Chapter One: A Sailor and an Immigrant

Mark looked at the ships that bustled about the waters of New York Harbor. They were composed of metal and wood, their modes of propulsion coming from both steam and sail, respectively. These ships were among the best—and worst—the country had to offer for every purpose, whether for trade, leisure, or war. Of course, Mark knew this better than anyone else. As an esteemed former officer, he had all the knowledge he needed from the United States Naval Academy.

Mark Sanchez was his full name, though he usually just went by Mark when he could get away with it. His surname came from his Spanish father, who raised him with his mestizo mother on a ranch near the Texas capital of Austin. He came from a family of military tradition, going all the way back to the first conquistadors that entered Mexico, to norteño rebel forces that fought against Santa Anna, and ultimately, in service with the American Army for the Civil (on the side of the Union) and Indian Wars. Though his father had been disappointed in him for choosing the Navy instead of the Army, all dissatisfaction washed away when his son received an elusive recommendation to the premier school for naval trainees. The second-ever Hispanic American to receive such an honor.

Mark gave four of his prime years to the Navy. Eight if you counted the time spent in the academy. When other seventeen-year-olds chafed at the idea of leaving home, he took that opportunity in full stride. He had traveled to many corners of the world, from South America, Britain, Arabia, Alaska, and even Japan. Yet, at age twenty-five, the allure of the oceans no longer held the same sway. He was ready to spend some time in his home country, the good ol' US of A.

The military man went into his satchel and dug out two separate bundles of literature. The first were his honorable discharge papers. Usually, a naval office had to undergo four years of reserve service on top of the four active, yet recent peace had made such a thing unnecessary. The second were—orders if one could call it. The local admiral, his former boss, had enlisted him to inspect some repair work being done on some naval steamships. "Make sure those Irish get it right!" he remembered him saying.

The "Irish" (in reality, it was more of a mix of them, Germans, Colored, and other folks) had done a great job. The earlier setbacks created by the worker's union had been made back in quick time, and the ships were well on schedule. Of course, a part Mark figured that wasn't the answer the admiral wanted to hear. He often grumbled about "socialist" insiders within the union that presumably plotted to bring down America, though he had no evidence. Mark hadn't seen anything on the job site.

Regardless, Mark cared little about the situation in New York City. As a countryman, he wanted to explore the frontier, much like the fabled cowboys celebrated in Buffalo Bill's Wild West. He'd only agreed to the admiral's job due to his passing through town and the promise of one whole dollar.

Yes—that's what Mark looked forward to the most. The crinkle of one amazing, gold-equivalent greenback in his pocket.

Suddenly, the unusual calm that had stricken New York City broke when a feminine shriek burst through the air. Mark turned and faced the direction of peril. Had another maiden fallen victim to the gangs of New York? No, instead, he saw some Irish ragamuffins accosting a short woman of her bag. The woman had fair skin, soft blue eyes, and purple hair that reminded Mark of lighter bluebonnets from back home.

"EEEEEEEEEK!" shouted the woman. "Apua, apua! Minut ryöstetään!"

Though Mark knew not what tongue the woman spoke with, he was never one to abandon a damsel in distress. He leaped into action, the ragamuffins freezing in place once they noticed the officer blues worn over his body. This—had gone better than expected.

"Release her, children," warned Mark with an authoritative voice. "If you don't, I'll give y'all hell."

The ragamuffins stared at each other, the woman, then at Mark. After some reposition, one older kid from the group stuck out his tongue and kicked him—in a place a man should not be kicked. Mark lurched forward, mustered the strength to fall on one knee, before watching the impoverished children run away with the woman's bag.

"N-No!" she exclaimed with heavily accented British English. "You must come back! That's all I have from Suomi!"

Suomi, thought Mark as he struggled to breathe, isn't that—somewhere in the Russian Empire? Finland?

Mark had visited many countries in his voyages abroad. France, Britannia, Portugal, South Africa, Japan, the list went on. Yet, one place he'd never had the privilege of seeing was Finland, or the Russian Empire for that matter. The Russians didn't particularly like Americans in their ports, especially those affiliated with a foreign military. There seemed to be no goodwill between the two nations even after the US bought Alaska almost two decades ago.

The woman rushed over to Mark's side, looking over the man awkwardly. It appeared she wished to dust off some debris from his blues yet did not have the will to do so. Her face went bright red with fluster, much like a ripe turnip.

"A-Are y-you—okay?" she asked in a tone significantly more muffled than before.

"I—think so." Mark stood up, somewhat haggard in light of the lack of wind in his lungs. Rather than succumb to anger, the officer allowed his blood to cool. He brushed some dirt from his collar—why did those children have to sully what he'd ironed a few hours ago? They would one day understand the value of a hard day's work—if the dangerous hellscapes of the city's factories didn't take them first.

Whether dictated by his Spanish upbringing or rural upbringing, Mark had to go back to basics. He'd come upon a stranger woman, one who he'd never met before.

"I believe I haven't made my introduction, ma'am. My name is Mark."

"M-My name—i-is Florina Flagerberg," she replied, nearly digging her hands into her face. "T-Thank you. I-I c-came from Suo—I m-mean Finlandia. Erm—Finland."

Despite his best attempts, Florina's stammering compelled Mark to chuckle. She reminded him of an old lass she knew from the ranch next to his. She was socially lacking but cute, homely, and incredibly supportive. It was a shame Mark went to the Navy, as otherwise, she would've married him instead of a man several miles away at Round Rock.

"Worry not," he replied, "I've understood you plenty."

"Mhm," she said, "B-But—those kids s-stole my p-purse. What—am I-I to d-do? It had—an h-heirloom I b-brought from h-home. W-Why would they—d-do such a t-thing?"

Mark knew the reason why. The recent banking panic here had done much to shock the economy into a recession. Banks shut down, factories closed, and several farmers had their lands taken by men in fancy suits. Disregarding, the lieutenant wasn't the type of man to explain that to a dejected girl. He detected a tear drip from Florina's eye. Stricken with pity, he did his best to reassure her in whatever way he could.

"You have my word that we'll get your things back. On my honor as a lieutenant of the United States Navy!"

Florina responded by wiping her face of moisture. "R-Really? Y-You're—with the n-navy?"

"Well—used to be," replied Mark amidst a shrug, "I'm retired, but I still have some friends with wet boots. I'm sure I can ask them for help if you'll allow me your company."

"M-My c-company?"

"My apologies," Mark knelt down and gently kissed Florina's hand. "I didn't mean to make you misconstrue. I merely wish to aid a woman in her time in need. Nothing more."

Florina blushed further but provided no resistance to Mark's advances. Emboldened, Mark motioned for his new friend to follow him, his free hand pointing west. "Come with me, fair Florina! I've some friends in Admiral's Row to speak to!"

Admiral's Row was a row of ten homes nestled near the outskirts of the Brooklyn Naval Yard. A quaint settlement inside of the chaos of New York City, these comfortable abodes were surrounded by the noises of the borough and working men alike. An officer could theoretically eat breakfast and observe stroll to shore to observe the construction of new vessels, all in about the span of five minutes.

Mark knocked on the door of Quarters E, a building that had taken heavy inspiration from the French Empire. It had pristine, white walls and a humble red clay roof coupled with clean windows facing the road. Mark sat at the underlying steps with one eye on his pocket watch the other at his quivering companion.

"S-Should—I r-really b-be here?" asked Florina. Her eyes darted across the environment, an alien sight to behold. This was a far cry to the rural fjords of her homeland. "This place looks really important."

"Erm—I think so," replied Mark as he pocketed his timepiece. "I don't think the admiral will get too upset. He has a soft spot for women like you."

Mark barely had enough time to register the new look of confusion on Florina's face when the door opened. There, he saw an older man with a fancier uniform than him. He had a gray beard, a worn face, and a large chest. The nameplate on his uniform read: Fargus.

The man extended his hand and greeted Mark like he'd were his own son. "Oi! Why, ain't it Mark Sanchez?" His eyes caught a glimpse of Florina, who seemed to shrink into her collar. "Who's the little lassie here? Will you make introductions?"

"This is Miss Florina Flagerberg," he replied, "She's an immigrant from Finland I rescued from some ragamuffins on the docks. Fresh off the boat, I might add."

"Missus Flagerberg," Admiral Fargus lowered his head and bowed, as was customary in Victorian America, "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"EEEEEEEEK!"

Florina's scream startled both superior and subordinate. Did she have weak blood—or some fear of men? The woman scurried behind Mark. Though the former officer didn't mind serving as a human shield (believe it or not, he'd done so twice for his sister back at his ranch), her sudden behavior was unexpected. He felt her small hands squeeze the cloth on his back.

Fortunately, Captain Fargus was a swell chap. He laughed a merry laugh, his white beard seemingly animated from sentiment. This product from New Orleans didn't take himself too seriously, and his optimism trickled down to his humility. Mark took great pains to explain to his companion this, and after several minutes of convincing, Florina took a step to stand beside him. She kept a hand on his jacket, however.

Then, the matter of business arose. Mark took the time to tell Admiral Fargus everything he observed in the naval yard. The sailor merely nodded as he listened, though Florina stood patiently. Mark spoke about many things on the navy that she neither had the experience nor the proficiency in the language to understand.

"I see," said Fargus, "So no rosies are plotting to destroy our ships?"

"None," he replied with a nod, "I'm certain they have a number of them in the union, but they seem fairly tame when compared to some of the folks you read in the news. The ship is well on its way to becoming a shining beacon of our power."

The Admiral nodded with approval, then slipped a dollar bill into Mark's right hand. He patted him on his shoulder. "Very good. I'll keep my eye on em,' but as long as they ain't striking, we'll be fine. It's a shame you left the force, Markus. You were a good lieutenant to have."

"—It's always been just Mark," he replied, "Everything has an end. It just so happened mine was sooner than most folk."

"Bloody shame," the Admiral reached over behind his wall and retrieved a lit pipe, of which he placed in between his lips. "You never could beat Rodriguez."

Mark felt a jolt of angst wash over his veins. Rodriguez. That was the surname of Hector Rodriguez, the first Hispanic American to ever graduate from the Academy. He'd come from circumstances not dissimilar to him; he was raised on a small farm in Iowa. Yet, the man also served to steal his glory. He was the first in everything, first to join the football team, first to take the oath, first to graduate, first to serve the country. This sense of disenfranchisement held no greater sway than the incident that happened two years ago aboard the USS Vetis.

Long ago, when he and Rodriguez were ensigns on the USS Vetis, serving on an exploratory mission for Alaska, the two discovered an island not yet marked on the map. The Russians hadn't marked it in the map provided to them, so the pair were ecstatic when faced with the possibility of designation. Yet, these emotions were all for naught. Rather than honor both men, the Navy decided to name the island solely after Rodriguez in his honor. Mark held his chin up as he heard the news, but it took all of his strength to contain his anger. From then on, Mark would loath that man.

"The Navy isn't a competition," said Mark through clenched teeth, "once we're out of the Academy, we're expected to cooperate in defense of America's interests. I—respect Rodriguez. I congratulate him for his recent promotion to captain."

That was a lie—and Mark knew it. Though it was enough for Fargus to buy, the same could not be said for Florina. Detecting discomfort, the Scandinavian eased her hand to touch Mark's arm lightly. This came at an utter surprise to him, but a welcome one.

"There is something I'd like to ask of you," said Mark. "Florina recently had her things taken from her by a gang of Irish hoodlums in Brooklyn. Do you know of any way we can get them back?"

"—Perhaps," the Admiral took a swift swig of his pipe, "I'd assign some marines to your cause, but the memory of those draft riots twenty years ago makes me hesitant. You're probably dealing with the Baron Crockets. I suggest you talk to Lloyd Crocker of Tammany Hall. He's the boss of the local political machine—and he should be able to get the lassie's things back."

The mention of Crocker's name drained Mark's face of all blood. "Did—you say, Lloyd Crocker?"

"Yea," the Admiral replied with a nod, "and I suggest you take your blues off before you meet him. I don't want the press to think the Navy sponsors that man's activities. You're a private citizen now, you hear?"

Fargus' raised voice compelled Mark to break into a salute. "Yes sir!"

Thus, they made their farewells. Mark shook his former boss' hand one last time and stood still as the Admiral shut the door. After a moment of silence, which allowed a gust of wind to pass through, Mark sighed. He lowered his hat and combed his head of wavy hair.

"So that's that," he said, "This'll probably be the last time I'll see him. He's too old for this line of work, and I don't see myself coming through New York again."

"Are—you sad?" asked Florina.

"Plenty. The Navy is more than just service. It's a lifestyle, a sacrifice. I'm ready to leave it behind, though. I've too much to do before I meet my maker."

Mark took in another deep breath, then slowly exhaled. The Navy had done much for him. Before his enlistment, he was an unruly kid who had no direction in life. Even so, he didn't know what to do when Florina slipped her hand around his arm. The former lieutenant looked at her, dumbfounded.

"You—did that earlier. What gives?"

"Y-You—look l-like y-you need it," she replied, "My sisters—used to tell m-me a friendly w-woman's touch c-comforts a m-man. W-We—are friend's—right?"

Mark could only smile at his newfound friend. Behind all of her uncertainty, Florina Fagerberg was truly a person of interest.

"Yes, we are, Florina. Let us make haste! Tammany Hall awaits!"

Receiving an audience with the Irish-American proved to be—much easier than expected. Mark and Florina found themselves in the opulent office of the political boss, Lloyd. The building was located somewhere at Union Square, a bustling place in Manhatten (the island northwest of Brooklyn) that laid in the heart of New York City. The room itself seemed to be an uneasy marriage of British and American architecture, an Anglo-American union. Mark twiddled his thumbs as his eyes grazed over a marble bust of Augustus Ceasar standing on the boss' desk.

"I can see you've made it to my office, lieutenant," said Lloyd Crocker as he walked past a frame harboring a set of boxing gloves on the wall. "Do you require a favor? It's not every day that a naval officer strolls in here with a german companion."

"She's nordic," replied Mark. He stared at the political boss, unrelenting in his poise. "Imagine this. You stroll onto the great docks of our nations for the first time only to get your things stolen from you by some ragamuffins. Rather pitiful, if undisciplined."

Lloyd took a swig of whiskey from a small flask on his desk. He motioned for an attendant to pour some shots for his two companions. After watching orange liquid bubble onto the clear container, Mark observed the attendant place the glasses in front of him and Florina. "Care for a drink?" asked Lloyd. "We here provide the utmost hospitality."

"My liver doesn't react to alcohol very well," replied Mark.

"I simply insist."

Mark frowned. It was considered rude to refuse a gift from a gentleman, ruder still to press on after a refusal. Thus, the former lieutenant merely shrugged his shoulders and downed the entire glass in one go. Though he hadn't wanted to drink, he never shirked from defending his manhood. Apparently, neither did Florina. She passed the beverage more smoothly than he, a consequence of the frequent drinking common in the colder countries of the north.

Lloyd chuckled, and Mark shot a look towards his companion. "Why did you do that?" he whispered to her. "I was going to take yours, too."

"I—was j-just following y-your lead," she whispered back, "did I do s-something wrong?"

No, Florina hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, she might have done him a favor. Mark had an indigestion condition that forced him to drink liquor slowly. If Florina hadn't stepped in, the former lieutenant might've lost face.

"You've got yourself a swell woman, lieutenant," said Lloyd as he poured himself another glass. "I'll talk to the Crockets and get her stuff back. I'm going to need something from you, though."

"We didn't even tell you who was responsible," remarked Mark.

"You didn't have to. I know everything around these parts. Something doesn't happen if I don't give the okay, you hear?"

"Sure."

Lloyd strolled over to a cabinet beside his desk and opened it. He pulled out all sorts of things ranging from a paddle, fishing net, and even a Colt revolver. Florina eyed the latter with a mixture of curiosity and caution, unsure if such a weapon should be left out in the open.

"Back in my day—" said Lloyd, "I used to fight. I fought my brothers, my cousins, kids on the streets. Eventually, I started fighting for money. I was pretty good at it, too. I used the reputation I got from that to propel myself to public service."

The boss pulled out a pair of red, padded leather gloves. He slapped them in front of Mark, who stared at them, utterly dumbfounded.

"Surely you don't intend for me to box, do you?" asked Mark. "Boxing is a barbaric sport. Something drunk men do to amuse themselves."

"Is that code for another drink?" Lloyd proceeded to refill Mark's glass, and when he protested, did the same for Florina. "Whiskey ain't cheap. Well—it is, but you're smart."

Mark shook his head but downed this shot as well. Florina did the same, only uttering a hiccup when she ceased. At this point, the man could feel his lips begin to buzz. He was still of sound mind, but pain—or rather the capacity to feel anything, should be lacking.

"So how about it?" asked Lloyd. "A bout for a broad's bag? You'll get some good money regardless if you win."

The sailor looked over to Florina. She stared back at him, her eyes beginning to dilate. Though Mark hadn't borne the brunt of the effects yet, she was just beginning to cross the bridge. However, he couldn't deny the cuteness expressed by her form. Mark lowered his head. There was only one thing to do.

"Very well. I'm in need of funds, anyway."

Later, Mark was shirtless on a ring surrounded by spectators. The lieutenant didn't remember how he got here, nor did he recall how he procured a pair of black shorts. Yet, here he was, primed and ready for battle. The first person Mark saw was his opponent, a red-haired man much bigger than he. The next was Florina, who stood slumped against the ring's ropes with a bottle of clear Chardonnay in her right hand.

That's odd, Mark thought; I never took her as much of a liquor lover.

What was even weirder were her actions. The Scandinavian raised her bottle high and took a swig from it. Emboldened by liquid courage, she opted to give Mark her graces.

"Hic—get him, Mark! Give him hell!"

Mark stared at the woman for a moment, perturbed by her sudden lack of stammering. Yet, he couldn't help but admire the sight in awe: her red face, the carefree sense in her eyes, the mop of her lavender hair. Alcohol—truly had an intriguing effect on her. Mark felt his heart skip a beat, and it almost made him forget he'd spent his dollar on the bottle.

What a woman, he thought.

"Hey!" cried his opponent. "Are you gonna stare off into space or fight me?"

Mark raised his gloves but was immediately met with a punch to the jaw. The man stammered back yet instinctively returned a shot to the body. He punched him so vigorously that it nearly made Mark question himself, though a hazy memory gradually came to him. From his days in the navy, back when he was an ensign on the USS Thetis.

The lieutenant—had boxed before. He did so aboard the Thetis in between shifts of duty, often taking on common seaman for opponents. There stood no man who could defeat him, though his commanding officer ultimately reprimanded him for partaking in "undisciplined behavior." In hindsight, this might've been the reason why they chose to name that island after Rodriguez instead of him. It took him countless shots of whiskey alongside a new bout for him to realize that.

Mark swerved his head and dodged another punishing blow to the face. To counter, Mark went from another liver shot. He didn't know why he kept on punching below the neck; most boxers wished for the quickest knockout possible. Yet, something just felt right about this tactic. His opponent didn't appear to be reacting well to his shots.

"Keep hitting him!" exclaimed a blitzed Florina. "Hic—he had bad mutton this morning!"

Mutton, thought Mark. Somehow, he'd landed himself in the situation to be coached by a Finnish woman he'd just met that morning. Regardless, God—or whoever else seemed to have a good sense of humor. Mark equated mutton to more punches, so he continued resorting to body shots.

The bell rang. Lowering his gloves, Mark retreated to his corner. There, he found Florina half-asleep but otherwise okay. She could barely do anything with screaming spectators around them, though she provided what little assistance she could.

"Do you feel okay—hic?"

"You're punch drunk," replied Mark, "How unladylike."

"Shut up," she said while lightly punching Mark's shoulder. "Americans are so fun! The Russians banned fun. They told us to work more. Hic—Viva Mexico!"

"Jesus, Florina," Mark leaned over and squeezed the Scandinavian's cheeks, "wrong country by about a thousand miles."

Florina's face went a bright red. "You're no fun—I want more drinky. Anna minulle lisää viiniä."

The bell rang again, and Florina smacked Mark's gloves together to send him off. Renewed with a new sense of purpose, Mark determined to end the bout quickly. He desired to acquaint himself more with this "new" Florina, so a knockout was essential.

"You were lucky last time," boasted his opponent. "I'm not going to lose here. I fight for my wife!"

A woman, who Mark presumed to be said wife, raised her hands. "I'm cheering for you, Dorcas!" she exclaimed.

"It's a shame for you, then," commented Mark, "I'm fighting for a girl, too."

The second round began. Mark took a flurry of shots to the head, each more brutal than the last. Yet, he did not fall. Instead, he continued to pester Dorcas' side. The round reached its halfway point when suddenly, Mark noticed a look of shock on his opponent's face. The man fell onto one knee with his hand over his ribs.

"Are you all right?" asked the referee as he rushed over to his side. "I'm going to start the count."

"I'm okay, blue," said Dorcas, his face wincing, "I just gotta stand up—!"

The man threw up—right then and there. Mark turned away, as otherwise he might feel compelled to do the same. The crowd erupted into boos. The fight had ended so soon; a technical knockout wasn't an ending most had paid for.

Regardless, Mark shot up into the air triumphantly. He had won. The former lieutenant rushed the crowd for his companion and found her in the midst of a conversation with Lloyd Crocker. He had a small bag in his possession, one that Mark recognized as belonging to her.

"I am a man of my word," he said, "though the fight wasn't as entertaining as I'd planned, I will uphold my part of the bargain."

Florina took the bag with a face full of glee. She opened it to make sure it had everything, afterward thanking the boss for his help. Then, she turned towards Mark.

"My hero! I knew I could count on you!"

"It was no problem, really. The honor's all—MINE!"

Mark fell back as Florina tackled him onto the ground. The Scandinavian pressed herself into his embrace, uncaring for the sweat that covered his body. For a moment, Mark wondered if there was anything else but alcohol in that Chardonnay bottle. The confidence exuded from this small woman—was extraordinary.

"Take me to Coney Island," she said, "I want to—see something there."

"Are you sure?" asked Mark. "I'm flattered, but maybe we should wash up first."

"No!" she replied while pounding on Mark's chest. "I want to go to Coney Island now!"

Mark sighed. He didn't wish to make his companion angry, so he gave in to her request. Thus, it was decided the pair would head there. They left the venue just as a small earthquake shook through the city. Though the pair observed chimneys topple over the sides of homes, Mark kept Florina closely around his arm.

No harm would fall upon her. Not when he was there.

The first in North America, a roller coaster had mine carts zooming across its railing with ample speed. The carts rode over a conglomerate of hills and valleys, though never taking on enough speed to pose much danger. It was known as the Switchback Railway, America's newest attempt in creating fun for the entire family.

Mark and Florina stared at the coaster from a coast-side pier near the towering structure. They watched as people giggled with glee, while others disavowed such fun as immature. Regardless, Mark regarded the coaster as an excellent example of American engineering, one he foresaw expanding to the rest of the country in due time.

"I h-had—fun today," said Florina as she shifted her vision towards the ocean. It had been some time since the bout, so she'd sobered up somewhat. Her face now held the same color of peach instead of the cherry she held some resemblance to before.

"I can say the same," replied Mark. He took a bite from a vanilla ice cream cone he bought from the boardwalk. His lips felt buzzed under the cold, but he could at last sense some feeling in them.

The pair had done much today. Outside of their venture to receive Florina's things, they'd rode the Switchback Railway, visited several shops in New York Square, and even made a stop at the local Stock Exchange. There, Florina asked Mark what a "stock" was, so to demonstrate, the intoxicated former sailor dropped about five hundred dollars (or about half of his life savings) into investing with a company named "Consolidated Gas Company." After that, the pair got some ice cream at a nearby parlor before circling back here.

"Is—all of America like this?" asked Florina as she liked to top of her treat. "I—r-read the b-book M-Mark Twain wrote. He m-made A-America seem—more rural."

The book Florina referred to was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, a novel set in the rural town of St. Petersburg (a place that reminded Mark somewhat of the Midwest). The former lieutenant had read the story during his free time at sea, an interesting endeavor given the large swathes of blue that surrounded him. It reminded him of a bit of his childhood, though his involved many more—malicious details he'd rather not think about as was the life of a Hispanic child in the South.

"America is a vast land of varied peoples and methods of living," said Mark. "Is that how you learned English? No—that doesn't make sense. Your accent sounds more like those tea-sippers across the pond."

"No," replied Florina with a light smile, "I—actually l-learned it f-from my friend, Lyn. She was visiting—F-Finland for school from the UK."

Lyn, thought Mark. For some reason, the mention of that name made his skin—tingle. Subtle images of what he presumed to be the American Great Plains appeared in his mind, a blurred memory of nostalgia. The lieutenant wondered how the name of a woman he'd never met could produce such a sensation. Yet, this would be a question answered for another time.

Regardless, there was another matter to attend to. Mark looked at his companion, her warm smile still on her happy face. The girl was timid yet playful like a porcelain doll. Mark wondered what was to become of her. Was this to be yet another single-day fling for him? Would Florina vanish from his life like the many other women he'd met on countless faraway ports? Or would this woman stick around? Be—different and everlasting, aging excellently with him like the Chardonnay she'd indulged in several hours before?

"Hey, M-Mark," said Florina as she politely tapped his shoulder, "What—are you doing a-after? Are—you going to go h-home?"

Home? Outside of his nation, Mark had no response. He'd once considered Texas his home, but he'd been gone for so long that he doubted he'd even recognize the place. The Academy was another answer, but those four years were well behind him. He couldn't call New York City his own, either, if the rampant crime were any distinction. His thoughts hearkened back to an old phrase his mother would tell him whenever he wrote homesickly.

"Home is where the heart is, mijo. Follow it, and you'll always be happy."

A long time ago, his heart was in the Navy. Now? Well—one could say a certain sailor had taken a liking to someone. A liking that went deeper than a fling or even a one-night stand.

"I've nothing on my agenda," he lied. The truth was, Mark had a train ticket in his pocket for a train heading south, where he would rendezvous on another route to join the cowboys of Arizona. Such a thing was no longer necessary—if Florina were to ask a question he already knew.

"Can—you a-accompany me to San F-Francisco?" She clasped her hands together as would a praying nun. "I-It would please me so! I know no one in N-New Y-York City! You're t-the only one—I know!"

Mark smiled. He looked into Florina's eyes, the sun beginning to set behind her. The water surrounding New York Harbor seemed to glisten like an orange Angara gem. Perhaps this was a sign from the heavens of the bounty of America, or rather, of a bountiful future between the two. Regardless, Mark didn't need to wait any longer to provide his answer. He'd already made his mind.

"Of course. I've meant to go out there, anyway."

Thus, the pair departed for a local train station. Before they left, Mark took a look back at the Atlantic Ocean one last time. He closed his eyes, whispered a silent prayer, then performed a brief salute towards a white steamship chugging over the horizon.

"Goodbye, dear sea," he muttered, "it's time to move onto the next chapter of my life…."

A/N: A nice little thought experiment I had a while back. Might go back and finish this if I get some follows and reviews. My priorities are on other projects at the moment.