Although the story had yet to be picked up by the press, a historical event had already occurred earlier that morning: Constance Holloway had arrived early. Before the late reporter had been dropped to the ocean below, before the crew had taken the lift down, even before the bureaucrats had unlocked the office doors, the founder of H.H. Industries had been waiting outside of the DOC between the small mountain that was her “essential” luggage. Constance was a firm believer in the idea of being fashionably late; she had even shown up to her last birthday party three hours late (and then left thirty minutes later, much to the dismay of her guests). It was a power play, a way of showing one’s supposed importance without directly stating it. 

However, excitement and giddiness had gotten the better of her on the eve of their departure, and she had left her hotel suite before the gold beams of the raising sun had broken through the dark storm clouds. She had passed the hours by smoking cigarettes, fussing with her hair, and peering through the front doors to look for a clerk to let her in. It had all been dreadfully exhaustive, but any weariness that had begun to creep up on her was struck down when she heard the click of the front door unlocking.

Constance was informed by some pencil pusher trying to make a living for himself that she would have to wait until the majority of the crew and passengers had arrived before they descended on the lift. She informed him that it was absolutely critical that she be the first one to arrive at the bottom. He told her that was impossible; the lift would not move until the others had arrived. She laughed, and said that was good, because she wanted to take the Drop anyway; much more exciting. Again, he tried to claim that it could not be done, mumbling some excuse about the Captain. She clarified her previous statement: it was absolutely critical for his career that she be the first one to arrive at the bottom. Perhaps she mentioned knowing Rick Garrloch, and how disappointed he would be to hear the rough time his friend had been given on her way to [i]his[/i] boat. 

Of course, the word “friend” was a bit of a stretch, but how could the poor man had known that? This is assuming any of this had happened, obviously. Constance would say that the nice gentleman at the door had been sweet enough to let her ride the Drop as soon as possible, and he would confirm her story if he knew what was good for him. Irregardless, minutes after the doors had opened, the self-styled world traveller found herself careening to the sea with her hair flipping wildly about and her stomach in her throat. If an excited hoorah escaped from her throat, it was stuffed back in her gaping trap as her blurred vision corrected itself. Copper eyes reflected gold over blue; the first clear sunrise of Constance’s life, accented by the steel behemoth of human ingenuity that was the UIS Garrloch. Constance wasn’t certain which of the two, the scenery or the ship, that was more beautiful. She decided to call it a draw.

A few dockhands were around, but they had been too busy with their duties to pay the woman much of a mind. The gangplank had yet to be put up, so Constance sat cross-legged on the edge of the dock and studied the horizon beyond her. It seemed absolutely endless. A cool breeze crossed over the water, hitting her with the unfamiliar smell of ocean air; it was nothing like the putrid smell of pollution and tourism that came off of Lake Marum when the breeze blew the wrong way. The urge to dive in the blue swell below her was overwhelming, and Constance wasn’t one for denying herself pleasures and she knew that nobody would dare tell her no; she had even worn her swimsuit underneath her outfit in preparation. Stripping off her outer layers and neatly folding them into a pile on the dock, the woman took the plunge.

Later, she’d receive an earful from the Captain about her carelessness, but as she lounged alone on the dock drying her body and swimsuit off while sea water pooled around her Constance found herself at peace. A small smile crossed its way across her face: who else in the world could say they had swam in the ocean, tasted the salt in their mouth and felt its sting in their eyes? A dozen, maybe less? To think, less than a century ago six daredevils jumped from an island with nothing but a parachute and a dream to take on the world; now, almost a hundred years later, one of their own was actually going to do it. She laid back on the dock, staring at the mess of land and dark clouds above her; in a way, it was all her’s. Her view shifted as she rolled onto her side, staring back across the horizon. In a way, this would all be her’s too. Manifest destiny.

“Absolutely fantastic,” she muttered, as she felt her eyelids grow heavy.

[hr]

After being awoken from her doze by a sharp shake and a barking respite from Conway, Constance dressed and cleaned herself up from her swim. By the time the others had begun to arrive, she looked as if she had been invited out for a pleasure cruise or a game of polo instead of an expedition into the vast unknown. Somehow, the woman had managed to already acquire a highball as if she was aboard a party yacht, despite there being no apparent source and the time being well before five o’clock. She sipped slowly from the sweating glass to avoid smudging her lipstick, and a small straw hat cast a shadow over her eyes. The only hint that she had gone for a swim earlier was her hair, crisp from the salt, and the not completely unpleasant smell of ocean on her skin. 

The socialite had posted herself at the absolute front of the ship, leaning lazily against the railing. Of course she would take that spot: it was visible by everyone, as if the rest of the ship acted as an arrow pointing in the direction of the esteemed Constance Holloway. She occasionally dipped from the spot, mostly to greet her fellow “conquerors”, as she was starting to call everyone, and seek out business ventures, but always managed to elbow her way back to the front. It was there that she was standing when one of the latecomers finally found his way to the Garrloch. He was smartly dressed, although she raised a questioning eyebrow at the unmanaged growth that had infested his jawline. However, a wolfish grin flashed on her face as he mentioned the Winged Gazette, and the tycoon slinked across the deck towards the man.

“What a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Samick,” said Constance as she forcefully grabbed his hand and gave it a light squeeze and a shake. “It’s so nice to see that the Gazette is finally making use of its talent. I’m Constance Holloway, although I’m sure someone like you would already know that. Your boys ran a story about me a few months back, after all. It was quite…” 

She tilted her and looked up, as if she was searching for a polite word for it. The article that had been ran did not paint her in the best picture, although to react strongly against it would give it even the most meager form of validation. It wouldn’t be ruinous, but it would be inconvenient. 

“...entertaining. I would be more than willing to provide a correction for you chaps, but we both know that wouldn’t sell papers,” she said, throwing her head back with a loud, piercing laugh. 

“Oh!” Her eyes widened  and her drink splashed against the rim of her glass as if she had been startled by an animal darting in front of her. “How thoughtless of me. Let me introduce you to the others, darling,” she said, brushing her hand against Ed’s elbow as if to lead him like a child, stopping as she came upon the nearest person that did not shy away from her glance. 

“This is Eddy—may I call you Eddy?—Eddy Samick. He’s a reporter for the Winged Gazette, so be on your best behavior,” she said with a wink as she took a sip from her refreshment, as if this person had not just heard Ed introduce himself. “Eddy, it is my utmost privilege to introduce you to my very good friend…”