Constance looked down on Luna with a soft, thin smile as the woman corrected her statement. The woman’s tone was not outright unkind, but it had a whisper of condescendance that Constance was all too familiar with, and even guilty of using. Briefly, Constance thought that Luna came from money with the way she held herself, but a quick assessment of her clothing, which were more practical than anything, and her short hair, which was out of fashion these days, told her otherwise. Her chin rose ever so slightly and she could feel her tongue coil in her mouth like a cobra ready to strike, only it would spitting sugar instead of venom. Her lips parted just as a loud buzz filled the air around them. 

No words came out. She stared at the sky, mouth agape with wonder as she looked with wide eyes as a plane crested over the ocean and then whipped overhead. She let out a hoot of excitement as the wind whipped her hair and she reflexively slapped her hand on her hat to keep it from flying away after the plane. The little stunt had gotten her blood pumping, and she followed after the plane with her head, her face growing even more exaggerated as the plane transformed and landed vertically on the deck of their ship. Her hand dropped from her hat and clasped over her mouth; she gave Luna and Ed a look that said, ‘Did you see that, did you see that?’ She had heard rumors of a VTOL being developed, but did not realize that the actual thing had ever been released. 

Two thoughts entered her head at once and began pulling at Constance’s focus as she already began to drift away from the reporter and the nurse. The first thought was fairly harmless. She had just simply decided that she must meet the daredevil who knew how to fly that contraption. Her second thought was that she needed to be given a chance to fly that thing. Heavens forbid anyone actually let her sit in the pilot seat; it was a surefire way to lose both an expensive piece of equipment and an extravagant industrialist. Constance had taken a few flight lessons, true, but she had never been involved in a landing that didn’t require a parachute, a costly repair bill, and a good amount of dumb luck. 

Of course, it wasn’t as if that would ever actually dissuade her from flying the VTOL if she was just given the chance. 

The shouting of the Captain drew her away from her flight of fancy about fancy new methods of flight as he barked orders and toted his authority. His mannerisms remained Constance of an abrupt factory foreman that she used to work under as a child, whose voice could be heard screaming over the clanging of metal on metal and the roar of smoking furnaces. She remembered being absolutely terrified of the man, jumping like a scared dog at the sound of his voice as he yelled at her and the others to do this, don’t do that, stop being such an idiot, and so on. She was convinced that the man hated children until the day he died in a factory fire. He had over exerted himself and collapsed after dragging a dozen or so kids out of the flames, barking at them for being stupid idiots who didn’t know how to run until his lungs had been overcome with smoke. 

The feeling of moisture on her cheeks shocked her out of the past; she quickly chided herself, realizing that it had only been the rain. She could hear Conway’s voice crackle over a loudspeaker, informing them of his plan as it was happening. Normally, she would have ignored such suggestions, preferring to learn from her own mistakes than the wisdom of others, but with the memory of that foreman so fresh in her mind she decided that perhaps Conway knew best and maybe it would be wise to kowtow to the Captain for the time being. Besides, she had already gotten wet enough for one day, and to catch a cold at the start of her adventure would be absolutely terrible.

With one final glance up at the encroaching Ring of Thunder, Constance turned and made her way below deck. She retreated to her suite—which, in reality, was no different than that standard two-bunk room of the rest of the crew quarter; clearly, the lack of luxury suites was a design flaw in the Garrloch—to freshen her drink and tuck away her hat. She didn’t plan on staying long in her room; it was almost claustrophobically small and way too drab for her taste. Another design flaw, she decided, happy to find yet another flaw with the Garrloch’s layout. A few curtains, some throw pillows, and nice carpeting would really have brighten the ship up and make it look less like a tin sarcophagus. At the very least the room had a small porthole, although the view now was obscured by the whipping rain that rang out in a cacophony of pitter-patters as it hit the ship’s hull. 

She had not been alone in her room for more than a few minutes when cabin fever had already begun to set it. The fear of boredom quickly drove her out of her cabin, her free hand loosening the collar on her blouse and untucking her kerchief that had been turned into a mock ascot as she began making her way to the mess hall. She got lost once or twice, or ‘made a few detours’ as she would say, during her exploration of the Garrloch. Occasionally she would pause, holding herself up against the wall as the ship rocked beneath her feet. She had not expected the ocean to be so unstable, and this was coming from somebody who had years of experience stumbling around drunkenly on yachts. 

Clearly, she should’ve made a stiffer drink to better steady her feet.

She was in the hall outside of the mess when she heard two crashes. The first was the one heard by everyone as the ship lurched to one side, sending Constance slamming hard into the wall next to her. The second crash was muted by the shouts coming from the mess, a private tragedy for Constance alone as she stared down with a look that could only be described as abject horror at the pool of liquor and broken glass forming around her boots. A sigh of monstrous proportions escaped from her lips as she bent down and pulled a handkerchief out of her jacket’s pocket to use as a rag. She soaked up the alcohol and picked up the shattered glass before disposing of the evidence in a nearby trash bin, her brow furrowed with concentration as she decided to continue onwards instead of retreating to fix another drink with another, less breakable, glass. Surely, they must have something hiding away in a cask down here, lest the crew threaten to mutiny a week into their voyage.

“What a waste,” she muttered, dusting off her knees and stepping into the mess.

Mess was a fitting name for the room, as everything and everyone seemed to have been strewn about the place by the surge. The sight of the crowd of people cursing and pulling themselves together finally made her stop stressing about the loss of her most trusted companion and start considering the impact of the  first crash. The defeat that hung over her from her dropped drink disappeared almost instantly as the thought that they might be in danger entered her mind. What if they were sinking? She wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case, considering the boat’s investor. A small smile appeared on her face. How far out from the dock were they? Would they be lost completely? Sure, it would be disappointing to have their adventure cut short so soon, but to have it be because their ship had capsized in a horrific storm?  Now that would be an exciting tale to spread around once she made it back home.

Of course, it could have also just been a large wave; the crash could have been from one of the kitchen crew forgetting to batten down the hatches, not that Constance knew whatever the hell ‘the hatches’ was referencing. There could be no danger, and all could be fine. Boring, but fine.

[i]There’s only one way to find out,[/i] she thought with a smirk and a nod. She set her targets for Captain Conway and scanned the mess hall for her man. Of course, he would not be down in the hall grabbing a sandwich; the man would likely be wheelhouse, seeing them safely through the storm or dragging them quickly into the depths. Regardless, she was determined to find her man.

“Excuse me, lads,” she said in a loud, clear voice as she planted her hands on a table and leaned forward towards a group of men, but talking loud enough to practically be addressing any and all in the area. “Would any of you gentlemen mind escorting me to the wheelhouse? I need to have a word or two with the Skipper about his choice in helmsmen, and I rather get there before the current one flips us completely over.”