[center][b][u]Lower Deck 1[/u][/b][/center]

The helmsman must have overheard Constance’s belittling of the man, because the instant she finished speak the ship once again tried to flip itself over as Conway’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers about a fire. She caught herself on the arm of one of the men she had been trying to rally to save herself from yet again slamming into a wall, grimacing with minor embarrassment and annoyance that others even saw her stumble. If she had been knocked down, then the only word or two that she would have with Conway would be four-lettered, colorful, and improper to share in any sort of company, good or otherwise.She patted the man that she had used as a safety net on the shoulder twice, the gesture serving as some kind of half-hearted ‘thank you’, and then smoothed out her clothing and brushed a swathe of hair behind her ear. 

It was bizarre, she knew it, but she wanted to still look impeccable, even if the entire ship was about to go belly up as it burned down. Constance believed in the importance of appearance. If she looked proper, if she looked confident, if she looked happy, then others would have to believe that was the case. It didn’t matter if her heart was racing a mile a minute, or if she was beginning to compile a list in her mind of all of the things she wouldn’t be able to do. Nobody could see those things, nobody could know of her fears. Even Constance tried to force herself to not recognize a fear—she lied and told herself that she had none, or that they excited her, that it was fun, that she loved the thrill of it all. It worked, mostly, or at least it was this time, her spirit beating back her animal mind that was firing off flares signalling imminent danger and barking at her to turn back.

Thus, when the sailor drafted Constance to join the nurse and the reporter in their newly formed amateur fire brigade, she jumped at the call with a look that could only be described as inappropriately gleeful. She had, after all, done her own share of firefighting at her own parties when a drunken guest got too close to a candle or tried to show off the latest party trick that they had learned, the help too far away to respond in time. Those fires, however, had mostly been small and inconsequential, easily bested by a quick douse of water or a smothering via jacket. She had never seen a fire started by a lightning strike. Constance was certain that this fire would be the same as the others; in an hour they would all be laughing about it over cocktails and hor d'oeuvres. 

Doubt began to cloud over her like the black, acrid smoke that was billowing overhead; she could hear the crackle of the flames from beyond the corner. She blinked her stinging eyes and her smirk wavered as the flames came into view, the blaze raging fiercely as it warped the metal around it into twisted appendages. Having been so excited to be the first to the fire, she had pushed ahead of the others earlier. Now, as she felt the heat on her face and the sweat form on her brow, she had wished she had been in the back. There, she could have easily slipped away, claiming later that she had been lost in the smoke or the confusion. If she turned now, the others would know that she had run. They would label her a coward or view her as deadweight. Her lips drew into a thin line as she lifted her hand to cover a cough that was trying to escape from her mouth. It didn’t matter what other people said, really. After all, the only thing that trumped appearances was survival—live long enough to change the tale.

But she couldn’t turn and flee, because there were simply too many people crowded behind her. Well, that and Conway had just chucked a hose at her. She didn’t catch it at first as the hose slammed against her chest, awkwardly managing to catch it with her knee and her forearm. She shot Conway a narrowed look as she struggled to wrangle the hose as if it were some slimy sea serpent trying to squirm out of her grasp. There were many things she wanted to [i]discuss[/i] with the man, largely because, one, his helmsman couldn’t steer the ship that, two, he had lead into a brutal storm followed by, three, his crew forcing her to fight their fires caused by lightning when, four, if the ship had been properly designed with a lightning rod would have never been a problem in the first place. All of this she wanted to say, but when she opened her mouth to speak so much smoke came in that it was impossible for the words to come out. Choking on smoke, the hose clattered against the ground; she followed after it, dropping to her knees as she continued to cough.

She knew instantly that she had screwed up and gotten too close to the fire. Cursing herself for being stupid, the woman looked behind her with watering eyes—why did she even still care if anybody was looking at her now? She watched as Luna fought the inferno, jealous at how unfazed the other woman seemed to be, unaware that the nurse was probably as terrified as she was. She watched as a man fell in behind Ed, instructing him on how to use the hose with a smile on his face amongst all of the chaos, unaware that it was as probably as forced as her own always were. Grimacing, she grabbed the hose from her kneeling position and turned it on, using a knee and her arms to keep it steadied at the fire. She wasn’t going to be the only one who didn’t do anything. She refused to be the one looked down upon; she had spent her entire life struggling to get to a point where that was simply impossible. 

And besides, they couldn’t let the boat sink—she still had to give Conway a piece of her mind.