castadrift | Open to all

Of all the things Drake expected to be doing over Spring Break, playing Treasure Island is the one thing that hadn't crossed his mind. As he follows the trail of A's back to the beginning, he feels a perverse need to alter a few of them to B's, C's, and of course, D's. He doesn't, though, for giving in to the small urges only makes way for bigger lapses later, and he's not about to traverse that route. Not unless the gain far outweighs the risk. He snorts, inwardly, for that factor is the main one he used to decide on this early trip to Australia. The gain outweighed the risk, was was he'd thought, and now look at him. He's stuck on an island searching for running water and writing FOLLOW THE A'S on a beach.

Alfred seems alright though, which is a plus. Most people would be panicking in that situation, but the Brit seems to have a sensible head on his shoulders. No histrionics there.

When Drake breaks out of the trees, he's almost surprised to realise how much the leafy canopy had been protecting him from the sun's glare. The heat hits him hard, and its with a muted sigh that he realises he's going to be red as a lobster within a day or two without sunblock available. Damn plane restrictions.

He stops at a clear part of the beach, the bit he'd found Alfred on. A few more bits of flotsam have washed up, and so he takes the time to harry what he can reach together. There's no way on earth he's going back into the water, so his discoveries are limited to a few soggy looking packets of what looks to be food, and another first aid kit. Someone's carry-on appears to be lodged in a sandbank, too, but it's a small distance away. It can wait.

Taking his stick, he digs the tip into the sand, making the scraped out shape as deep as he can so it won't immediately fill itself in.

FOLLOW THE A'S - WATER

If the tides are washing things up there, he should probably repeat the message a few times along the same beach. With that in mind, he kicks off his shoes and moves off towards the abandoned carry-on.

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Strangely enough, Adam is perfectly calm. He's no idea how long since he swam to shore, but his legs still ache and the cotton in his mouth is getting harder to breathe around. Still, he wanders the beach looking for other survivors. He heard voices earlier, but couldn't cry out to them. It's a funny thought: all it took was a plane crash to shut him up.

He doesn't really wonder why he's so calm. He understands what happens when he's overstimulated. He could cry, wail, curse god or fate or a drunk pilot. He could scream at the top of his lungs for help. He could just lie there in the sand until the seagulls and crabs ate him. It's hard to muster the energy to be hysterical when you've got so many things to be hysterical about. Instead, he's almost catatonic.

Waving the collar of his wet shirt, Adam notices the boy dragging a stick in the sand. He hadn't thought of doing that... As he gets closer and reads the message, a smile lights up his face. Water! Maybe he was wrong, maybe he should be looking on the bright side. He's alive! He's alive and there's water! When he feels himself getting ready to let out a cheer, his smile dies. Just one more thing to be hysterical about...

"You found water?" he askes, voice raspy and flat. Of course he found water, why would anyone lie about that? Unless they were a cannibal luring survivors to a big, bubbling pot. Still means water. Shaking some of the sand from his hair, Adam looks around. "I could help? Where'd you get that stick?"

The sound of babbling interrupts Drake's self-imposed reverie, and it takes him a moment to truly understand someone's talking to him. He lifts his head, dragging his eyes over the newcomer. It's no surprise that he looks like he's been through hell - they all have, haven't they? Today is not the time for sarcasm or rudeness, for now he has no idea who has the skills they all need to survive.

"Just over in the trees," he says. "If you follow the marks on the bark it'll take you to the river we found." By now Alfred will have the fire going, too. Having said that, Drake straightens his back and looks up and down the beach. He's marked three areas, now, evenly spaced between the ends of the beach he can see. "Did you come in on this beach, or is there another the tide hits?"

He looks towards the trees, suddenly not as willing to help. Who knows what's out there? The beach feels safer; if anything or anyone is coming at you, you'll be able to spot it in time. Out in the jungle, they're sitting ducks. Sitting parrots. Whatever this crazy place has.

"We?" he asks, eyes widening. So there are others! Oh, thank goodness! This guy doesn't seem bad by a sight, but, well, it'll be nice to have some variety for however long they're marooned here.

Glancing over his shoulder, Adam points at a distant bed of sand. "Over there. I, um, I swam, though. Tide's a, well," he smiles awkwardly, "A major b-word."

It must be nerves, Drake decides, making the man waffle so much - really, who says 'b-word' these days? Alfred did it, and now it must be Adam's turn. Well, if it's just the three of them, this guy can waffle with that guy, and Drake can do what Drake does best: listen, or ignore. They'll all be dead soon enough, so who cares.

"It is," he says, simply. On that, they agree, although Drake will go so far as to include the entire ocean in the assessment - not just the ocean, the plane, and the pilot, and Drake really hopes he's dead, because the island is going to be full of people who hate him. "Show me the beach," he asks, then, because if the tide's pulling the deposits over there, there could be survivors coming in that way too.

We! Where's the 'WE?' response? Adam hopes this guy hasn't starting coming up with imaginary friends already and so lets the question drop. But we means people. We means survivors.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, this way." He starts walking, glancing back far too often to make sure that Drake is still there, that he's still following. "I didn't see much when I came ashore, but-" Saying 'Hah, I'm a fricking fast swimmer' is a little inappropriate, considering they're as like to find bodies as bags on the beach. "Maybe something good's washed up since!"

Forcing a small smile, he draws back to walk beside Drake instead of leading him. "So... Where are you from?" It's a wince-worthy question, but the beach is a ways off. After so much silence, Adam is happy to be able to chatter again.

Drake's following, alright, and he's doing his level best to keep his tired feet from making any sound. It's not like he has to do that here, but years of ensuring he could overhear what his father was planning ahead of time meant plenty of sneaking around. It's not the same on an island, though, not with twigs and stones and babbling humans underfoot, and so in his mind he's making more noise than a thousand elephants. Do elephants exist on an island like this? Unlikely, but there'll be some animals here, surely.

"San Fran," he answers. It's a short answer, but then, the longer version would be, well, longer, and until Drake's had a great deal more to drink than a few gasped gulps at a river's edge, he isn't inclined to do much waffling. Besides, this guy seems like he can fill in any gaps. "Name's Drake. You?"

"Oh, Frisco? Nice place to be coming from!" His voice is getting louder now that he has something to focus on that doesn't involve fiery wreckage and a slow, painful death in the middle of nowhere. Adam locks his hands behind his back and smiles. "I've been there once! I don't remember it much. I think I saw... the Castro. Old Castro. It was gr-" He cuts himself off to jump over a piece of what he can only assume is fuselage. Slowing, Adam turns to stare at it.

"Adam..." he mumbles, eyes still on the wreckage.

Drake nods. Obviously he's familiar with the Castro district, nobody who lives in San Francisco can really avoid it. Officially he keeps out of the area, given the dispute between himself and his father, but the place is like a flame, and Drake's moth flutters back to it time and time again. Not now, he realises, and Adam's name is barely heard under the weight of the chunk of aeroplane lying sodden, broken and desolate on the ground.

Silence stretches, by inattention as much as choice. Another piece slots into the picture of how close they've come to dying, and Drake's teeth press subtly together, a clenching of the jaw letting the moment pass. It's uncharacteristic, but it's him who feels the need to speak first, because otherwise it's just him and the press of seawater in his head. "If we've survived, so have others," he decides, quietly. It's an optimistic thought, true, but if there are three of them who've walked away with nothing but a thorough drenching, then surely there must be others.

A resolute turn of his foot scrapes sand and puts an end to the moment, at least for him. He's filed the moment away to deal with when he's alone. "I'm Drake," he says.

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