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[color=Silver]	How more evident could it have been than in the first week; to see a young lad barely feel at home. It was pitiful, even by his own standards, to have drifted somewhat between people. One night, he had hung out with four lads, only to lose sight of them the next day. The following morn, he'd taken the side of a girl for the day, and soon found it hard to relate to anything she said at all. Not that it mattered, but that bothered her more than it did himself. It was a silent, cordial drift between people. It was nothing like schools before, where by that communal drive, groups formed by the first hour. Sure, they broke apart a few weeks down the line, or held against the test of time, but they were there. And across many other students, he saw them do such. But Franciszek hadn't experienced that in the academy. It was drifting, like the ships they held so close to their image.

	Icebreakers fell apart. People roamed classes. Introductions were often short but he saw them as without sweetness. It was a trove of awkward encounters. The reputations and know-hows of other students. Perhaps the other scholarship students, maybe even of similar background, would have been worth finding but even they were hard to spot. It was no great matter at first - it was a small academy, eventually he'd find [i]someone[/i]. But as days ticked by, one after the other, then it became troublesome, then loathsome, then agonisingly slow. Days were often just a series of work assignments and studying, then to appear in a small crowd, and then to be a stranger to them the following sunrise. And he kept telling himself that there was no chance it could continue, not at all. But it did, and often he gave his best shot at ignoring it as if it were the nature of the forest he'd stumbled his way into.

	The ocean made him a little nauseous, honestly. It was a large expanse. Sure, maybe Europe was across the other side, but it never felt close enough. Perhaps reading Moby Dick wasn't the smartest of choices before he'd arrived but, well, that was just how things were. That little cycle of pushing sensational experiences into his system, forever to find a niche of relation to latch onto.

	Not that he thought of it that way. He'd heard one psychology student say it once - the ones that used very large words that often flew over his head, even as an avid reader. They were fine, but a little heavy to work with. One of them had helped him move some boxes of textbooks back to his dorm. It was a kind gesture, but of course it was the last the two really spoke. By that point, Franciszek hadn't been too picky with his crowd, and that lacking connection had grown burdensome on his thoughts.

	In his room, there were still a few unpacked boxes and bags. Less of the essentials, actually. Spare clothes he hadn't worn yet. A few stationary kits. Books he'd not stacked on his shelves. A spare toothpaste tube, half spent. Honestly, looking at it, he asked himself why he hadn't just cleaned it. It would've taken a few minutes. Then again, it wasn't like it was mandatory. There was no real drive to do that. That first week had taken a toll of awkwardness that seemed to have inflicted change in his daily tidiness. Then again, it hadn't affected him to the point of ruin, so it was never treated as anything serious. He kept his uniform clean, and his health in check. It was a similar routine to back home, when there was incentive to have a routine.

	He was sat there, that night, when something slipped underneath his door. He heard the paper struggle to get through at first. It gave him time to react - to listen and watch the folded piece get pushed through underneath. But he remained on his seat whilst it was in motion. He didn't react or intercept it. It just acted, and he watched. In time, it eventually broke through, and he cautiously walked to the door, and slowly opened it. There was no one there by the time he had looked. Wasn't unexpected - the knock & bolt ways of students was still alive and well. He'd even done one himself on the first night. So all else there was to do was to look down at the paper, and he retrieved it with a quick swipe, then a study of its amphibious appearance.[/color]

[color=EEFF53][b]"Hmm..."[/b][/color] [color=silver]He hummed along to the unfolding creases. His thumb buried between the bolds and out came a message, and a printed guide. He was puzzled.[/color] [color=EEFF53][b]"The Dock...house? Bring towel?"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	He didn't sleep that much that night. Even so, he went out early in the morning, and sat on a bench between the main institution and dorms themselves. In his hand was the small paper frog, crudely folded back together. He'd memorised the message - a natural occurrence of rereading it the entire night. Sure the tiredness was in his eyes but he was more confused as to who would've sent him such a message. None of the groups he'd temporarily stayed with seemed avid dockgoers, in fact two had expressed great distaste for it. The frog folding was poor as he'd tried to reconstruct it, but it was close enough. The map, though, that was all he held onto. He looked at it. It didn't seem particularly unsafe but it wasn't exactly the prime area. And near enough to London, it was a daunting ask. But he sat there, on that bench, as time went by when the early morning feet shuffled by. He'd wait for some time.[/color]