He's blaming this on Granddad, Cassian decides, when he has the breath to think at all. On what grounds, he's not exactly sure, except that he wouldn't even be flying to New Zealand if in the misty legendary past Granddad hadn't moved from there to the States, where there was presumably more scope for his personal brand of whatever the fuck--
(So are these the relatives who were too smart to go chasing after Granddad, he'd asked, or the relatives so crazy even he ran away from them? and Rex had tilted his hand and shrugged, which he figured for a little of both.)
Rex--
Fuck.
Okay. First things first. Having dragged himself as far as the treeline, he peels off his sodden jacket and sits down to go through the pockets. He doesn't have everything he'll need, but what he does have seems mostly intact, which is a relief - there's waterproofing, and then there's prolonged immersion in the middle of the goddamn Pacific, but he's not thinking about that too hard right now, no.
To be fair, the fact that he has half a dozen water purification tabs zipped into his collar is probably also down to Granddad, ultimately. But still.
His phone, predictably, is toast. Cassian sticks it upright in the sand like its own tombstone, while he goes on with his inventory. The empty beach is surreally beautiful, like a painting in a psychiatrist's waiting room. He runs down checklists in his head, trying to concentrate on the information and not on the sense memory of pine needles underfoot and his dad's voice telling him--
It takes a lot of concentration, is the point. Enough that he doesn't pick up on someone approaching until they call out to him, at which point he stops thinking at all. He's on his feet, the phone in his hand because it's the only solid object in reach but the weight of it is better than nothing, the hard casing and the gritty places where the screen is cracked at the edges and it's the kid who was sitting in front of him on the plane, the guy with the glasses and the messy hair who'd been fussing with his own phone and Cassian breathes out, vision swimming a bit as he lets his arm fall to his side.
"Hey," he rasps, and collapses back into the sand.
no subject
(So are these the relatives who were too smart to go chasing after Granddad, he'd asked, or the relatives so crazy even he ran away from them? and Rex had tilted his hand and shrugged, which he figured for a little of both.)
Rex--
Fuck.
Okay. First things first. Having dragged himself as far as the treeline, he peels off his sodden jacket and sits down to go through the pockets. He doesn't have everything he'll need, but what he does have seems mostly intact, which is a relief - there's waterproofing, and then there's prolonged immersion in the middle of the goddamn Pacific, but he's not thinking about that too hard right now, no.
To be fair, the fact that he has half a dozen water purification tabs zipped into his collar is probably also down to Granddad, ultimately. But still.
His phone, predictably, is toast. Cassian sticks it upright in the sand like its own tombstone, while he goes on with his inventory. The empty beach is surreally beautiful, like a painting in a psychiatrist's waiting room. He runs down checklists in his head, trying to concentrate on the information and not on the sense memory of pine needles underfoot and his dad's voice telling him--
It takes a lot of concentration, is the point. Enough that he doesn't pick up on someone approaching until they call out to him, at which point he stops thinking at all. He's on his feet, the phone in his hand because it's the only solid object in reach but the weight of it is better than nothing, the hard casing and the gritty places where the screen is cracked at the edges and it's the kid who was sitting in front of him on the plane, the guy with the glasses and the messy hair who'd been fussing with his own phone and Cassian breathes out, vision swimming a bit as he lets his arm fall to his side.
"Hey," he rasps, and collapses back into the sand.