The Southampton dock was alive and busy, as men, women and children alike gathered in line and in spectacle. They were crowded shoulder to shoulder, blackening out the entirety of the pier, to awe at the leviathan docked beside them. Titanic gleamed white, rising tall into the sky, its buff-colored funnels standing out against the sky like pillars, and it size dwarfing the people beneath in its glorious shadow.
Horse drawn vehicles, motorcars and lorries moved slowly through the dense throng. The atmosphere of the pier was engulfed in excitement and giddiness, with streaming lines of people to board the ship, jostling with hustling seaman and stokers, porters, and shouting White Star Line officials managing to keep the chaos appropriately organized. Individuals embraced each other in tearful farewells, or waved and shouted their bon voyages to friends and relatives from Titanic's decks above.

Southampton, England, April 10, 1912. It was almost noon on ailing day when an ivory white Renault leading a silver-gray Daimler-Benz, pushed through the crowd leaving a wake in the press of people. It finally stopped amidst the commotion, where the liveried driver scurried to open the door for a young man dressed in a stunning burgundy dress suit and a deep purple, cutaway frock coat. His was well put together, with golden colored fist cuffs on his steamed white undershirt, and well adjusted bowler hat that sat daintily atop his head. It was more of a 'dandy' sense of dress in comparison to most men his age and level of wealth. However, the messily cut, faint, golden locks that ruffled from under his hat gave him a sort of boyish charm, that somehow made the sense of style highly attractive on his person, especially in aid with the burgundy color against the piercing green of his youthful eyes. Arthur Kirkland, age 23, stared up at the ship as he moved from the vehicle, absorbing its structure with reserved appraisal, "I still don't see what the fuss is about. It doesn't appear any larger than the Mauretania."

"Je ne pense pas que tu," spoke a man in French from the other side of the Renault, "you can be blasé about some things, Arthur, but not about Titanic." A personal valet opened the door on the other side of the car, where a slightly taller man exited to accompany Arthur's side. He, in comparison to Arthur, was dressed a bit more formally, yet of a brighter fashion. Like Arthur, he sported a dress suit, but of a lavish, cotton blue. From his shoulders fell a solid black, double-breasted sack coat that squared around his knees, and to accompany it was a black top hat that he proceeded to place over his waving, shoulder length, blond hair as he approached Arthur. The deep blue of his handsome eyes met the green of his business partner, as he continued in earnest, "it is over a hundred feet longer than Mauretania, and far more luxurious. It has squash courts, a Parisian café…, even Turkish baths." Francis Bonnefoy was a fair man, charming, passionate, with more wealth to the Bonnefoy name than any man would ever need, and a wittier tongue than man should ever be blessed. With it, he was striking quite a deal, using Arthur as a means to wring up a large offer in the states.

Behind them parked a touring car, where a slightly older gentleman in his 50s was escorted out. He was a tall, serious faced man, with smoothed brown hair folded back with a sophisticated elegance, that made a rule to always wear a royal blue, cutaway frock coat over the linen lace he decorated himself to appease that vintage dress he so adored. Roderich Edelstien, a man well known said to have hailed from the deep reaches of Austria, was accompanying Arthur upon his voyage to the Americas, and supervising the business proposition being offered to the young, English boy. Until the business was completed, Austria guided Arthur with an iron will, as he had done since Arthur was a lowly orphan abandoned at Roderich's feet only 18 years prior. Acting as a sort of a caregiver, and with an interest in what the business partnership had to offer, he had every intention of hovering over all of his illegal 'son's' movements until he was secured a good chunk of the inevitable wealth.

Francis welcomed Roderich forward to them, as if they were old friends. "Ah, Roderich, your son is much too difficult to impress!" The Frenchman laughed, nudging at Arthur's shoulder who in turn stood unimpressed.

Roderich tapped the back of Arthur's head, minding his briskly of his position and manners towards Francis before turning himself to admire Titanic's beauty. "So this is the ship they say in unsinkable."

"It is unsinkable!" Francis exclaimed. "God himself could not sink this ship!"

The entire entourage of the three men was impeccably tuned out, a perfect example of the Edwardian upper class, complete with servants just for their personal affairs. Francis' personal valet, Ivan Braginski, was a tall and impassive Russian man, with the dour of an undertaker. Ivan had been serving Francis personally for eight years, as a friend and as a indirect promise of high payment and early retirement. Together they worked with a discreet yet impersonal commitment towards one another, more as high payment to a loyal bodyguard than that of the average valet. His body was strong and lean, with platinum blond hair and blue eyes that tinted almost a netherworld purple, making him quite the intimidating figure should Francis ever need it. Accompanying Ivan were two personal maids to Arthur. One was a young, exotic woman from Belarus named Natalia Arlovskaya, hired by Arthur directly for her daunting demeanor and uncanny physical abilities considering her frail and beautiful physique. The other was a Ukrainian woman known as Katyusha Braginskaya, down in her luck and fortune, that was an impeccable maid in herself. She was hired by Francis for Arthur, by what they say is because of her cheap labor and ability to work diligently, but Arthur was convinced it was a particular choice made on the woman's large chest size and ditzy state of mind- not that Arthur minded the view while she went about her daily routines. Although the prospect of how many times the Frenchman had seduced the poor Ukrainian under the cover of 'hired help' put a bit of a knot in his stomach.

A White Star Line porter rushed over to Francis, harried by last minute loading. "Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, round that way-…," but he was disrupted by Francis nonchalantly lacing a fiver in his hurried hands. The porter's eyes dilated in shock of the monstrous tip.

"I put my faith in you, mon ami," Francis cooed to the porter, then gesturing to Ivan, "see my friend here for further instruction on where things should be." Francis breezed on, leaving the unwashed masses to scrabble over the possibility of another high tip. The sound of the porter whistling over other cargo lifters to help carry the large amount of luggage in a hurry played as music to his ears. He quickly checked his pocket watch. "We'd better hurry. This way, messieurs!"

Francis led onward, weaving between vehicles and handcarts, hurrying second-class passengers and well-wishers. Most of the first class passengers were making a point to avoid the press of the dockside crowd by using an elevated boarding passage bridge, twenty feet above. They passed a line of steerage passengers in their tweeds, queued up inside by movable barriers like cattle being transported through a chute, and past a horse-drawn wagon filled with two tons of specially manufactured Oxford Marmalade in wooden cases, finally moving to the first class upper bridge. It was quite the ruckus.

In agitation of the ordeal, Roderich rubbed his tired temples and grumbled to the Frenchman irritably, "honestly, Francis. If you weren't booking everything at the last instant, we could have gone through the terminal rather than running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family." Arthur rolled his eyes at Roderich's 'good humor.'

"Ah, it's all part of my charm, Roderich! At any rate, it was your Arthur's indecisive 'beauty' rituals which made us late. Such a fop!" Francis teased, causing the youngest man to flush red in abashed irritation.

"You were the one who told me to change, fop!"

"Well I most certainly couldn't let you were black on sailing day, mon ami! It's bad luck you know."

"I felt like black."

"oh come now," Francis began, allowing Roderich to begin up the bridge without them as he pushed Arthur's messy bangs from his eyes at the base of the bridge. "Can't you act a little happy? Here I've pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, in one of her most luxurious suites…, and you act as if you're marching to your execution. Now come on." He tugged on Arthur's arm gently, causing the Englishman to stir where he stood and march up the bridge on his own accord, Francis tailing close behind with a sigh of defeat.

Arthur's eyes wandered up the length of the bridge. At the end, a health officer examined their heads one by one as they boarded the ship, checking their scalps and eyelashes for lice and/or infection. A whole mess of people were giddy inside, excited to start the grand adventure. Arthur couldn't help but think this was the ship of dreams… to everyone else. To him, it was a slave ship, taking him to America in chains. As the dark doors swallowed him and Francis, after his little, intrusive health inspection was done and over with, he couldn't help but cling to Francis' sleeve between his fingers, unsure of himself, even in his shame for being so. Francis didn't ignore the subtle plea for help among the many men and women crowded around them as they were guided to their rooms, and gingerly even offered a strong, secretive hand for the Englishman to cling to until they could have peace of privacy. Generally, Arthur was everything a well brought-up man should be; composed, confident, with a dashing smile and courtesy, and knowledge of wealth and politics. However, on the inside, he was screaming.

Titanic towered over Southampton like a skyscraper, well seen from the small thrift stores and pubs built in the city and on the dock. It's last call steamer whistles echoed across the town, reaching each and every ear so that nobody could miss the experience of Titanic's presence amongst them. It carried into a pub, smoky and crowded with dockworkers and ships crew- it was where all the 'tough' working men went for a drink within the day of their hardy labor lives. An environment for drinking, arm wrestling, the occasional drunken squabble, and the quick gambling games; one such game was being played at the time- a round of poker that would change the fates of the four men involved, for better or for worse.

Alfred Jones and Lovino Vargas, both about 20 years of age, exchanged a glance as the other two men argued with each other. Lovino was a small, southern Italian man, with a slightly darker complexion and gingerbread colored hair that fell smoothly around his face and over his brow. He waited impatiently as the other two players argued. Ever the easily flustered type, his patience was naturally thin and his mouth could shoot off an insult and command so quickly that he himself could barely catch it before it flew away. He was sticking to Alfred for the time being, as a friend with housing benefits after Alfred saved his life from accidentally drowning in the harbor about three months prior (as Lovino was notorious for his clumsiness). Although Alfred could cause him grief, he owed the other that much.

Alfred, on the other hand, was very pleased with their friendship, much like how he was with most people regardless. Alfred was a lanky drifter, with golden, messy hair and sky blue eyes. He was a handsome, broad and lean, young man. Very self possessed and sure footed for 20, he was charismatic and almost always sported a good natured smile. He was a natural artist, able to keep himself clean and fed off the Bohemian style of art he picked up from his few years living in Paris- but he was also no upperclassmen. Like Lovino, he relied on suspenders to keep his trousers up and an Irish cap to cover the greasy locks on his head. Wrinkled clothes worn to live in by day and sleep in by night weren't uncommon in his crowd of people though, and with a little luck, he'd at least win some cash from this game of poker to clean up-… or even better, the two Titanic tickets laying helpless in the winnings. He couldn't help but bite his lower lip to keep from chuckling at the squabbling of the other two players.

"I can't believe you bet our tickets!" One began, flabbergasted.

"You're the one who lost our money, dumbass! I'm just trying to get it back, now shut up and take a card!" The other replied.

"Come on, hit me up again." Alfred leaned over the table to take another card and add it to his hand. His eyes shifted between the three other players, his poker face betraying nothing.

Lovino, on the other hand appeared quite nervous, and refused another card.

The Titanic's whistle blew again. It was the final warning. Alfred sighed, "well, it's the moment of truth, boys. Somebody's life is about the change. Let's see what you've got."

The three other men put their cards down on the table. Lovino looked terribly distressed. "I've got nothing, bastard," he grumbled to Alfred.

Alfred continued to look around the circle dealt. "Ah, Lovino, you've got niente I see. Oooh, Olaf's also got squat." He paused, lowering his eyes at the last hand. "Sven…," Sven smiled triumphantly. From Alfred's reaction, it looked like things were going his way. "…uh oh… two pair. Mmm…," Alfred sighed. "Sorry, Lovino."

Lovino shot forward in his seat. "What sorry!? You lost my money?! Ma va fa'n culo testa di cazzo-"

"Sorry, sorry, Lovino!" Alfred began, hushing the Italian man and leaning in close, gently placing a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're not going to see your mama again for a long time…." Lovino froze and Alfred grinned. "'Cause we're going to America, my friend! FULL HOUSE!" He slammed his cards down on the table.

Lovino jumped up, his heart racing. "Porca Modonna! Yeeeeah!" The table exploded into shouting of several languages while Alfred began raking the winnings into his hat. "We're going to-,"

"L'America," chimed one of the losing party, as he balled up a strong fist, aiming it at Alfred as the blond boy winced, ready to take the hit. However, he swings the fist around and clobbers his partner clean in the jaw, knocking him to the floor.

Alfred and Lovino began laughing in hysterics at the scene, continuing to dance around and kiss the lucky tickets. Lovino even jumped onto the strong Alfred's back as they cheered around the pub, as if they won the lottery. "We're goin' home! To the land o' the free and the home of the real hamburgers! On the Titanic! We're ridin' in high style now!"

Lovino laughed, hugging the back of Alfred's neck. "We're practically god damned royalty, ragazzo mio! You see? It's my destinio! Like I told you, to go to l'America and be a millionaire!" Lovino jumped off Alfred's back and hailed his hand in the air, waving to the pub owner. "Capito! I'm going to America!"

"No son," he replied, pointing at a clock on the wall behind him. "Titanic goes to America. In five minutes."

The two boys froze for a moment in realization before rapidly scurrying to grab their belongings. "Shit, shit!" Alfred growled, "grab your stuff, Lovino, come on!" They raked the rest of their belongings into Alfred's side satchel and scrambled out the door cheering, "It's been grand! Nice knowing you!"

The pub owner scoffed. "'Course I'm sure if they knew it was you lot coming, they'd be pleased to wait!"

Alfred and Lovino, carrying everything they own in bags on their backs, sprinted across the pier. They tore through milling crowds and crowds of sailors next to the terminal. Shouts cry out behind them as they jostle through slow-moving men and women, and dodge piles of luggage by weaving around and leaping over it. Suddenly, Alfred came to a full stop at Titanic's base…. He stared up at the cast wall of the ship's hull, towering seven stories about the wharf and over and eighth of a mile long. It was monstrous in his eyes. He didn't have much time to be distracted though, as Lovino ran back to grab his hand and drag him back into full sprint for the third class entrance at the E deck. They reached just as an officer began detaching the ramp from above and started to swing down from the gangway doors.

Alfred began in full lunge, practically throwing himself against the officer. "Wait, we're passengers!" He exclaimed, sweaty and out of breath from his run, and holding his tickets in the officer's face. Lovino quickly joined in behind.

The officer eyed them both. "Have you passed the inspection queue?"

"Of course!" Alfred began, "we don't have lice or anything! We're Americans." He paused, glancing at Lovino over his shoulder, then back to the officer. "Both of us."

The officer eyes them testily and hails them aboard, taking their tickets and reviewing them suspiciously. He gives them to the ticket keeper who began writing their names down in a small notebook for the passenger's list. "Gundersan and…"

"Gundersan," Alfred smiled. The officer handed the tickets back, questioning Lovino's Italian appearance in comparison to the blue eyed blond of Alfred's. However, before he can really call it enough into question to care, the two young men were off, racing down the passage to their victory, grinning ear to ear. "We're the luckiest sons of bitches in the world!" Alfred exclaimed, grabbing Lovino's hand and leading him to the surface deck as Titanic's engines began under their feet. They busted through the door, back into the sunlight and up to the rail where Alfred began yelling to the docks below, "goodbye! Goodbye, I'll miss you!"

Lovino eyed him curiously, punching him gently on the arm as he climbed on the railing next to him. "We don't know anybody here!"

"Of course not, but that's not the point!" Alfred replied with a huge smiled, carrying on. "So long, farewell, everyone!"

Grinning and in good cheer, Lovino joined in, adding his own words to the swell of voices, feeling the exhilaration of the moment. "Farewell! I'll never forget you!"

The crowd of well-wishers waved heartily as the black wall of the Titanic moved past them. Impossibly tiny figures waved back from the ship's rails as Titanic gained speed. The bow waves spread before its mighty plow of the liner's hull as it moved down the River Test toward the English channel.


Note: I start writing this thinking, "oh, I'll only do this part for now, it separates well. I hope it'll be enough." And then it ends up being MORE than enough. Welp, there, we've got a taste of little mister Alfred Jones. I'm way too excited to begin the next part. Thanks for reading, and your kind reviews have been more than inspirational. Thank yoou. Stay tuned!