CHAPTER ONE: THE MANHATTAN PURSUIT


"Tell you what— why don't you come with me to France? The countryside's great, the cities are amazing. We can play poker, meet some beautiful girls... You and I can work together, and if we get lucky, we can hop aboard an ocean liner in England and go to America! It's a good plan. A GREAT plan. What do you say, Fabrizio?"

Memories of the past. Remembrance of a time gone by. Jack long forgot about the dream, but the feeling of loss, worry, and fear still lingered in his chest like a bug that won't go down. It was tightening and claustrophobic. The fluffy mattress, the fresh clothes, the warmth of a morning he thought he'd never see again should've comforted him... but it didn't. Instead, there was an emptiness in his heart— an abyss.

Then Jack felt a blur of red shuffling beside him. Her auburn hair glowed and blazed with the rays of sunshine piercing through the windows. It was Rose, and with him she shared the greatest blanket Jack had ever burrowed into since he was twelve-years-old. She looked peaceful. He could stare at her all day; the curve of her jaw, those full cherry lips... She was a beauty that cannot be realized in paper nor photograph.

If he had died in the Atlantic, would he have seen her again?

...

Amelia Earhart was a girl so obsessed with aviation that it was the only thing she talked about in breakfast. Jack and Rose had accepted a free meal from the fifteen-year-old girl, which consisted of earth-brown stew with beef and potatoes. She deviated from the main subject quickly after realizing something.

"You know, you folks need to start paying soon or my Pa will kick me on the rump," she said.

Jack and Rose looked at each other, then again when they finished and went outside on to the New York mood. Rose paced around the sidewalk while Jack watched sympathetically.

Both of them knew running off together was a crazy thought, and it was. Last week, Jack was sleeping under bridges and out-witting spunky Scandinavians in poker games, but now he was with a very rich woman who just turned penniless because of him, having barely survived the largest maritime disaster of 1912. Was his love worth it in the end?

"Rose, calm down, okay?" he said. "We have a few hundred bucks from Cal's jacket. That's enough for a few months, right?"

"Right," Rose said, "but any amount of money is bound to run out faster than we think. Jack, we have to find work!"

"Yeah... money doesn't grow on trees. They don't magically appear inside your ex-fiancé's jacket either."

Rose flashed a sideways stare before heaving a sigh. She looked stressed and disheveled— far from the elegant upper-class lady Jack met in that faithful day. Now, the young artiste could somewhat relate to her better. She was still the most beautiful woman in the world regardless.

"So... we dedicate this day for job-searching, then?" she asked and turned to him.

Jack frowned.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he said, barely above a whisper.

"What for?"

"I know you'll get by. It's just..." A worried sigh escaped from Jack's lips, and he closed his eyes for a moment. "I wish I could make things easier for us. You know I've been on my own for the past five years, and I only thought of myself. Now I don't know how I'll live up to the man you met on the Titanic."

"..."

Without warning, Rose darted forward and pressed her lips against his. She tasted as she smelled. Autumn and spice. Then she wrapped her arms around him and pulled the blonde into a fantastic embrace as if the bustling cacophony of New York had fallen into deep stillness, and they were left alone in the world. As one, Jack's heart pounded against his chest. His hands glided onto the back of her head, entangling his fingers to swathes of soft downy strands of brown and crimson.

Rose took another sharp draw of breath and broke the kiss slowly as though she had longed for the embrace never to end.

"Jack, I'm ready to face history with you," she soothed. "Whatever happens to us, we'll face it together. I'm already yours. I'm sticking with you because I love you."

Jack blinked.

"I love you, too," he said. "I didn't say it. Back then. I was ready to resign..."

Rose laid her head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat softly. He didn't resign that night— she knew— because at that moment, she could feel the spirit still inside him, still fiery with freedom. A survivor.

"We've been through a lot, haven't we?" she said.

"It's only the beginning."

Later that day, Rose began her job as a waitress in a decorative mahogany restaurant of European design. The Brooklyn Bridge lingered over the mist like a looming sentinel outside the big glass windows, and the manager pestered her for looking at it too long. She wondered where Jack was.

The blonde had taken a ten-dollar bill from Cal's jacket pocket— one of many— and bought fresh clothes, a flat cap, a canvas satchel that looked like it had come from the military, and the artist's essential tools for portrait-making. As with his luck, some Italian man named Gabriel Capone had hired him as a clerk in an ice cream parlor a few blocks from Amelia Earhart's apartment. He never got a job in the pharmacy. But it rather beats working at construction sites or inside murky coal mines.

One day, a portly boy came inside the shop and gave him the stink-eye.

"How do you do, kid?" Jack said. Gabriel did say to sound friendly at all times.

"You look silly," the kid replied sternly. "Did papà make you wear that uniform?"

"I don't know who your father is. Are you going to buy something or just will you wander around here?"

"My papà owns this place," the kid said, his strident Brooklyn accent proclaiming through the empty pastel parlor.

Jack nodded as he noticed the uncanny resemblance between the boy and his new boss. He hung his head low to look at his apparel, chuckled, and leaned on the counter.

"Are you looking for your dad?" he said. "He's not here. He's on the barbershop, I believe."

"Vanilla."

"Excuse me?"

"I want vanilla." the boy pointed to the cluster of frozen white, shielded by thick glass under the counter. "Give me a cone."

"A penny, my friend." Jack smiled.

"But my papà owns this place. I can get it for free."

"Your dad could return the penny to you when he returns. Just standard work protocols."

"Do you want me to bash your head in, mister? A cone!"

Jack laughed. "Woah, watch your tongue, kid. Sheesh!"

"I. Am. Not. Joking."

What's with kids these days? Jack thought. He grabbed a cone and a scoop and crouched behind the counter. Plopping two stacks of balls of vanilla on the dry pastry, he stood up again and reached over the glass to give it to the kid, in which he jerked it away from Jack's gloved hand.

"You must be Alphonse." Jack was the first to speak. "Your dad told me all about you."

Al shrugged and exited the parlor. "Nice talking to you. Actually, it wasn't."

Jack shrugged as well.

A few hours pass and Jack slipped out of his work clothes and put on Officer Lowe's white shirt and navy pants, newly washed. He headed home to Rose. He picked up a newspaper from a scrawny newspaper boy and read aloud the headline: "Newly-founded Universal Studios to compete with Danish Nordisk Film" and thought about it for a moment. Maybe someday, with Rose's beauty, she could become some big shot actress and carry their 'partnership' to a luxurious paradise. He remembered her saying it was her dream.

He tossed the newspaper away when he saw a headline detailing the Titanic's sinking. "All drowned but 868."

The sweet smell of oregano and curry spice welcomed Jack as he entered the apartment. He took off his flat cap and walked to the sound of popping oil and the spirited chatter of girls, curious as to what's for dinner. Working two jobs proved to be a very daunting task— there was the tedious job at Gabriel's, and then he would walk to the piers searching for people who wanted to get their portraits taken. Walk, because hailing a stagecoach, a cab, or a train meant losing money.

"Mister Dawson!" Amelia Earhart exclaimed. She was the one cooking. "Good evening!"

"Hello, Millie." He turned to Rose. "Hey, Rose."

Rose planted a quick peck on his cheek. "Hey, Jackie."

"Aw, what's with that nickname?"

"Do you like it?"

"It's as cheesy as French cheese," Jack said.

"And as sappy as tree sap." Amelia groaned. "It's like I'm living with Romeo and Juliet, but they're not rich."

Dinner came and gone. Rose helped Amelia with the dishes once again. Jack, exhausted, retreated to the upstairs bedroom where he laid his back on the cloud-like bed, eyes closed and breath as calm as a lake. His mind buzzed in a bee-hive of thoughts and worries.

He perked up when the door opened. It was Rose. She held a glass jar close to her chest as if her life depended on it. As he squinted, Jack saw a little trove of coins inside. The redhead closed the door with her hips and set the jar on top of a table.

"What's that?" Jack said.

"Our savings."

"Oh."

"I earned three dollars today. Overtime." Rose sat beside him.

Jack frowned and said, "One and a half."

Rose cocked her head up, smiled, and lightly pushed on Jack's chest, compelling him to lay down the mattress once again. She joined him and draped an arm over his abdomen.

"What's our plan, Jack?" she said. "A house? A business?"

"..."

"A family?"

Jack turned to her, blushing. He didn't reply.

"Should we go to Santa Monica and settle down there near the beach?" Rose continued. "We'll have a large house near the shore, then we'll travel all around the world. I want to go to the Netherlands, Jack. Or—"

"..."

Rose closed her eyes and buried her face on Jack's neck. Smiling. Giggling because she couldn't think of a word to say until a minute passed, and her heartbeat went from erratic to calm.

"Let's get married, Jack," she said. "Please?"

"Alright. After we get out of New York."

"You don't like it here?"

"More than a thousand people would've arrived here from Southampton," Jack said. His voice became as quiet as the wind. "Tommy. Cora. Fabrizio."

"Mister Andrews. Trudy," Rose continued, tone as mournful as his. "So many mo—"

She couldn't continue her words as Jack started sobbing. Rose fell into silence, letting him cry his tears and sorrows.

"Why did they have to die?" Jack stumbled on his words. "I can't... I can't comprehend it."

"Jack..."

"..."

"Hey!" Rose exclaimed. "Remember what Officer Lowe told us."

Jack continued to weep.

"We have to live for them!"

It wasn't like Jack to cry. To look so vulnerable. His youthful vigor dwindled that night as he put an arm over this eyes, dousing his skin with tears,

Rose found herself unable to speak.

The next day, Jack's shift ended earlier than usual when the ice cream parlor suddenly closed, and a pack of Italian men, clad-in-black, had 'borrowed' the shop for some kind of meeting. Jack couldn't bother to be curious. However, Gabriel Capone had mollified him and said he wasn't getting any money today. He had been working for four hours, yet no pay? It angered him to the brink of throwing his stupid hat on the sidewalk and stomping on it, but he had held back at the last second, realizing he'll be left jobless again if it were to transpire. He opted to go to Central Park instead, maybe draw and sell a few portraits.

He was walking briskly through the sidewalks when he heard a frantic conversation happen near the NYPD headquarters.

"Please officer, you have to help me!" A woman pleaded.

The lawman could only shake his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you have to come back tomorrow. We have no sketch artists in this part of Manhattan."

"What!?" she exclaimed. "Officer, please! You have to—"

Realizing the opportunity in the air, Jack came up the stone stairs and approached them. "Officer, Ma'am, I might be able to help."

The dark-skinned policeman raised an eyebrow and adjusted his dark-blue attire, while the old lady clasped her hands together with puppy eyes.

"Can you, son? Are you really an artist or are you some no-good kid looking to waste our time?"

Jack shook his head. "No, I'm really—"

"Oh mister, help me, please!" the lady begged the young man.

"I'm really an artist," Jack continued, looking at the policeman. "If I could borrow a sheet of paper, I could draw whoever robbed this lady. I promise."

The officer put his hands on his hips.

Sighing, Jack drew his satchel, rummaged through his things, and pulled out a new sketchbook that contained his work and a few pencils. Then, he turned to the victim.

"Ma'am, what does he look like?"

The woman thought about it for a second. "He... he had a square jaw!"

Jack lightly drew the first lines of a portrait. "Go on."

"He had eye bags. Large forehead... His nose was crooked and his ears were big."

"Mhm," Jack muttered, not letting his eyes stray away from the paper. He finished after several seconds. "Any more distinguishable attributes in his face? Does he have a scar? Blemishes, perhaps?"

More words and questions would be exchanged as the minutes pass on. The officer watched them both, surprised at Jack's experience with knowing the right things to look for in a person. Jack would show the woman his work, and she would suggest some small adjustments before the artist could work on it some more. He had asked her about the criminal's hair, how thick was his eyebrows, and to little details such as the canthal tilt's angle.

"There!" Jack said, wiping a drop of sweat on his forehead. "Does it look like him?"

"Oh my goodness..." the woman said, awestruck. "That's him! Officer, that's him! You have to look for my purse!"

The policeman grabbed the paper and nodded in approval. "Okay ma'am, we'll get on it shortly. Come back tomorrow." Then he looked at Jack as the woman thanked him and left. "You, young man. Great work helping her. How does the NYPD sound to you?"

Jack smirked. "Sounds okay to me. Why?"

"You're not making this easy, are you?" the officer said, returning the friendly expression. "I'm asking you if you want to join the NYPD. Just as a sketch arist. I ain't giving you a badge, though."

"That's..." Jack's heart started to race. His luck was on fire again! "That would be great!"

He couldn't wait to tell Rose. She would be so proud of him...

"Officer Samuel Battle," the lawman said, outstretching an arm. Jack accepted the handshake.

"Jack Dawson."

Jack then passed by the Swift Merci Tavern, the restaurant Rose had worked in, and decided to check up on her. He had always wondered how she worked. Plus, he'll get to see her face again— that would be enough to cheer him up on a bad day. In any day, really.

Dozens of conversations buzzed in the fancy diner as Jack peered through the clear windows. He also took a good look at himself, at the spirited lad staring right back at him. Satisfied with the left-parted blonde locks and the toothy grin of his ghostly reflection, he focused once again on the waitresses inside. He spotted Rose struggling to carry trays of dirty kitchenware. Adjusting his coat, he opened the glass doors and allowed his nose to take a good whiff of the intoxicating scent of yeast, fresh-baked baguettes, and Parisian perfumes, which were all too familiar after his visit to France.

He sat by a booth near the windows, his leather velvet seat comfortable to him. Jack withdrew his sketchbook and lightly drew the hefty bulk of granite, cement, and cables— the Brooklyn Bridge— that stretched across the East River to the other borough. Before him was a palette of brown and grey colors, common for a misty morning.

He had also noticed Rose approaching him, eyes wide in shock.

"Jack?" she said. "Hey!"

"Good afternoon, Rose," he said, standing up. "How are you?"

"I'm fine... struggling a bit, actually. Wha-What are you doing here?"

"Parlor's closed." Jack pursed his lips. "Had to leave work early. Why, you're not happy to see me?"

Rose scoffed and hugged him tightly. "Of course I am!"

"But..." she pulled away, frowning. "As much as I want to spend more time with you, the manager is going to scold me again for... dare I say it, 'slacking off'."

"That's okay," he said. "Happens to me, too. Good luck with your work."

Rose smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

"It's so good to see you, Jack," she said. "I love you. So much."

She left him on the booth, but not without another sweet wave. Jack sighed, sat down again, and continued to draw the Brooklyn Bridge, but the graphite tip snapped into pieces.

Darn it...

It was then that the glass doors opened, and three plump figures entered the restaurant. Jack paid no attention. Now, if he could borrow a knife from the employees and sharpen the pencil, then maybe he'll get to draw that bridge finally. He cocked his head toward the counter but inadvertently landed his gaze on a very familiar face.

"My heavens above..." a country twang muttered. "Jack Dawson?"

"Mrs. Brown!?"

"It really is you!" Molly said, almost dropping her purse. "Oh my, I thought... I thought I'll never see you again!."

Jack stood up again, but this time he accidentally rammed his knee on the table's metal support.

"Ow..."

"Erm, Mister Edison, Mister McGill, this is Mister Dawson. He is a friend of mine... I met this handsome young artist on the Titanic."

"Oh joy," a brown-haired man with a monocle said, rolling his eyes. He was Mister McGill, by the looks of it.

Jack shook all their hands.

"Ah, a Titanic passenger," Mister Edison, a greying old chap with eyebrows as thick as his transatlantic accent, chimed in. "I am quite sorry for the tragedy, Mister Dawson. Margaret, shall we sit next to his table? You two seem to have a lot to catch up to."

"Yes, yes, that would be a mighty good idea," Molly said. The monocle-wearing fellow pulled a chair for her, a few feet beside Jack.

Meanwhile, the artiste could not stop his mouth from gaping. What were the chances he would bump again with a woman like Molly Brown? The only one, besides Rose, who never judged him for his clothes and status? She had helped them start a new life. She helped them protect their identities. Jack knew that he owed a lot to her. If only someone like him could repay Molly...

"H-hey, thank you, Mrs. Brown," he started. "For everything. And those clothes you gave us. It helped the bumpy road become a little less... bumpy."

"Ah, I'm always happy to help you both. You should also thank that officer. Lotsa suffragettes berated him because they thought he was up and stealin' women's clothing. I saved his derriere from being torn to pieces."

"Well looks like he owes you too."

"No one owes me anythin' apart from Smith and Wheeler Incorporated. Those bastards..."

"Speaking of Smith and Wheeler," Mr. Edison butted in. "Margaret, what about the investment in Nevada?"

Her friends immediately directed Molly's attention. "Ah, you see, some folks in Blackwater and Sandy Acres sent me a letter telling me about the liquidity assets in the..."

Jack was immediately lost at the business jargon and pursed his lips. Typical upper-class stuff. He couldn't see himself doing that one day but based on his time in the Titanic first-class quarters, maybe he'd fit right in. Maybe. But the thrill of living free appealed to him more than snobbish facades and posh accents.

On his periphery, Rose had started to round the restaurant once again but caught the attention of Molly Brown.

"Rose! Darling, is that you!?" she exclaimed, earning the stares of other customers in the vicinity for a fleeting moment.

Rose almost dropped the metal trays and approached Molly with wide eyes and a gaping jaw.

"Molly, oh my goodness!" she exclaimed. The redhead went in for a hug but realized she was unable to. "I... I... You're here! Jack's here too! Jack, it's Molly!"

Jack mouthed, 'I know.'

Mister McGill grumbled again. "For Pete's sake..."

Both women rambled on and on about the disaster, how everyone thought Rose DeWitt-Bukater was dead, and how in a way, she was. Rose Dawson explained everything so quickly that Molly had to stop and digest it all in. The younger woman explained the driftwood, Harold Lowe, the Carpathia. Everything. Thomas Edison chimed in the conversation and asked some things about the ill-fated ship, but then...

Smash!

The huge glass window broke into pieces, revealing dirty-looking men with bandanas outside the establishment. Molly let out a shrill cry as the robbers snatched the suitcase away from Thomas Edison. Mister McGill tried desperately to hold on to the suitcase, but he was overpowered quickly when one of the men with a thick bushy beard held up a metal pipe high above his head as if to strike.

"Holy sh—!" Jack was taken aback, and he cursed as his seat fell over. The robbers, with the suitcase in their possession, hightailed out of the vicinity with their horses.

"N-No!" Edison shouted. "Those patents are important!"

"How important?" Jack asked.

"They're gonna sell them!" Edison exclaimed. "And if say the Germans or the Austro-Hungarians get to buy my patents, they will beat America in the arms race!"

Jack bit his lip. After a moment of hesitation, he jumped out of the window and sprinted.

Baffled New Yorkers looked and gawked at the sight of a young man running through the boulevard, through the crowded intersections where horses and cars mingled, and through the air-headed lawmen who were yet to process the commotion. The stagecoach turned right, revealing its closed doors. Jack jumped forward and grabbed on to a metal handle protruding from the carriage.

The horses hee-hawed as the man holding the reins noticed him. Meanwhile, Jack wondered what she had gotten himself into.

"What the-?" the man exclaimed. The reins snapped, and the horses ran faster, inciting yelps from crossing pedestrians. He let go of one rope and used his free hand to swat away Jack like a fly latched onto skin, but it was too late. Jack had swung the door open and hoisted himself inside the stagecoach, where it sweltered like an oven.

The coach rocked and bobbed with every bump in the cobblestone road, but Jack was the only thing that the two thieves inside noticed at the sudden turn of events.

"Hey! Get offa here, you crazy bastard!" one of them said.

Jack looked at him. A punch, courtesy of the grumpy old feller, hurtled towards his face like an oncoming train. He ducked immediately, and the meaty fist slammed against the robber's partner, who was behind Jack.

"Don't hit me! Hit him, you fool!"

Noticing the stolen suitcase sitting atop the man's lap, Jack immediately seized it and pulled, but the bearded man had already latched onto it, and now both of them were in a gritty, clumsy tug-of-war. He gritted his teeth and crashed his back on the other door, opening it easily. He was winning the battle- now he must grab it and jump outside!

"Fabrizio, do NOT let go of that suitcase!" said one of the men.

Jack's muscles stiffened.

That name...

Feeling a sense of grief, anger, and confusion billowing in his chest, Jack eyed the two robbers and squinted through the shadows.

It was then that it hit him— his best friend had indeed died in the Atlantic ocean, along with a thousand more souls. There was no Fabrizio; only a rugged looking man and a bearded hunk of muscle glaring at him.

The masked man hurled a punch towards Jack's face, and he was lolled back, mind thrown into a kaleidoscope of dizzy colors. The young artist flew out of the stagecoach and crash-landed on the rough concrete where a world of pain greeted him.


A/N: You're so stupid, Jack.

Samuel J. Battle was the first black police officer in the NYPD! He died in 1966, which is fairly recent in terms of history. I also included Al Capone's family.

Jack's death in the movie represented the insurmountable feeling of loss experienced by the survivors of the disaster— something I think saves the movie from romanticizing a horrific tragedy. So as to not do that, I made sure that the two would be heavily affected by the sinking, as everyone was. Even with each other, I doubt Jack would move on from Fabrizio's death easily.

Enjoy the read! Please leave a review as feedback always helps the story; it's free, takes little to no time, and it makes my day :) You can also suggest some more historical figures for me to include.