Standard Legal Crapola:

Lawyers… Nobody likes them.

As a very wise man once observed, they're a lot like nuclear weapons: The only reason you have them is because they have them, and if you use them, then they screw up everything in f***ing sight!

But unfortunately, much like long lines, cell phones and Paris Hilton, they're a fact of life in our modern world. Therefore, it's time for yet another visit from everyone's favorite literary device: The Legal Disclaimer!

Rose, Jack, and all other fictional characters contained here within are the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures and Twentieth Century Fox. Any and all historical figures are the property of … well… nobody in particular, really. That's the great thing about history, I suppose: It belongs to everybody!

This story is written as a public service for entertainment purposes only, and nobody is making any money off of this whatsoever. Any attempts to do otherwise will be met with malicious action of a litigious nature, and any other big, scary-sounding legal words that I can think of. Prosecutors will be violated.

Side effects of reading this story may include flushing, blushing, running of the mouth, high stool, shortness of pants, emphysema, pyorrhea, diarrhea, gonorrhea, pneumonia, oldmonia, ammonia, short-term memory loss, short-term memory loss, shin splints, fallen arches, lower back pain, black death and a swarm of locusts descending on your head.

Do not read this story unless you have consulted a doctor, two pharmacists, your local apothecary and the entrails of a goat.

Pregnant women should not even be reading this disclaimer.

No purchase necessary, void where prohibited, see store for details, employees are ineligible, write for full contest rules, your mileage may vary, copyright two-thousand-whatever, blah blah blahbity blah, SO THERE!

(On with the show!)

~ Chapter Four ~

Come Josephine in my flying machine…And it's up she goes… Up she goes…

They had only known each other for three days: Seventy-two blissful hours, and yet she had already come to consider the catchy tune as "their song." It seemed fitting, after all. So many of their experiences together seemed to revolve around themes of flight.

There was her unsuccessful attempt to throw herself from the stern into the sea on the night they had met. With his arms around her, she had "flown" from the bow that evening, and later that same night they had "traveled to the stars" in the back of that beautiful new Renault sedan.

It had been only a few scant hours since that wonderful and wondrous event, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had transpired since then… So much had changed. And yet the memories of it all were still strong as steel in her mind, as sweetly pungent as fresh-cut lilacs on a spring day, the sensations as warm and comforting as a favorite old blanket. She had truly felt like she was flying, being with Jack in that way: Floating on a gossamer cloud of pure bliss. Jack and his soft, caring touch had made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. She had never felt so safe… so contented… so loved as she had during those precious few minutes laying with him. She had slipped with him into a realm of nothingness, beyond sight… beyond sound… beyond stimulation of any kind. Her only awareness had been of his presence beside her… inside of her… and all she had known, or would ever need to know, was him.

It was a sensation eerily reminiscent of what she was experiencing right now.

Sailing through thin air six stories above a darkened sea, the sensation of it all was surprisingly absent. There was no sense of rising or falling, nor of the wind whipping through her hair. Even the eternal forces of gravity and acceleration themselves seemed strangely suspended. There was only nothing. Nothing but the sensation of Jack's strong arm wrapped protectively around her, and yet somehow, that alone was enough.

For he had promised her that they would make it… that they would survive the night, and she trusted him implicitly. He had saved her before, after all: Saved her in every way that a person could be saved, and now she knew that he would do so again. They would both live to see the sun rise again; Jack had promised her that, and it was all the assurance that she needed.

And then there came a gentle, nudging sensation. A faint brushing of something cool and hard, yet flexible about her face and shoulders. A sensation that she instinctively grabbed for, and her silk-enshrouded hand quickly found itself wrapped around one of the hoist the cables that now served as their lifeline to salvation.

And then there was the sensation of falling… plunging ever downward into eternal darkness. She reflexively screamed and clenched her grip, every muscle of her body going taut in an act of open defiance against the overwhelming pull of gravity. The rate of descent slowed, but did not stop, while the overwhelming terror remained unchanged.

Impact with the raft came almost as a relief as the sinewy give of the netting rushed up to meet the soles of her shoes. She understood just enough about such things to know that one never tried stopping all at once under such circumstances. Such levels of inertia had to be given up slowly, diffusing them over the length of one's entire body. And knowing such, she took the sensation of semi-solid support beneath her feet as a cue to release her grip and fall forward, trusting that Jacks creation and the souls who now inhabited it would be sufficient to break whatever fall was still to come.

It was a gamble that paid off, for she had no sooner had the thought than she found herself cradled in the supple yet abrasive coils of interwoven hemp cords.

As for Jack, his landings weren't quite so happy.

Hitting the net at a reduced but still appreciable speed, he tried to roll into the fall, as any good stuntman would do. But the foundation beneath him didn't prove true and he lost his footing, planting him flat on his backside and sending him slipping downward toward the freezing sea. Instinctively, he reached above himself and by sheer stroke of luck managed to snag two precious fingers around a piece of the net, leaving him dangling half way between the sky and the sea: Half way between heaven and a frozen hell.

The coarse fibers of the net dug into his skin like daggers, the stinging only exacerbated by the freezing cold. He could feel the blood draining from his entire hand as his tenuous grip on salvation began to slowly slip away. Visions of drowning… of freezing… of being crushed to a pulp between the raft and the ominous steel wall of the hull that loomed just a few scant feet away flashed through his mind. Amid the chill of the darkness and the rampaging thoughts of his mind he flailed about wildly, kicking and reaching blindly behind him, searching for any sort of handhold: Anything to give him just a few more precious seconds of life.

Desperately, he clamored and clawed for anything at all. A table leg… a piece of the net… somebody's hair… he seriously wasn't picky. He could feel his grip getting looser by the instant, his last few moments of life slipping away along with it.

And then he found it. Salvation from a demon sea was delivered into his waiting hand. But rather than the cold smoothness of finely lacquered wood of the biting sting of a rope burn, the sensation he received was one of something warm and soft, yet surprisingly strong and, dare he say it, comforting.

Craning his neck back to look directly above him, he found himself face-to-face with a pair of the most beautiful green eyes he could ever dream of seeing, framed by a disheveled but still gorgeous halo of auburn locks.

"I've got you!" Rose grunted through a grimaced smile, her grip vice-like around his hand and wrist. "I won't let go!"

He could only smile and chuckle to himself at the sentiment. Let it never be said that his Rose wasn't without a well-developed sense of ironic humor.

With a strained grunt, she was able to swing her lover around enough for him to face the raft and achieve a firm grip with his free hand. From there it was a simple matter of him scrambling the final few feet to the top.

"Nice catch." He heavily breathed, dropping himself exhaustively down onto the knotted surface. "I hope there wasn't a flag on the play."

She regarded him with a quizzically blank stare.

"Sorry… American sporting reference." He sheepishly admitted. "Never mind."

The raft gave a subtle lurch as the miss-matched assemblage and its equally miss-matched occupants began moving away from the stricken vessel. Some used makeshift paddles that had apparently been crafted from table legs and the broken out bottoms of bureau drawers. Others held similarly adapted serving platters from the third-class dining saloon. One gentleman was using a guitar for the purpose.

On a whole, the sight forced Jack to throw his head back with a hearty laugh. Even with all of the thought he had put into this hair-brained idea of his, stressing and fretting over how and whether it would even work, he had completely neglected to consider the element of propulsion. And yet this motley crew of disparate and disorganized individuals from the dregs of society had taken it upon themselves to solve the problem, and done so without any outside direction or instruction.

"Let's hear it for the ingenuity of the common man." He laughed out loud.

Rose was about to respond with what she thought was a particularly witty remark, when from deep within the bowels of the ship there arose a great and thunderous roar. Like a series of explosions merging together into a single wave of destruction, it rolled down the length of the great vessel in waves, moving from stern to stem with the ferocity of a runaway train. And all the while, a deep and ominous groan rose up from the depths like the death knell of some great and frightening beast. The massive form of the hull reared up, exposing its rudder and gargantuan twenty-eight foot propellers to the frigid air. The ship's lights, which until that point had been the only source of useful illumination, flickered once… then twice… then went dark forever.

For those who had successfully abandoned their floating home, an eerie silence now descended across the placid waters that surrounded them. They sat huddled together in the darkness, enveloped by nothing but an ocean of black and the cosmic firmament above, time seeming to hang in suspension, just as the stern of the great ship hung suspended in the sky above.

And then there came a sickening crack, like the neck bone of a colossal chicken being broken, and the sound of rending and buckling steel rolled out across the glassy-smooth sea. A great fissure sprung up from the waterline, almost invisible amongst the pitch darkness as it tore its way along the jet-black hull. The bow lurched forcefully forward and plunged toward the domain of Poseidon, pulling the stern skyward as it went, smashing and buckling the brilliant white superstructure like tinfoil. Funnels and masts collapsed into the sea creating great surging waves that rolled outward in all directions, and the screams of those unfortunate few who had been unable to escape filled the night air.

The great ship seemed to hover there for the longest of moments, pointing its rudder skyward as if in tribute to the cosmic wonders that it would never see again. And then, rotating its decks away as if to hide its face in shame, it slipped slowly downward, plunging ever deeper into the eternal abyss until at last the aft flagstaff and its fluttering "Union Jack" ensign slipped silently beneath the surface, leaving nothing but the shimmering stars above.

Jack looked solemnly down at his wristwatch, noting that there was just enough starlight to make out its face.

"Two twenty." He somberly noted. He felt like he was pronouncing the death of an old friend.

"Now she belongs to the ages." Rose softly whispered into the night.

Over the next several minutes, an uncomfortable and deathly quiet fell across the smooth sea. The anguished screams of those in the water quickly fell silent; whether for rescue or death, they did not know. With nothing but the diamond-studded blanket of the night sky above them for reference, the world seemed to enter a state of suspended animation. For Rose, the only things she could be sure of were the cold of the night and Jack's presence beside her: His warm embrace and softly chattering teeth assurance of his continued existence among the living.

"Sweetie, you must be freezing." She softly observed, slowly unbuttoning the heavy coat that she was wearing. "Here. Take this."

"No, don't bother. I'm fine." He reassured her, reaching over to restrain her as she tried in vain to pull one arm out of its sleeve. "You need it more than I do."

"Oh really? Is that so, mister tough guy?"

"Well I don't mean that as a statement of machismo." He defended himself. "I just mean that I've got more body mass than you. I can take the cold better. Besides, I'm from Wisconsin, remember? Back home we call this 'short sleeves and swimming' weather."

"Yeeeeeeahhhh… And I suppose that means you're just tapping out Morse code with these, right?" she quipped, gently reaching up to still his rapidly vibrating jaw.

"Well you never know who might pick up on the other end." He retorted, pulling his arms in tight against himself with an involuntary shiver.

"Seriously, sweetie! You're freezing!"

"Yeah, well I count myself lucky for that much." He said, his tone suddenly turning much darker. "There's a lot of other folks out there right now who won't ever have the luxury of feeling the cold, or anything else for that matter."

He cast his eyes downward, slowly comprehending the human toll of the night's events as he took on an apparent fascination with the laces of his shoes.

He was slipping into a funk; blaming his self for all that had been lost. And Rose was having nothing of it.

"You can't honestly be blaming yourself for this, sweetie." She said with as much gravity as she could muster. "You're not responsible for this. You didn't sail that ship flank speed and blind into an ice field that you knew was there. You're not the one who destroyed so many lives tonight. You're the one who saved them!"

"Try telling that to him." Jack sighed, nodding toward the form of a man in a lifejacket that was floating past at the very edge of their vision. His blue-white complexion and ice-encrusted features left no doubt that he was no longer among the living.

"That's enough out of you, Jack!" Rose suddenly and forcefully stated. She didn't at all like the downward spiral that her lover was entering, and she was bound and determined to put a stop to it right then and there.

Grabbing his face between her shivering hands, she turned his gaze upon the other forlorn-looking residents of their makeshift refuge.

"Look at these people! Look into their faces!" she sternly commanded. "Each and every one of them is alive right now because of you!"

He slowly panned his eyes from side to side and took in the scene before him. Families were recognizable through the darkness, their huddled forms clumped close together beneath mounds of blankets and coats. T one side, a stern-faced man with a turban and a dark beard gazed back from behind the blanket-enshrouded clump of a woman and three young children. His hardened gaze never wavered, but he dipped his fabric-wrapped head ever so slightly, nodding a message of gratitude that transcended any barrier of language that may lie between them.

"And out there, Jack! Look out there!" Rose commanded again, this time turning his gaze out to sea. "There's hundreds more out there, all just like them! Souls that will live to see the sun rise again because of your idea! Do you understand me? You're a hero, Jack! There are literally hundreds of human beings right now who owe their very existence to you! Don't you ever, ever forget that!"

Jack stared out at a horizon that was all but invisible and sighed deeply. He knew that his Rose was right, and that this should be a moment of tremendous pride for him. But yet somehow the creeping pangs of survivor's guilt were still worming their insidious way into his consciousness. He would eventually make his peace with it all… eventually. That much he was sure of. But for right now, the clash of emotions would rage on unabated through the darkness that surrounded him, and with his woman by his side, he would one day find his way back into the light.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur." A frail and feminine voice softly called out from the darkness, drawing the attention of the two young lovers. Jack and Rose both turned to the sight of a young woman, no older than her late twenties, kneeling just a few feet from them and holding out a thick blanket, woven in beautiful bands of blue and red and gold.

"Pour tout ce que vous avez fait." She said in a soft, angelic tone, pushing the woolen offering closer.

"I… I mean… we… couldn't just…" Jack stammered, unsure if he could accept such a valuable commodity from a person who could so obviously use it.

"S'il vous plait… de grace." She continued to insist, virtually shoving the blanket into his lap. What was it about assertive women on that darn boat anyway?

"Merci." Rose finally stepped in, accepting the offering with gracious gratitude. If Jack was too much of a gentleman to accept such a valuable gratuity, then she certainly wasn't. He was obviously uncomfortable, even if his pig-headed male ego wouldn't let him admit it. And besides, even with the coat, she wasn't exactly feeling like she was basking on a tropical beach herself.

"Rose, no! You need it more than me!" Jack protested as she unfolded the gratuity and began to wrap it about his shoulders and chest.

"Oh hush. This isn't just for you." She silenced him, throwing the remainder of the plaid material over herself and forcing both of them down onto the netting beneath. "Now come over here and help keep a lady warm."

Not being one to deny a proper lady her request, Jack complied by wrapping his arms around her slender waist and pulling her close. She snaked her lithe arms around his chest and nestled her head into his shoulder, delighting in the sudden burst of warmth that she received.

Suddenly, the eerie calm was broken by the haunting strains of a single violin wafting across the calmness of the open sea. Apparently someone on a nearby raft had managed to save their valued instrument, and was now offering solace to his fellow survivors through the gift of music.

"Ah! Mozart! Concerto number five." Jack wistfully observed.

"Since when do you know so much about classical music?" Rose asked, raising her head in surprise.

"Since my grandmother used to play second cello for the civic symphony in Milwaukee." He replied, closing his eyes and savoring the flowing melody.

"Really?" Rose responded in disbelief. "Well that must have been wonderful for you!"

"Not really." Jack shrugged. "Everything she cooked tasted like rosin, and we couldn't sit in her lap without falling through."

For the longest moment, Rose could only stare at her love in stunned silence. Then, the corners of her mouth twitched upward into a mischievous grin, and before she knew she was engrossed in the throws of a full-throated and raucous belly laugh. She collapsed back down into him, hugging him tightly as the laughter now rolled over both of them, making them forget all about the tragedies they had seen and the uncertain future that still lay before them. For in that moment it was just the two of them. He was hers and she was his, and that alone was everything that either of them would ever need.

The warm rays of the evening sun beat down on them as they stood behind the cobbled sea wall, watching set after set of waves come racing up onto the gently sloping beach to deposit their shimmering tendrils of foam upon the sand before retreating back into the sea from which they had come. It was a scene of immense beauty and serenity, and one that they came to enjoy nearly every evening since their arrival in this quaint seaside hamlet.

And yet somehow there was a sense of sadness and apprehension about it as well. For while they had been coming here on an almost daily basis for months, neither of them had yet to venture beyond the stone rampart and onto the shifting sands of the beach. Having that sort of a tactile connection to the ocean still brought back far too many painful memories, but yet they still came, vowing to the universe that they would someday conquer the fearful power that it held over them.

The road to this point had been a long one, and yet at the same time, frighteningly short as well. After a night spent adrift on an empty and desolate sea, the distant glow of lights had appeared from the southern horizon to shatter the pre-dawn darkness. They were soon joined by the glow of a green flare, waved aloft from one of the lifeboats, and as the gloom of night gave way to the first promising rays of morning, a great ship bearing the name of "Carpathia" upon its bow began collecting forlorn and bedraggled survivors from the sea. It was a task far more difficult than anticipated, at least when it came to Jack's creations. The makeshift rafts had very little in the way navigation or steering capability, and had to be towed into position by teams of rowers in whaleboats, recruited from the ship's crew. Once in position, their inherent instability became another issue, and crewmen were forced to lash them well and tight against the side of the hull before any of their fortunate occupants could board.

The process was painfully slow and fraught with danger, so when a second ship arrived at around half past eight, the added assistance was warmly welcomed by all. But as was the case in nearly all things concerning social status in that era, the lines of privilege were clearly drawn, and the residents of the hodge-podge hemp flotilla were forced to wait while the gleaming white lifeboats and their predominantly first-class occupants were accepted first.

And so it came to pass that at ten o'clock that morning, the last of those wondrously mottled yet life-giving assemblages was drawn broadside before a rope ladder to depart its charges: The last two souls to be saved being a young woman with fiery red hair, followed by a young man with eyes the color of the sea.

And that very afternoon, sitting in a cramped cargo hold, wrapped together in their warm gift of gratitude and holding cups of hot soup, they had made a pact. Santa Monica would be their final destination upon reaching New York. It was something that they had discussed previously in passing, perhaps being only half-serious about it at the time, but being rescued by a ship called the "Californian" just seemed to seal the deal. It wasn't wise to tempt fate, Rose had pointed out. Not after what had just happened to the ship that "God himself could not sink."

And so it had come to pass that on the evening of the eighteenth of April, two ships docked abreast at Pier 54 along the west side of Manhattan Island. And barely two hours later, a pair of damp, bedraggled and anonymous figures was running through the choreographed chaos of Grand Central Station, having already dashed two-and-a-half miles across the city through a drizzling rain. They breathlessly purchased two tickets on the first westbound train they could find, and they never even bothered looking back.

Five days later, their arrival upon the west coast had been a flurry of activity. The train had barely rolled to a stop before they were both off and running, dashing through the depot and jointly squeezing into a phone booth to search the yellow pages for a nearby Justice of the Peace. Most other couples would have paced themselves somewhat, opting to take a far more sedate pace and spend at least a few weeks getting settled into their new life. But they knew differently. If nothing else, their collective experience had taught them the importance of seizing the moment, because no matter how secure one may come to feel in life, tomorrow is never guaranteed.

The wedding ceremony was their first order of business upon arriving in town: Even before the search for proper lodging. It had been simple affair… a far cry from the grand spectacle that had been planned for her and Cal. There were no elaborate decorations nor fancy orchestras nor bridesmaids and groomsmen in hand-tailored finery. The guest list was non-existent, and even the rings were exchanged via an "I.O.U." honor system. Rose had held a simple bouquet of daisies and tulips that Jack had "borrowed" from one of the better tended window boxes that they had passed in town, the presence of a few stray roots drawing a questioning eye from the Justice.

Other brides would have thought it an embarrassment, but to her, it was just vintage Jack. She doubted that he would ever totally give up his street-wise scavenging ways, no matter how comfortable they ultimately became. You could take the boy off the streets, she figured, but you couldn't take the streets out of the boy. And in her heart, she knew that she wouldn't have it any other way.

Following that wonderful day, the young newlyweds had settled into a sort of domestic routine. Jack was soon able to find work as a costume and set designer for one of the many movie production studios that were springing up like dandelions across the region at that time. He would often remark that for an industry so dependent on working out doors, one would think the southern California climate would have become a beacon long before it did. But as one studio after another abandoned the rolling hills east of San Francisco Bay for the arid valleys of the southlands, he was thankful for the opportunity just the same.

Granted, the pay wasn't great as jobs go. They certainly weren't going to be returning to Europe any time soon. But it was nonetheless adequate… enough to keep up the payments on a small house just a few blocks up from the beach. They had settled into the residence quite comfortably, quickly turning it into a home where Rose tended a small garden in the yard and Jack converted a back bedroom into a studio for his art. The fruits of their labor were hanging low and heavy.

But with work comes pleasure, and the newly-minted husband and wife had wasted little time in ticking items off of the "to-do" list they had started while on board the ship of dreams. In the few short months since their arrival they had thrown themselves into their adventuress with gusto. They had ridden horses on the beach, visited the pier, taken more rides on the roller coaster than they could count, and they had sat together at the end of the pier sipping cheap beers from a nearby vendor.

"Jeez! This stuff is ghastly!" Rose had nearly gagged at her first gulp, nearly spitting the brew into the sea. "I swear it tastes like cat piss or something!"

"And you would know this how exactly?" Jack nearly gagged at the remark.

"Well, okay. Perhaps I was reading a little something into that." She conceded. "But it's still pretty vile!"

"Well what do you expect for a nickel?" Jack offered, taking another pull from his own glass. "It's not supposed to taste good. It's supposed to get you buzzed."

"Oh. Well then bravo." She replied, taking another, albeit this time much smaller, sip.

"Hey, Jack?" she asked after several more minutes and several more sips.

"Hmmmmmmm?" he hummed through another pull from his own beverage.

"What does it mean if, after a while, you kinda start liking this stuff?"

"Ah!" he said, wiping the foam from his upper lip with his sleeve. "That means it's working!"

"I see." Rose responded, offering her glass for a toast. "Well then here's to quality craftsmanship!"

"American made!" Jack enthusiastically replied as their glasses clinked together and their combined laughter drowned out the calling of the gulls overhead.

Yes, life was truly good along the shores of the great ocean of peace.

Rose had even managed to find a place of her own within the fledgling motion picture industry, as an actress appearing in a handful of minor films. Granted, the parts were small involving mainly background activities meant to set the scene for bigger-named actors up front. But they allowed her to have an income of her own, and more importantly, the mantle of her own career. She was living her own life on her own terms, just as she had promised herself she would, and it felt absolutely wonderful.

Of course the decision wasn't without risk. They had discussed it at length, the danger that one day Caledon Hockley would stare up onto a silver screen and realize that his "dearly departed" former fiancé wasn't nearly as deceased as he had thought. But together they had decided that it was worth the risk, partly because Cal didn't seem much like the movie-going type, but mostly because they refused to let the shadow of Caledon Nathan Hockley rule over their lives. That life was part of the past now… This life was all about the future.

…And in more ways than one.

For in recent weeks, a revelation had come home to roost for both of them. It was the revelation that there was one more life saved from the frigid waters of the north Atlantic on that terrible night: A life that would never appear on any list of survivors or any memorial plaque.

Sliding his hands down from his wife's shoulders, he found his way to her subtly mounded midsection, drawing a contented sigh from her lips.

"You're getting big." He whispered into her ear as they both watched the great golden disk of the sun slip slowly beneath the distant horizon.

"More of me to love, big boy." She breathily replied, slipping her own hands down to her burgeoning belly.

Somehow, the idea that among all the turmoil and destruction of that night… amidst all of the pain and suffering and loss and lament, that something so precious and beautiful could be created, and that she could have held such a key role in creating it… She doubted that she could ever truly grasp the full significance of it all. Their own little miracle of survival, growing soundly and snugly inside of her… The irony of it all being matched only by the beauty.

"You know, eventually we'll have t go out there." Jack sighed, looking longingly toward the broad stretch of sand before them. "At some point he'll want to play on the beach."

"Or she will." Rose added with a subdued tone. "But I suppose that's a bridge we'll just have to cross when we come to it." She honestly didn't know how they would ever overcome their phobia, but when it came to places their child was involved, then she was sure that they would find a way.

"Well, looks like the show's over for another night." Jack observed as the last rays of twilight danced across the western sky. "Although I hear tomorrow's feature is supposed to be pretty good too."

"It's a date, then." Rose smiled, leaning back into him and craning her neck to steal a quick kiss. "But for right now, I seem to recall that there's a soft, warm bed just a few blocks from here that's been getting great reviews."

"Well, I suppose we could go check out what all the fuss is about." Jack slowly pondered, rubbing his chin in mock thought. "Does this fine establishment happen to take reservations?"

"Indubitably." Rose quipped in return, exaggerating every element of her soft British accent for effect. "I've already got us a spot on the list, for three." She gave her stomach a gentle pat.

"Well then, I do believe that we should be departing forthwith." Jack said with a flourish, slipping a strong yet gentle arm around her shoulders. "It t'would be a great shame to keep the maitre d' waiting."

And with that they both turned their backs to the rolling surf, slowly strolling up the hill toward their new home with Rose resting her head on her husband's supportive shoulder. They were a world away from the either the posh mansions of Philadelphia or the gritty streets of Europe: Not at all the sort of life that either of them had envisioned just a few short months ago. But through it all… the trials and tribulations… the heartache and adversity… the tragedy and terror of that horrific night… they had found each other… and found their happiness. Just as they somehow always knew that they would.

It was only a matter of time.

~ Fini ~

Author's Notes:

Well, it looks like that pretty much wraps things up for this little tale. I earnestly hope that I haven't wasted everyone's time. But when an idea grabs a hold of you and won't let go, sometimes the only possible cure, (besides costly elective surgery), is to write it out and hope for the best. Thanks for being my unwitting physicians in this matter.

So in the end, we find that our heroes get their happy ending, the final tally from the disaster isn't nearly so jaw-dropping in its scope, and the Californian gets to fish a few survivors out of the water so Stan Lord doesn't come out of it looking quite so much like the biggest douche bag in history. So everybody wins! (Well, most everybody.)

Regarding the possibility of future stories within the realm of this fandom, I can't say for sure. I really only wrote this story on a whim, so I wouldn't at this point call myself a bona-fide member of the community. However as an avid history buff with a gift for gab and a slightly more than abiding interest in the Titanic, it's just as valid a statement to say that anything is possible.

I've even had an idea recently for another alternate history tale involving our two favorite characters, but with something of a sci-fi twist. Think "Titanic" meets "The Final Countdown." Whether or not this story will ever see the light of day… who's to say. But as we said above, anything's possible.

And just to stop the questions before they come, I know what you're all thinking. "Movies?… The Bay Area?… What the f*ck?"

Well get used to the idea, my little chickadees. It's true.

In a time before anyone had ever even heard of a place called Hollywood, the fledgling movie industry was centered in the small town of Niles. Set in the rolling hills of Alameda county about 25 miles south of Oakland, (and about an hour's drive from my front door), the community today has changed little since the 1920s, it's main street looking like a film set, straight off of a studio back lot.

It's still home to one of the premier film museums and archives in the United States today, but for the most part it functions as a satellite "bedroom community" for the nearby Silicon Valley.

As I sit here writing these notes and contemplating all the words that have preceded them, I find myself glancing to the clock at the bottom corner of my screen. It's almost six o'clock in the evening here in California… just a little more than forty minutes to go until the moment marking exactly one century since the fateful moment of impact: The moment that so changed our world forever. So many questions are raised in such a moment… so many implications are presented for preponderance.

What if David Blair hadn't walked off the ship in Belfast, taking the key to the binoculars cabinet with him? What if Jack Philips hadn't insulted Cyril Evans of the Californian over the wireless, causing him to become frustrated and shut down his set for the night, as it turned out just ten short minutes before the fatal strike occurred. What if Captain Smith had decided to let discretion be the better part of valor and tell J. Bruce Ismay to take a long walk down a short pier and hug an octopus? Like most disasters, the story of the Titanic is not one of a single, catastrophic failure. Rather, it was the result of many small things along a long and convoluted path, coming together in a series of unforeseen coincidences and resulting in calamity. The entire thing is like a giant game of Jenga, in a metaphorical way: If one simply removes the right block from the stack, the entire infrastructure of the disaster comes crashing down, and the event never occurs.

But this fact is tempered by the knowledge that if it had not been the Titanic to strike that iceberg a century ago, then we would today be speaking about the fate of some other great ship… lamenting the loss of her passengers and crew instead. For beyond the specific details of the Titanic disaster, there existed a culture of malignant recklessness within the world that surrounded her.

The frigid waters of the North Atlantic were a speedway during that era, where immense fortunes were wagered on the outcome of a simple formula: Build the largest ship ever attempted, deck it out to the nines in regal finery, take it to America at a break-neck speed exceeding any and all that have come before you, and reap the social and financial accolades that such a feat would bring.

…At least until someone else came along with a bigger, grander and faster vessel. Then, the game would start all over again.

It was a potent stew of megalomania and greed that led to an upward spiral of increasing risk among the business titans that sat around this great poker table of trade. A grand game of economic and personal brinkmanship that in the end could only lead to catastrophe. In this realm of systemic risk-taking, a tragedy of Titanic proportions was all but inevitable.

In the end, the lesson of the Titanic is one of human arrogance and ultimate frailty: A real-world reminder that while homo sapiens may claim ownership of this blue and green marble in space, we are truly but guests of Mother Nature, and it is she who sets the rules of her own house. If we take heed and observe these rules with due diligence, then our civilization will continue to grow and flourish, just as we have come to expect. But if we choose to ignore those same rules with hubris in our hearts, then the world will shake us off like a bad case of fleas, leaving the fortunate few to pick up the pieces and ponder the error of their ways.

Progress and recalcitrance… overreach and regret… human ambition versus mankind's place within the grand scheme of the cosmos… These are the lessons which the Titanic has to teach us.

May we all learn them well!

Nutzkie…