Brooke Everett: The Cartographer

	Brooke Everett was scrambling to the bridge of the ship, clutching several scrolls of maps, balancing some on a small open-topped wooden box with various books inside. The young woman's frazzled short black hair that was shorter on one side raised just above her large, circular glasses that made her big brown eyes seem even bigger. Brooke had been a beacon of anxious energy throughout the entire trip, having had her entire life turned upside down. The sleeves of her white undershirt were rolled up to the elbows, and a red vest clung tightly to her body. The shirt was tucked into a belt that kept up a pair of black pants that tucked into a pair of boots. Everything was tucked. Perhaps not of any desire to be orderly or prim, infact it was more likely that had her clothes not been so tightly tucked they would be flying all over the place and getting stuck on every possible place they could get stuck on. It was a matter of necessity, almost. 

	Preston Whitmore had changed her life. All those years of waiting, searching, hoping, it had finally come true. She was about to prove her and her grandfather right, and the Everett name would be brought to the public consciousness in the good light that it deserved. Finding Atlantis, following the notes of Shepherd's Journal in a high tech submarine---it was almost too good to be true! That was why she was so incredibly concerned with not messing anything up. 

	Despite some of the crew's potentially mixed feelings, Brooke was a true believer in the lost empire and expounded vibrantly upon the subject whenever someone dared broach it with her- or whenever they didn't. 

	Carrying the box and the scrolls full of text and words that no one other then a cartographer and linguist could make any sense of, Brooke came to a door that lead to where she needed to go. There was a small glass porthole, and the top half of her face peered through, the large round glasses poking around to try and see anyone on the other side.

	With no free hands to operate the complicated naval door that only submarines had, Brooke pushed her forehead against the glass.
	
	"Hello?" She asked.

	Brooke leaned back against a nearby wall and extended her leg outward and began to kick at something like a handle or a wheel, trying to find a good grip on it to get the door open. "C-c-could somone---" She stumbled, slipping, and had to rebound before a map fell to the ground. She treated the maps as if they were expensive Chinese porceclain creations. Were they to fall onto the steel floor of the submarine, they would surely shatter into a million pieces. Brooke tried not to blink too much because she was certain that if she kept her eyes closed for too long she would wake up and be back in her gloomy New England apartment.

	"I need some-" She once again began and prematurely ended a sentence, this time adding a beleaguered, good-natured giggle. "Oh, heck." She leaned up against the wall and tried to balance the box in her arms. At this point she was nothing more then a pair of trousers supporting a shaking box. This was going to take a while, and her obvious, loud plight would need to be solved by someone else. Eventually she may figure out how to put down the box and open the door and pick the box back up again. Again, if she put down the box, the rocking of the submarine may cause it to drift into the wall, have a collision, and burst into flames. Anything was on the table at this point.