no alleys to sleep in; it was just a bit of road. The Gangs only needed the tiniest little thing to set them off, and they’d be killing each other in the blink of an eye. Gun shots hadn’t rung through the air for quite a few months, and nerves were running thin. It was only a matter of time.

Graffiti was a guy of little expressions, his predominant one being exhausted and smirking coming a close second, but when Talon started to cotton on to his idea, he smiled eagerly. After making a considerably disgusting looking pile in the middle of the table, he picked up a coffee stirrer and spread it out, even pushing some off the edge of the table. He snapped the stick in half in one hand, and stood up abruptly, waving lazily for Talon to follow.

Leaning against the counter, he gave the girl working there a roguish grin, and nodded towards the messy table.
“You might want to clean that up, I heard when you mix sugar and milk it gets pretty stubborn,” he smirked, and the girl gave him a deathly glare. Picking up a damp cloth, he walked over to the table and started wiping it up carefully. Grabbing Talons wrist - in the least gay way possible, heavens forbid Talon got that idea - Graffiti dragged him towards the cooler, and nabbed a handful of sandwiches and a bottle of water.

Not waiting to see if Talon was coming, he spun on his heals and raced towards the door, barging through with his shoulder. He nearly bowled over an elderly couple as he legged it down the street, feeling his blood thumping hard in his ear drums. It was still drizzling, and he slipped and skidded on the wet pavement as he rounded a corner and slumped against the wall. Sliding down the wet wall, he dropped the stolen food into his lap, panting hard as he tried to regain his breath.

Without thinking twice or paying any thought to Talon - who still hadn’t appeared - he ripped off the cap from the bottle of water and tipped it back thirstily. After downing nearly half the bottle, he replaced the cap and put it down carefully between his legs. He then counted the sandwiches he’d nabbed. His face lit up, he had managed to carry four of them. They were those Panini things that you gave to the person behind the counter to warm up and made the cheese melt and make brown lines down them. Graffiti couldn’t care less if they were fucking grilled and melted or not. It was food. A proper meal, that would keep him going for a whole day.

Laying back his head, feeling the delirious rush that you got after stealing something, he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, and lit it. Puffing on the cigarette hungrily, he waited for Talon to turn up. If he didn’t show his emo little face soon, Graffiti would leave him for caught, and go. It wasn’t like they were friends. They just used each other as a way to steal a quick few meals for their Gang - although Graffiti refused to call the Outsiders a proper gang. In truth, Graffiti couldn’t really care less for Talon. He was just an annoying Southerner who he was competing with for food. Like wild animals. And just like wild animals, the street kids had almost animalistic instincts. Right now, Graffiti’s instincts were telling him to bring the food he’d stolen back to the Train Station. However, he had a dirty trick up his sleeve, and needed to wait a bit longer for Talon to catch up with him.

Graffiti had restrained himself from tearing into the food whilst he waited for Talon. Instead, his idea grew into a plan, and he tensed himself up to execute said plan. Placing his stolen food down beside himself, his whole body tensed up as he waited for the younger boy to re-appear. Whilst he waited, he wondered if what he was going to do was right. He bent one knee up and rested his arm on it, looking casual. In fact, he was going to use the bent leg to push off from. It’d take less time that way. Slipping his hand slowly into his pocket, he threaded his fingers through a pair of metal knuckle dusters. They were cold against his hot skin, adrenaline filled blood pulsing in his veins. He knew that he would have to do this as quickly as possible - he had the element of surprise - or the adrenaline would wear off and make it harder.

Talon skidded round the corner, and Graffiti tensed up even more, his neck stiff and his eyes unnaturally wide. He was an animal - a hunter waiting to pounce on its prey. Pushing off with his cocked leg, he straddled Talon and lashed out with an arm, pushing his chest against the wall.
“Hand it over,” his voice was harsh and commanding, and a thin smirk grew on his face as he poised his hitting hand ready to strike. The metal knuckle dusters glinted with moisture, and his eyes narrowed menacingly.
“Come on! I haven’t got all day, dick head,” he snapped, glancing around nervously. People would notice the confrontation before long, and he wanted to be out of here soon as possible if he had to knock out the kid.

He felt kind of bad for Talon, but they weren’t exactly friends, and Graffiti’s instincts told him this was the right thing to do. There were plenty of Outsiders he felt he owed some support to. They were young and inexperienced, and most had only been away from home for a few months. Graffiti wanted to look after his ‘pack’ and that meant fighting with the enemy. He’d only helped Talon because he knew that he could easily over power him - unless he decided to produce a gun or suddenly reveal he was a black belt in karate - and take his food. It was just the game they played. Hit or get hit.