Note: Anthropomorphic characters are portrayed with more human characteristics as opposed to what is seen in Zootopia (2016).
I.E. proportional build and height (example: Nick and Judy are 5'1" and 4'9 compared to Jimmy Crystal's 5'9", range of height being 4'7"-6'1" for adults), ten digits on hands and feet (with shoes), and hair.
Darkness.
That is all anyone in the black void would have been able to see, was Darkness. And all they would be able to feel was the crushing weight upon them. And all they would here was a faint pinging noise, distant and muted at first, only growing louder and louder as a bright, ethereal light descended, almost like the gates of heaven being opened to greet them.
But as the noise grew louder, and light grew brighter, one would see the peculiar sight of two Russian submersibles descending into the dark depths of the sea, the noise growing quiet and the lights growing dim once again as the two machines descended deeper and deeper into darkness. And once they reached the bottom, one might compare it to landing on the dark side of the moon.
"Keldysh, Keldysh, Mir Odin, my dostigli dna," a burly Siberian tiger spoke in Russian in a radio set within Mir 1, his blue jumpsuit blending in seamlessly with the almost futuristic interior of the cramped submersible as he guided the vehicle through the water, his tired eyes scanning the otherwise flat and featureless seabed. But as the two MIR submersibles moved forward along the sandy bottom two and a half miles beneath the surface of the North Atlantic, their lights began to pick up items from the darkness that were definitely out of place on the sandy plain.
A piece of riveted metal.
A China cup.
What appeared to be a massive square bowl of some kind, only to be revealed as a hatch cover.
But the most prominent discovery was the tall, vertical stem that emerged from the darkness, just as embedded deep into the mud as it had been that first day 84-years-ago. And on either side of the stem of the widening hulk of metal, covered in rust and silt, were two, massive, 16-ton anchors. And as the subs rose over the stem, it gave way to railings seated at the edge of a rapidly decaying forecastle, at the center of it being a large crane. And as the sub moved forward, it's lights shined off of two massive chains, each disappearing in opening's the deck, only ending in the two anchors that the crews had seen just minutes earlier.
"Alright, quiet, we're rolling," a thick Brooklyn accent sounded in MIR 1's cabin, the owner being a rather grey, and scraggily looking German shepherd, steadily holding a brand new JVC camcorder, the lens focusing on the dog's face, the faint blue collar of his own jumpsuit pecking into the shot as he began to narrate his "adventure" in an overly mysterious fashion, which only made the portly panda, clad in his own jumpsuit at the back of the sub, roll his eyes as teasing smile formed on his muzzle. But, renowned oceanographer, and part time treasure hunter Charlie Barkin never paid his friend and colleague Jack "Po" Ping any mind, as his attention was solely focused on the most famous shipwreck of them all.
"Seeing her come out of the darkness like a ghost ship, certainly gets me every time," Charlie began in his overly dramatic way, some assuming he was trying to impersonate the overacting abilities of William Shatner. Even the usually stoic Vitaly Dragomirov rolled his eyes with a quiet laugh as he continued to guide them up over the deck, it's lights trailing up a toppled mast, at the center of it being a small hole, in which two men would climb up and out into the crows nest that had recently fallen from it's own weight into the deep dark chasms of two open cargo hatches.
And it was from that crow's nest that one man's voice had pierced the silence of a cold April night.
But Charlie was more interested in continuing his "solemn" recounting of how this famous ship came to rest in her watery grave as the two subs continued to ascend over the ship, their lights shining through the smashed windows of the forward A and B deck cabins. And within one cabin, A-1 to be specific, the lights briefly captured the reflective surface of a framed photo, rusted and partially covered in silt, but still recognizable as a wedding photo a newlywed wolf couple, the monochromatic photo hiding the fact that the female had stunning auburn fur, and the male, dressed in a sort of naval uniform, having neatly groomed his soft blonde fur for the occasion.
"To see the sad ruin of the great ship sitting here where she landed at 2:30 in the morning of April 15, 1912, after her long fall from the surface realm above."
Po finally couldn't hold back his laughter.
"You are so full of shit, Boss."
The humorous statement made Charlie look at his friend with a small smile and laugh, the shepherd shaking his head in mild annoyance as he returned his attention back to the sub's porthole just in time for him to see the sub hovering over the damaged bridge, the once enclosed navigation deck decimated from the foremast toppling onto it during the ship's fall. And the only thing left of the equipment that was on the bridge, be it the wheel or engine order telegraphs, was the bronze telegraph, the instrument used to send commands to the ship's rudder through hydraulic piping still in place within what would have been the wheelhouse, which was also in a state of nonexistence from the mast.
"Dive six; Here we are again on the deck of Titanic, two and a half miles beneath the surface of the North Atlantic. The pressure outside is nine-hundred pounds per square inch. These windows are nine inches thick and if they give…well then, it's arrivederci in two microseconds…Right, that's enough of that shite."
And not two seconds before those last words left his mouth, Charlie immediately shut off the camera, his mysterious expression falling into one of pure relief as he finally finished the video that was meant to be proof of his "exploration." But now, he could get to the main goal of it; another treasure hunt. And as the MIR 1 and MIR 2 moved along the boat deck, their lights passed over the still standing walls of the officer's quarters. And peaking within the decaying walls of one such room within, the group was met with the sight of a porcelain bathtub, once used by the ship's captain, still as pristine as it was that night.
"WOOPS!" Po said with a laugh, "someone left the water running."
Before long, Vitaly was maneuvering the sub to come above the officer's quarters as MIR 2 veered off, the other sub moving off the boat deck before slowly descending the massive hull of the ship, the huge wall of steel appearing like a cliff descending into darkness, it's lights kicking back off of the still intact portholes, giving the eerie illusion that eyes were looking at them through the portholes. But eventually, MIR 2 had arrived at a large hole in the side of the ship, perfectly square as the gangway door was wide open.
This led to the first-class reception room on D-Deck.
"Alight Charlie, Me and Tramp are launching Minnie," a scraggly looking, Boston-accented terrier-mongrel, one William Dodger, or just Dodger said from inside the MIR, one of the other two occupants, another mongrel, one Butch Roberts, or Tramp as he was called, his grey fur just as scraggly as Dodgers, seating himself in the center of the of the sub, placing a bulky headset over his head, a pair of even bulkier camera lenses covering his eyes as he grabbed what appeared to be two joysticks. But, if anyone was to watch on the outside of the sub, they would see a small hatch open at the front of the MIR, a blocky little robot, a Remotely Operated Vehicle, or ROV for short, soon exiting from the sub, paying out its umbilical behind it like a robotic yo-yo as its twin stereo-video cameras swivel like insect eyes.
"Copy Dodger," Charlie said into the radio, his eyes catching a large black hole at the edge of the roof of the officer's quarters, the shepherd ignoring the fact that Po was getting himself hooked up with the same equipment in MIR 2.
"We're coming up on the Grand Staircase. Start going through the D-Deck Reception Room and work your way up…Vitaly, set it down on the roof of the officer's quarters like yesterday."
"Sure," Vitaly said as he did just that, setting the MIR down at the edge of the large hole, once filled with an opulent oak staircase, topped with a beautiful wrought-iron glass dome which was once the Titanic's opulent Grand Staircase.
"Alright," Charlie said after he made sure Po was set up, "launching Mickey now, and we'll be head to the parlor suites."
With that, a similar ROV emerged from MIR 1, the robot descending through the open shaft, going down a couple decks before coming to B-Deck, all while Minnie continued moving through the cavernous interior. And as her lights bounced off of the interior, the remains of the ornate hand-carved woodwork which gave the ship its elegance seemed to gleam in the floodlights, even though the lines were blurred by slow dissolution and descending rusticle formations, stalactites of rust hanging down so that at times it looks like a natural grotto, only for Minnie's cameras to shift so the lines of a ghostly undersea mansion can be seen again.
And as Minnie passes through the deteriorating room, her lights and cameras pick up the ghostly images of Titanic's opulent past.
A grand piano in amazingly good shape, crashed on its side against a wall, the keys gleaming a dull black and white in the lights.
A chandelier, still hanging from the ceiling by its wire, glints as the little robot moves forward, its lights playing across the floor, revealing a champagne bottle, then some china, emblazoned with the red pendant of the White Star Line...
A woman's high-top "granny shoe…"
Then something eerie: what looks like a child's skull resolves into the porcelain head of a doll.
But, as Minnie explored the deeper levels of the ship, Mickey enters a corridor which is much better preserved. Here and there a door still hangs on its rusted hinges, crafted with ornate pieces of molding, a wall sconce...
All hints of the grandeur of the past.
But before long, Mickey reaches his destination, the ROV turning before entering a black doorway, entering room B-52, the sitting room of a "promenade suite", one of the most luxurious staterooms on Titanic.
"I'm in the sitting room. Heading for bedroom B-54," Po said as he continued to guide Mickey along, the panda being exceptionally careful not to run the ROV into any debris. Something Charlie was definitely breathing down his neck about.
"Stay off the floor. Don't stir it up like you did yesterday."
"Alright, alright," Po responded slightly aggravated, "just chilllax, boss."
And as Mickey moved through the water, inevitable kick up some sediment, his lights eventually picked up the awe-inspiring sight of the brass fixtures of the near-perfectly preserved fireplace, an albino Galathea crab crawling over the ornate clock, still standing in place, having been bolted down for rough seas. Nearby are the remains of a divan and a writing desk as Mickey crosses the ruins of the once elegant room toward another door. And as Mickey squeezes through the doorframe, scraping rust and wood chunks loose on both sides, he moves out of a cloud of rust and keeps on going.
"I'm crossing the bedroom," Po said as he kept going, Charlie and Vitaly's eyes squarely on the video monitor in front of them, the feed soon displaying the remains of a pillared canopy bed.
"There it is, that's Savage's bed," Charlie said in a subdued elation, "that's where the son of bitch slept."
And alongside the bed were broken chairs, and a dresser. But after finding nothing in the bedroom, Charlie decided to back track and see if he missed anything. Soon, Mickey began moving his way back through a narrow corridor, which conjoined the bedroom with the adjacent sitting room, the ROV's lights passing over the collapsed wall of the bathroom, which much like the captain's cabin, held a porcelain commode and bathtub that looked almost new, gleaming in the dark. However, Charlie noticed on the screen that just ahead of the bathroom, sitting in a secluded corner of the sitting room, was a pile of wooden debris, random junk to the casual onlooker but upon seeing the knob on a piece of wood…
"That's the wardrobe door," he said, his expression blank and voice very vacant, almost as if he was mystified by the clutter of debris that Mickey moved towards.
"I want to see what's under it."
At that moment, Po's humor had greatly diminished, replaced by the same mystified curiosity of the shepherd by his side.
"You smelling something, boss? GIVE ME MY HANDS!"
At that moment two small hatches on Mickey opened, making way for a pair of two thin, but very sturdy arms, each ending in two mechanized graspers, the robotic claws soon reaching forward thanks to the signals Po was sending from his controls, allowing the panda to control the arms in real time. And right before Charlie and Vitaly's very eyes, the seemingly weak arms began to skillfully move the debris aside. But Po knew he had to be careful, for one wrong move meant the difference between finding out what was under it, to the whole thing falling apart due to the advanced decay.
"Easy," Charlie practically whined, his heart rate and blood pressure going up by the second as Po had Mickey grip the door, lying at an odd angle and it is pulled into the robot's mechanical hands, the debris moving reluctantly in a cloud of silt that had been kicked up by the motion. And just as Po had a firm grip on it, he quickly flipped the door, releasing it and letting fall to the cabin floor, revealing to the crew what was underneath...
A dark object.
And as the silt clears, Charlie's neutral frown soon begins to form in a small, gleeful smile.
"Ooohh daddy!" Po explains with the same amount of glee,
"Oh, are you seein' what I'm seein'?!"
And Charlie certainly was.
At long last, after three years of searching, he had finally found his Holy Grail.
And it lied within the steel combination safe before them.
"It's payday, boys."
The sun shone on the Russian research vessel Akademik Mistislav Keldysh, a huge crowd gathering at the very stern of the ship, including most of the crew, gathering at the rear of the ship by its massive A-frame crane, the piece of equipment hauling up the very rusted safe, the nearly ninety-year-old box, safely harnessed in a wire net, dripping wet in the afternoon sun before being lowered onto the deck of the ship by the frame's winch cable. And all around the Keldysh, the sub crews, and a hand-wringing dachshund by the name of Dominick "Itchy" Ithciford, all accompanied by a documentary video crew, hired by Charlie to cover his moment of glory.
In a matter of seconds, everyone crowds around the safe, while in the background, MIR 2 is being lowered into its cradle on deck by a massive hydraulic arm, her sister already recovered as Po and Vitaly eagerly followed Charlie as he bounds over to the safe like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Who's the best? Say it," Po teased as he jostled Charlie, the shepherd laughing as he turned to playfully caress the panda's cheek.
"You are, Po."
This earned Charlie a huge kiss on the cheek from his panda friend before he turned to one of the camera men, a portly pig whose shoulder must have been hurting from the bulky camera sitting on it.
"You rolling?" Charlie asked, receiving a thumbs up in confirmation from the porcine techy, who has his camera pointed at one of the Keldysh's technicians as they take a buzz-saw the safe's hinges. During this operation, Charlie decided to amp the suspense by speaking directly into the camera, working the lens to fill the time.
"Well, here it is, the moment of truth. Here's where we find out if the time, the sweat, the money spent to charter this ship and these subs, to come out here to the middle of the North Atlantic... were worth it. If what we think is in that same... is in that safe... it will be."
Once he is finished, Charlie has a wolfish grin on his face as he lightly jumps in anticipation for his greatest find yet. And the moment he door is pried loose, its contents spill out in a wave of rust colored water as the door clangs to the deck. After ascertaining that it is safe to proceed, Charlie, flanked by Itchy, Po, Vitaly and the camera-pig each get to down to examine the contents. But, as Charlie begins eagerly pull them out, from a few handfuls of soggy, orange currency, to what appeared to be a leather-bound folder, and then…
Nothing.
A long moment of silence follows as Charlie's dejected face says it all. And he can only quietly say one thing, not out of anger, but cheer, crippling disappointment.
"Fuck."
And needless to say, Po's recollection of the circumstances of an old friend's fall from fame didn't make things any better.
"You know, boss, this happened to 'Puss in Boots' Delgato and his career never recovered."
Of course, Charlie was not all that thrilled to be reminded of the famous adventurer's fall from grace after many numerous setbacks and failures, ending in the booted cat finding his reputation ruined. And given how much the sting of this failure hit him, Charlie dreaded he was next. And right now, he definitely did not need the camera wielding pig creeping closer and closer toward him.
"Get that outta my face."
Sometime later, within the Keldysh's carefully prepped and sterile research lab, filled with the many means to ensure that the artifact's Charlie and his team DID recover were properly treated and catalogued, one of the technicians, a lovely tan saluki with luscious brown hair and with matching ears to boot, one Rita Dodger, the chief technician and wife of William Dodger, carefully removed some papers from the leather folder that had been found in the safe, the female having already finished cleaning and prepping the crumpled American twenties found in the safe as well. And all around her, other technicians were tending over other artifacts from the stateroom and other parts of the wreck, each being carefully washed and preserved
But as the expert technicians do their work, Charlie barges in, followed closely by the documentary crew, who were eager to get their material out to CNN, who would be covering the expedition on a special segment via satellite, and collect their paychecks, Charlie was in no hurry to have his reputation ruined like Puss.
"You send out what I tell you when I tell you," he practically growled, jabbing a claw into the pig cameraman's chest, the porcine actually looking somewhat sacred by this sudden burst of hostility from his employer.
"I'm signing your paychecks, not ZNN. Now get set up for the uplink."
At that moment, Itchy, a terrified expression on his face, held his hand over the mouthpiece of a satellite phone set, the dachshund definitely wanting to pass on the business partners who were financing the expedition over to Charlie.
"Charlie, Caruthers and the partners want to know how it's going?"
"How it's going?" he seethed through clenched teeth, his voice low enough so that the bulldog and gorilla's on the other end couldn't hear him.
"It's going like a first date in prison, whattaya think?!"
But the moment he grabs the phone from Itchy, who nervously rubs his hands over his gaudy Hawaiian shirt, Charlie is as nice as pie as he started to try and diffuse the already tense situation.
"Hi, Carface, Marcus, Barry, Stan…Look, it wasn't in the safe... no, look, don't worry about it, there's still plenty of places it could be... in the floor debris in the suite, in the valet's room, in the purser's safe on C deck..."
"Bobby Kennedy's briefcase," Dodger sounded from beside his wife, the mongrel having just arrived, his comment earning a small chuckle and eyeroll from his wife, only for her gaze to catch onto something that was being revealed as she sprayed off the thin layer of gunk and grime from the piece of paper she was working on.
"Listen guys," Charlie continued, the shepherd moving over to Rita to watch her work, "we're close. We just have to work through process of elimination."
And the moment he said this, Charlie's eye caught what Rita's had just a moment ago. As the grime washed away, it revealed charcoal drawing of a very beautiful young bunny, the piece in excellent shape, though its edges have partially disintegrated. Though it did not distract from the female rabbit's Beauty, which was beautifully rendered, perfectly displaying her in her late teens or early twenties, nude, though posed with a kind of casual modesty. She is on an Empire divan, in a pool of light that seems to radiate outward from her left eye, the right covered by a long , naturally curly hair, cascading with her long, floppy ears draped over her left shoulder. However, the bunny is not entirely nude, for around her throat was the very object of Charlie's desire, which was a beautifully handcrafted necklace with one large stone hanging in the center.
"Hang on a sec," Charlie said, quickly handing the phone back to an equally stunned Itchy, who quickly moved to hang up the phone.
"We'll call you guys back!" he practically shouted as he went to gather around Rita with Charlie and Dodger, the shepherd having grabbed a reference photo from the clutter on the lab table, a period black-and-white photo of a diamond necklace on a black velvet jeweler's display stand. And as he holds it next to the drawing. It is clearly the same piece... a complex setting with a massive central stone which is almost heart-shaped.
And it was at that moment Charlie finally noticed that at the bottom of the piece of paper, scrawled in the lower right corner, above the initials NW, was a date;
April 14, 1912
The day Titanic hit the infamous iceberg.
And it went without saying that Charlie…
Was in utter disbelief.
"I'll be Goddamned."
The gentle ocean breeze billowed through the lovely little beach house in the far off city San Francisco, one full of ceramics, figurines, folk art, and walls crammed with drawings and paintings obviously collected over a lifetime, a small TV was set up in a cozy little living room, seated in front of it were several small children, foxes and bunnies to be precise, each either playing or coloring as a lovely Irish-setter, comfortably in her early forties, one Sasha LaFlur, watched the news on CNN while also keeping an eye on her aging wards numerous great-great-grandchildren.
And just behind Sasha, seated in a glassed-in studio attached to the house, was an ancient bunny, her wrinkled hand throwing a lump of wet clay on a potter's wheel, the liquid red clay covering her hands, gnarled with, but still surprisingly strong and supple.
But, as she focused on her work, the bunny suddenly found her hearing invaded by the conversation that was transpiring on the TV between the lead anchors, Fabienne Growley and Peter Moosebride, with Fabienne taking the lead.
"Treasure hunter Charlie Barkin is best known for finding Spanish gold in sunken galleons in the Caribbean. Now he is using deep submergence technology to work two and a half miles down at another famous wreck."
"That's right Fabienne," Peter added with a smile, "Charlie is with us live via satellite from the Russian research vessel Keldysh in the middle of the Atlantic as he continues in his ongoing exploration of the wreck of the Titanic. Hello, Charlie?"
At that moment, the old bunny is one her feet, her gnarled hand grabbing onto an ornate walking stick as she slowly hobbled her sunken, shapeless body, hidden under a one-piece African print dress, into the living room, her wrinkled face becoming even more wrinkled as she tried to focus on the sound being emitted from the TV, her squinting, but still very bright and vibrant violet eyes, just as alive as in her youth, focused on the screen as Charlie's face came into view.
"Yes, hello, Peter, Fabienne," Charlie practically shouted over the sound of the North Atalntic wind and constant activity occurring around him on the deck of the Keldysh.
"You know, Titanic is not just A shipwreck, Titanic is THE shipwreck. It's the Mount Everest of shipwrecks. I've planned this expedition for three years, and we're out here recovering some amazing things that will have enormous historical and educational value."
And once Charlie had said this, Peter quirked an inquisitive, almost accusing eyebrow.
"But it's no secret that education is not your main purpose. You're a treasure hunter. So what is the treasure you're hunting?"
Even through the screen, Sasha and the old bunny could definitely see that while he was a bit taken aback by the question, Charlie put up a brave front as he offered a coy smile in return.
"I'd rather show you than tell you, and we think we're very close to doing just that.
At that moment, Sasha notices out of the corner of her eye the old bunny making her way into he room, the younger setter rushing to aid the frail female, only to be immediately waved off by the old woman who issued a very polite, but still very firm request.
"Turn that up please, dear."
At first stunned by this usually docile bunny's firm tone, Sasha immediately did as she was told and turned up the TV, the sudden increase in volume on the "boring grown-up" channel not interesting to the young ones, who merely scooped up their belongings and went to another, much quieter room as Fabienne added her two cents to Peter's observation.
"Your expedition is at the center of a storm of controversy over salvage rights and even ethics. Many are calling you a grave robber."
This time, unlike his previously caught off-guard demeanor, Charlie merely laughed off the accusation, much to the bunny's slight annoyance as her violet eyes scrutinized the brash dog.
"Well, nobody called the recovery of the artifacts from King Tut's tomb grave robbing. I have museum-trained experts here, making sure this stuff is preserved and catalogued properly. Look at this drawing, which was found today..."
At that moment, the video camera pans off Charlie to the drawing, in a tray of water, the image of the nude bunny filling the frame, making the old rabbit's eyes go wide in amazement, as if the heavens had opened as the old women smiled as she looked carefully at the screen as Charlie continued to speak.
"Here we have found a picture dating back to the day of the sinking of the Titanic, having been sitting underwater for nearly eighty-four-years, and my team was able to recover it. Unfortunately, we have no idea who the lovely bunny is in the picture. If there are anyone who does know who she is, please call me at 101-964-1956. I will be waiting."
At that moment, the old rabbit couldn't focus on what was being said, her mind awash with so many different thoughts as she slumped back in the chair that Sasha had been sitting in. And for the first time since hearing the story that had been reported, the woman, in a trembling voice, spoke.
"I'll be God damned."
And the moment those words left her mouth, she shakily rose to her feet again, hobbling over to a nearby bookshelf by the TV, her hand immediately reaching for one book in particular; an aged, coverless, fraying black book, the only sort of decoration on it being golden letters stamped on the side, faded, but still very readable.
The Unthinkable: An Officer's Story by Samuel Davis
And it was for the first time in five years, she opened the book, a tear falling from her eye as she read the personal inscription by the author.
"Here's to you Judy, from One Survivor to Another. With Love, Sam."
And with that, her memories flowed with the words on the pages.
1895
Belfast, Ireland
The empty streets of Belfast were quiet.
The setting summer sun casting a red hue of calm through the sky.
Any seafarer who was around would find themselves saying that rhyme of old…
"Red Sky at Night, Sailor's Delight."
And a young lad, barely pushing six walked along the road to his home, a simple wooden fishing rod slung over his shoulder, his fiery ginger fur shining in the setting sun, giving an almost ethereal sheen to it and the white of his muzzle and throat. And as the young lad happily walked along, his amber eyes sparkling in delight, the smile he held on to his face suddenly fell when her heard a commotion coming from a nearby alley between two townhouses.
Curiosity getting the best of him, the boy investigated the darkening alley to see a group of three boys, around the age of nine, roughing up another boy about his age. And from what the pup could see, the distressed boy, about eight in age, was getting a rather good hiding, if the blood from the cut of his right temple staining the blonde fur of his face was any indication. And when the investigating pup saw the other open his eyes, he could see hazel blue eyes filled with pain and sorrow.
"Please," the pup whimpered out, pressing his back against the brick wall, his attire of grey tweed knickers, vest and a white undershirt dirtied from the altercation, "I don't want trouble."
"Well, you got trouble you privileged brat," the lead bully said in a thick brogue, his black fur and red eyes making the ginger pup think the bully might be the Anti-Christ. And given the bullies name, he was probably right. And as said boy reeled back his fist, the blonde pup prepared himself for contact. But as his eyes clenched shut, the pup was surprised to find the hit didn't come. Opening his eyes, he and the other boys were surprised to see a ginger-furred pup, standing a good few inches taller than the transgressing group of boys.
And said pup had grabbed the black-furred pup's wrist as it reeled back. And before the Bully and his toadies could respond, the taller pup threw him out of the alley, the pup landing with a yelp and a whimper as he landed hard on the cobblestone road. Looking to the other two, the pup glared menacingly at them. And while the two knew they were three years older than him, the pup had managed time and time again to show them that he always had an advantage.
And so, with fear in their eyes, the other two bolted from the alley, leaving the ginger pup with the flabbergasted blonde, his eyes wide in fear like the others, but also wonder. Calming himself down, the ginger pup walked toward the other, only pausing briefly when he, cringing as he heard the unmistakable sound of glass cracking, and said glass digging into his bare foot. Looking down, the taller pup noticed he had stepped on a pair of large round spectacles.
"My glasses," the blonde pup moaned in distress, reaching down to pick up the damaged-beyond-repair specs, testing their condition by placing them on the bridge of his nose. And from what he could see, they were definitely broken with one lense cracked and the other shattered on the ground.
"Sorry," the ginger pup apologized, rubbing the back of his head as he did.
"You okay?" he asked after a few moments of awkward silence. And even though the other boy was distressed about the state of his glasses, he couldn't help but look at the taller boy with grateful curiosity."
"Yeah," he answered in a lite Irish brogue, "thanks. They kind of got the jump on me."
"Cain's just a big bully," the other responded, crossing his arms indignantly as they looked to the aforementioned boy hobbling home, his body clearly aching from the landing he took.
"Besides," the fiery youth continued, "you could have taken him. You look like you could hold your own."
And while it was true that the pup seemed to being good physical shape for his age, his face fell at the mere mention of such an idea.
"I was always taught that 'he who fights by the sword, dies by the sword."
This caught the other off guard, but he quickly understood.
"Matthew, Chapter 26, Verse 52," the other answered, quickly realizing that the pup before chose of mentality that delved into non-violence. But the revelation seemed to have little effect on him as he cast the pup a friendly smile. Bending down and picking up his discarded fishing pole, the boy looked at his companion with a smug grin.
"Well then stick close to me and I'll take care of the fighting for ya," he proclaimed proudly, making the other pup smile as he did.
"Come on," he continued, making his way out of the alley and on to the Gaslamp lit street, "I'll walk you home."
"Thanks," the blonde pup responded, finding himself having to run to keep up with the taller pups long stride. But just he caught up, the ginger pup suddenly stopped, extending his hand to his smaller friend.
"I'm Mason by the way…Mason Fenrir."
Looking to the outstretched hand, the pup, after only a moment of hesitation, accepted the gesture, giving Mason a surprisingly strong handshake.
"Samuel…Samuel Davis, but everyone calls me Sam."
And with that, the two boys continued on their way, Mason draping his arm over Sam's shoulder, signifying the start of a beautiful friendship, which seemed to pick up another member a year later.
As Sam and Mason were coming home after climbing tress, they were suddenly surrounded by Cain and six of his friends. The two boys looked around, no way out of this without getting roughed up by Cain and his goons. The dark wolf stepped forward and got right up in Sam's face.
"We have a score to settle," he said showing his teeth off with a big grin. Then before Sam could react, he felt Cain's fist plow into his stomach. Mason rushed forward, but was closed-lined by an older while wolf in his late teens to early twenties name Mark who as Cain's best friend.
As Mason struggled to get up, Mark kicked dirt into his eyes, before jumping on top of him to give him a good left hook to the jaw. The other four guys only laughed as Cain and Mark mercifully beat Mason and Sam into a bleeding pulp. But before any real damage could be delivered, something barreled into Cain, knocking him off of the young Davis. Mark looked up to see a foot come right toward his face.
WHACK! Mark was sent flying backwards onto his back. Sam and Mason looked up to see a silver wolf who was likely five years older then them standing between them and the bullies.
"Get the heck away from these lads you bunch of jackasses," the silver wolf growled.
Sam couldn't help but notice how the bullies got up and ran off, leaving behind Cain and Mark.
"Uh, sorry Dax, didn't know they were friends of yours," Cain said before running with his tail between his legs, but then Dax turned to Mark.
"Money… Now!" he growled at Mark.
The white wolf pulled out a thing of coins and dropped them at Dax's feet, saying nothing before he was gone like a flash of lighting.
"Thanks a lot," Sam said as he got up, extending his hand to the other wolf, who after scrutinizing the offered hand for a moment, let a big grin spread on his muzzle as he happily accepted.
"I'm Samuel Davis and this is Mason Fenrir."
"Dax Pearce, pleasure to meet cha," Dax replied and led the two boys back to town to get their wounds cleaned up. Now Sam and Mason had a new friend, one who could teach them some things or two, unaware that in the coming century, all three would be plunged into a very thrilling set of circumstances that would change them forever.
1907
London, England
The mild, mid-summer night was still, the only sound to be heard either the sound of horse drawn carriages being pulled through the London Streets, hooves on cobblestone echoing throughout the otherwise silent, though not totally deserted street. In fact, one of the few couples out that evening stopped off of the carriage that brought them to a modest townhouse mansion in the center of Belgravia.
The lady, a lovely forty-year-old golden retriver, her green eyes twinkling in the setting sunlight, seemed to exude an air of reality and elegance, adding to her youthful appearance. On her back was a beautiful red, low-cut evening dress that ran all the way to the ground, covering her high-heeled, boot covered feet. And in her hand, a lovely handbag. This was the lovely Manhattan socialite, Julia Florence Schieffelin.
In a matter of moments, she laced her arm in the outstretched arm of her dashing husband, who had just finished paying the cabbie for their journey. Julia's husband, a well-built, brown-furred foxhound, a well-kept, swirled mustache on his top lip, exuded an air of confidence, his posture perfect and his head, topped by a simple silk top-hat, added to his dapper attire of a smart-looing tuxedo, which really seemed to add to the sharp look of intelligence, and off course, business savvy in his brown eyes.
Upon reaching the door of the opulent looking mansion, the gentle-dog knocked on the door, the entrance quickly opening thanks to a well-dressed pig butler, the portly servant immediately offering a dignified bow to the guests of the home, immediately stepping aside, offering to take Julia's handbag that she had with her, and her husband's top hat. Once their personal effects were safely stored away, the couple were escorted into an elegantly furnished sitting room, the only two occupants being an older couple, two Irish wolfhounds, both in their early sixties, signs of grey very noticeable in their lite-ginger fur.
This was Lord William Pirrie and his wife. Pirrie was the owner of Harland and Wolff shipyards in Belfast, Ireland. His shipyards had gained a reputation with producing the fastest and most lavish ships. And the man visiting him that night knew this.
"My Lord," the butler said smartly, "presenting Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Ismay."
Joseph Bruce Ismay was the managing director of the White Star Line, one of the most prominent shipping lines in the world, a subsidiary of her parent company, the International Mercantile Marine Company, which was created and financed by American bank tycoon J.P. Morgan, in an attempt to monopolize the shipping business. These men found themselves in the point in history of the Edwardian Era of Luxury Liners. All around the world, shipping lines and shipyards were locked in a fierce competition over who could build the best liners, be they the biggest, the most lavish, or the fastest. The pride of nations was at stake. As well as the pride of workers. And White Star Line favored luxury over speed. Unfortunately, as Bruce discussed with William at dinner, luxury might not be enough from the financially struggling company.
"Bruce," William, a hard-nosed Ulster-wolf said with a lite-Irish accent after swallowing a piece of filet mignon, "any attempt at competition is a sign of vanity."
"And yet," Bruce, the fastidious English-wolf countered with a scowl on his muzzle, "it is their ships that have broken the record for crossing the Atlantic."
Bruce, off course, was referring to the White Star Line's chief rival, the Cunard Line. The Cunard Line, in that year alone, had launched two new super-liners, the Lusitania and the Mauretania. Lusitania had just broken the record for fastest ship at the time during a preliminary trial, reaching speeds of up to 26 knots. But, despite Ismay's attitude toward the situation, Pierre offered a teasing remark in reply to his grievances.
"And as I've said before Bruce…speed isn't everything."
And this was true…The White Star line prided itself on luxury over speed. The line had gained a reputation for providing the best accommodations for its passengers, from lavish First-Class suites to comfortable accommodations in steerage. Many even compared traveling second class to staying in the finest five-star hotels in Europe. However, Ismay was having none of what Pirrie was serving.
"But surely," he said, his firmness on the matter never wavering, "you understand why White Star must respond."
"You really want to get caught up in some ridiculous competition with Cunard?" Pirrie inquired, his playfulness still ever present.
"I hadn't realized you were so concerned with…Prestige, Bruce."
And what Ismay said next, Pirrie took as a challenge to himself.
"Without prestige, the White Star Line, and for that matter your shipyard too, William, has no future."
CLACK!
"Cunard's pursuit of speed is futile," Pirrie said as he sat at the edge of the pool table, Ismay's hit echoing through the mansions' pool parlor as the older wolf sketched away at piece of paper, the graphite of the pencil having already drawn the outline a ship's hull.
"The costs just don't add up," he continued, Ismay smile as he chalked the end of his pool que.
"If the people want scale…we'll give them scale."
"You see her as big as the Lusitania?" Ismay said with a laugh.
"No," Pirrie quickly responded, "half as big, again."
Ismay, upon hearing this, looked at Pirrie, his mouth agape at what he was saying. Was the lord viscount really proposing attempting what some would call an impossible foot…
Building a GIANT?
"The biggest ship the world has ever seen."
Apparently, he was.
"You really think it's an achievable?" Ismay asked as he lined another shot. Pierre just laughed.
"I have the best marine engineers in the world, you know that."
Ismay was really like the progress they were already making.
"Accommodations?" he inquired.
"The Most Luxurious Imaginable."
"The Price?" Ismay inquired with some hesitance, curious how it would affect the company's bottom line.
"Our usual terms," Pirrie replied, "plus four percent."
"That would still be astronomical," Ismay replied, now standing beside Pirrie who blew the last traces of graphite from the paper he had been sketching on.
"And to compete with Cunard, we would need two ships."
"To trump them," Pirrie added with a smug smile, presenting his sketch to Bruce, who was immediately enamored with the concept of the majestic looking three-funneled liner, the drawing itself screaming size and luxury.
"…You would need THREE."
The deal was made in Belgravia, but the proposed White Star super liners would be built in Belfast. Belfast itself had already gained a reputation of being the shipbuilding capital of the world, thanks to the skill and ingenuity of the workers of Harland and Wolff Shipyards, which Pirrie had built from ground up. And some months later, in the main room of H & W's drawing offices, Pirrie and Ismay stood over a preliminary design of the ships profile. By their sides, respectively, were two other wolves.
To Pirrie's left, a tall, strongly built brown-furred wolf, a full, bushy beard covering his muzzle as his born eyes marveled at his initial design. Yes, as one of the lead draftsmen at Harland and Wolff, Alan Davis prided himself in his work. And not just his work, but the family he had with his lovely wife, the French-wolf, Amelia Dubois-Davis. At the time, their eldest daughter, Allison O'Connor, and her husband Ewan, were expecting their first child. They had decided that after the child was born, they would immigrate to America, as many Irish citizens were.
And as for their youngest child, Alan still couldn't keep the smile off his face whenever he met with Mr. Ismay, who always congratulated Alan on the achievements of his son, one of White Star's rising stars, Samuel Davis. Even though he had just turned twenty, Sam had quickly risen through the ranks of the White Star Line, from cabin boy, to seaman, and now to sixth officer of the Baltic.
And standing beside Mr. Ismay, his apprentice, a tall, strong lad, just pushing twenty-three, dressed similarly to Mr. Ismay in a fine tweed suit, though his was dark grey in color, almost blending in seamlessly with his charcoal black-fur, which seemed to eerily frame his burning, crimson hued eyes. And despite the polite smile he sported on his muzzle, this wolf exuded an arrogant, almost condescending aura.
"Your thoughts on Mr. Davis's design, Cain?" Mr. Ismay asked his apprentice pertaining to the design they were looking at. And while Cain Adams, who delighted in undermining and belittling even the greatest achievements of those around, wanted to make a snide remark, he refrained from doing so, upon noticing the hard glare Alan was sending in the direction of his son's childhood bully. Swallowing a nervous lump in his throat, Cain responded with as kind a smile as he could.
"Remarkable, Mr. Ismay," he responded in a lite Ulster accent, "truly a sight to behold."
"Yes indeed, Mr. Adams," a new voice sounded, Pirrie stepping aside to allow access for a tall, strongly built young wolf, his eyes beaming with delight at the design his friend and colleague had created. This was Lord Pirrie's nephew, Harland & Wolff's chief designer, Thomas Andrews.
"Think of it," he continued, his hand tenderly caresses the design before him, "a whole new class of liner."
And with this new class of liner, alterations needed to be made to the shipyards. Given the proposed size of the ships, it was determined that none of the existing slipways could accommodate them. So, three existing slips were demolished, with two massive gantries built in it's place, accompanied by a crane system to aid in construction for ships 400 and 401. But as these new gantries were being constructed, many revisions were being to the ships' main designs. And as construction was to begin on the massive liners in 1908, Mr. Ismay and Cain were invited to the board room of Harland & Wolff to sign off on the paperwork that would begin the mass undertaking. And displayed in the center of the table, a model for the class of liner. But as Ismay examined the model, who was surprised, and quite curious about a change made to the three-funneled liner's outward appearance.
"Interesting," he said in a contemplative tone, "she has FOUR funnels…whereas you said there would be only three engines."
And it was true. During the many design phases of the ship's general plans, a fourth funnel had been added to the original three-funnel design.
"Yes," Mr. Andrews responded with a teasing smile, "since Cunard's flagships have four funnels, you would not want your ships to have less, I would imagine."
"So one funnel," Cain added in a skeptical tone, standing to his full height beside the hunched over Mr. Ismay, who continued to inspect the model. And as Cain spoke, his face seemed to scrunch up in what appeared to be indignation, these actions not going unnoticed by his mentor as he himself stood to his full height.
"…Is purely for decoration?"
"That is right," Pirrie responded in a firm tone of voice, wondering where this brash young lad was going with his question. But, to his surprise, and silent relief, he saw Cain's face break out into a full, genuine smile, which stretched from ear to ear, his eyes twinkling in delight as eh observed the model.
"Well, I think she looks MAGNIFICENT."
"Well once the paperwork is signed," Alan said beside Mr. Andrews, "construction on 400 and 401 can begin."
"And what of their names?" Ismay asked as he took his seat at the head of the table, the documents ready to bear his signature alongside the already present one of Pierre.
"We can't just keep calling them 400 and 401."
"Might I make a suggestion, Mr. Ismay?" Cain asked in a polite tone, one which was rewarded by Mr. Ismay offering a nod to continue.
"Well, one might consider the size of these ships to be of 'god-like' proportions. And when I think of gods sir, I can't help but think of the God's of Olympus. So, perhaps 400 should be called Olympic."
And the moment those words hit his perked ears, Ismay found himself smiling broadly at his young protégé's suggestion.
"Very good Cain," he beamed, "very good. And 401?"
"She's your ship Bruce," Pirrie added in a teasing manner, earning a chuckle from Mr. Ismay, who suddenly had a look of great contemplation on his face.
"William," he began, "you know your legends. And who can think of the God's of Olympus without thinking of their equally strong rivals, the giants known as the Titans. So, I think it only fitting that 401 be called…"
A pause for dramatic flair, as Ismay liked.
"Titanic."
"Very good," Pirrie responded with a broad smile, a smile shared by everyone else as Ismay signed the papers.
"Then Olympic and Titanic it is," Ismay proudly proclaimed as he finished signing the forms of what would be White Star Line's grandest ships, Olympic and Titanic, with a third to be named later.
After his so called meeting, Mr. Ismay stopped by an old friend who had great success in the news industries. He owned many telegraph stations and news printing houses. Knocking on the door, Ismay was greeted by the one and only Jimmy Crystal. He was a handsome white wolf with sharp blue eyes.
"Hello Jimmy," Ismay greeted before shaking his friend's hand. "Have I got a story for you," he said stepping into the to room.
In December of 1908, Olympics' keel was laid in one of the massive gantries, with Titanic following suit in March of the next year. And one evening in mid-November of that year, after a hard day's work at the shipyard, a tall, handsome, ginger-furred wolf sat in Grape's Tavern, a go to for all the workers of the yard in order to have a pint of beer after a hard day's work. And by the wolf's side, one of his dearest friends, a silver-furred stoker, on shore leave after another voyage on one of the White Stars Lines more famous ships, the Baltic. And given the drunken glee in the young sailor's mismatched eyes, the right an icy-blue and the other a deep green, Mason could tell that Dax Pearce was having a good time, been though his inebriated state meant he was constantly losing hand after hand of poker with the other yard workers.
"FULL HOUSE!" loud, middle-aged Scottish-terrier loudly proclaimed as he slammed his hand down on the table, eagerly gathering all the money that hand been bet in that hand. And while it was just twenty pounds in minor bills and coins, the wolf acted as if he had won the lottery. And needless to say, Dax was not happy.
"COME ON!" he exclaimed, earning a chuckle from Mason, who clapped his friend on the back.
A handsome tiger sat across from Dax, another stoker named Kyle Fangmeyer. He looked at the silver wolf.
"Looks like I might win this one, Dax," he smirked with confidence.
"Not on your life, Fangmeyer," Dax retorted.
"You know you could stand a better chance if you weren't shitfaced when ya played Dax," Mason said with a laugh. This in turn, caused Dax to send Mason an accusatory glare.
"And how do I know you aren't helping 'em win by tapping out my deck, Mr. Morse?" Dax responded, causing Mason to only laugh at his friend's teasing of his new venture in Morse code. In fact, after having visited the local telegraph office for the first time a few weeks ago, Mason had become enamored with the telegraph. So much so that whenever he was on break, or lunch at the shipyards, he would read a telegraph manual and teach himself Morse Code. He even swore to himself that when he made enough money, he would get formal education. And maybe, just maybe if he was lucky enough, he might be able to become employed by the Marconi Wireless Company, sending messages from ships at sea.
"Hey," he defended, "do be putting down Morse. Just think of all the conversations you can have and can hear over one headset."
Fangmeyer just shrugged, as he was to busy getting ready to crush Dax and win the whole pot.
"Yeah," Dax laughed, "like I need any more fucking voices in my head."
"On that we can agree old friend," a new, Irish-laden voice interjected. Looking to the source of the voice, Mason and Dax immediately jumped to their feet as they enveloped the blonde-furred wolf, dressed in a casual tan tweed suit, the young twenty-two-year old's bespectacled hazel eyes beaming with delight as he returned the two men's embrace.
"SAMMY BOY!" Dax exclaimed as he pulled away, "HOW'S OUR FIFTH OFFICER DOING?!"
Dax of course was referring to Sam's recent promotion to Fifth officer on board the White Star Liner Majestic.
"Doing great Dax," Sam responded as he and his friends took a seat at an empty booth in the pub, his smile growing even wider as he spoke, "better than ever in fact…I'm getting married."
Mason was taken aback at this. And, being the mischievous bugger he was, let out a poorly acted moan of distress as he clapped a hand over his chest.
"I knew this day would come," he said in an overly dramatic, Shakespearean manner. Dax, despite being drunk, quickly caught on and joined Mason in his little drama, causing Sam to roll his eyes in annoyance, though with a small grin on his muzzle.
"Good for you, Sam," Fangmeyer smiled as he drew a card from the deck on the table. The smiled turned into a toothy grin. This however was overlooked by Dax because he was busy goofing off with his friends.
"Aye," Dax said as he fell into Mason, the back of his hand to forehead as if he were a lady fainting, "our friend goes off to see, and finds himself a young lass. Oh sure, he says he'll visit, but soon he will leave us grunts to fester in the gutter."
"Damn Right," Sam responded, only to give his own performance as he straightened the lapels of his jacket, sticking his nose in the air as he spoke in a mockingly upper-class voice.
"One is going to be wed to a high-borne lady of class, and cannot be seen associating with common riff-raff."
"Riff-raff?" Dax asked with a laugh. "Did our friendship end without any prior notice?"
Everyone gave chuckle.
"Oh," Mason responded, clutching at his chest, a faux look of pain in his eyes, "you wound us, good sir."
"YEAH! I got a FULL-HOUSE!" Fangmeyer shouted as he slapped his card down on the table. Dax had to do a double take as he finally realized that he had lost the game.
But he didn't care. He and his buddies had to celebrate Sam's engagement.
Before long, the three men were laughing up a storm as they spent the rest of the evening catching up, drinking, playing cards, dancing, and singing songs. And one thing was for sure, Sam was lucky he wasn't in uniform, as the sight of him staggering out of the bar and down the street, arms links around his friends and vice-versa as they sang obnoxiously into the night air would not have reflected well on him or the company. But, for the time being the three just enjoyed themselves, the massive gantries of the shipyard seen in the distance behind them.
But, as Mason well knew, those gantries could be a dangerous place.
April 20, 1910
Mason stood high on scaffolding, sledgehammer swinging away at one of the heated rivets that had been threaded through one of the hoes of the steel plating that would seal Titanic's hull. Nearby, one of the catch boy's, whose job was to catch heated rivets that had been tossed up from below and give to the riveters, was hard at it. Though from what Mason could see as he looked to the fifteen-year-old, dark-grey-furred lad, he was awfully close to the edge, which could result in an eight-story drop.
"Careful there Sammy," Mason called to the boy, who just now noticed how close he was to the edge.
"Wow, he said as he took a few cautious steps back before looking to Mason with a grateful smile.
"Thanks Mason," he called, earning a kind smile and nod from the riveter. But, after another five-minutes passed, Mason's ears were filled with the blood-freezing sound of fumbling feet, a yelp, a petrified scream, and thud from far below, the origin being the spot were a certain catch-boy had just been standing. And upon looking down at the base of the gantry, Mason was met with the heartbreaking sight of Sammy, laying prone on the ground, a pool of blood forming around his fractured skull. Beside him was Dax, who was crossing himself as he prayed for the poor lad.
Samuel Joseph Scott was Titanic's first victim.
In total, eight men would die during Titanic's construction.
But it would not be in vain for on May 31, 1911, a large crowd had gathered in the shipyards. Workers gathered along the slipway and piled onto the gantries that cradled the completed hull of the hulking leviathan, who sat alone in her slip, opposite the empty gantry where her sister had been launched from that past October. Some 100 yards from the ship, a tall observation booth had been constructed, decorated with the Union Jack and similarly colored bunting.
Within the booth, representatives of the shipyard, which included Lord Pirrie, Thomas Andrews, and his lead draftsman Alan Davis, accompanied by his wife, the lovely brown-furred French wolf Amelia Dubois-Davis. The couple were also accompanied by their son, Samuel Davis, the newly promoted fourth officer of Titanic's sister, Olympic, who as, part of a publicity stunt, was scheduled to start her maiden voyage in the same week of Titanic's launch. Thomas, wanting his friend and colleagues son to experience this momentous occasion, pulled some strings so that Sam could catch Olympic before she departed Southampton.
Also within the booth, as representatives of the White Star Line, were Mr. Ismay and his wife, Cain, and the financier of the endeavor, the greying, somewhat portly J.P. Morgan himself. And by his side, his most trusted and loyal friend and business partner, Juan Ramirez, King to his friends and colleagues, accompanied by his lovely daughter Terra, who, to her chagrin, had been given the title of "Princess of Wall Street." And said family stood with her arm looped through the arm of her husband of one-year, the dashing gentle-wolf who would be serving as the fourth officer of the Olympic, a ship she and her father would be returning to New York on.
And the reason for such a celebration?
Titanic would finally be set afloat.
Down on the foundation of the gantry, workers were busy at work knocking away the wooden timbers that kept Titanic off the slip. Before long, Titanic's full weight was resting on the slipway.
A red flag was hoisted from her stern, a warning for all river traffic in the River Lagan to stand clear.
There was no ceremonial naming or champagne bottle…
This was not the White Star way.
A simple command, and massive hydraulic pistons would start Titanic on her journey.
"RELEASE THE TRIGGERS!" Mr. Andrews bellowed. Upon hearing the order, the triggers that acted as a safety for the pistons was released. And as they pressed upon the cradle that held Titanic, a red flare was launched as final warning to river traffic. For seconds that felt like minutes, the crowd held their breath. Even and Mason and his father and brothers felt their hearts quicken as all their hard work was about to slide from the gantry.
And, slowly but surely, the hulk of metal began to move. With the aid of 22 tons of soap, mutton fat, and train-oil, Titanic glided down the slipway, her stern making contact with the water with a load splash. And as she left her berth, the workers lining the gantry ran to the center just to watch their creation fall into the water. Eighty tons of drag chains, attached to six massive anchors brought Titanic to a halt. In just over a minute, Titanic, while just an empty shell at this point…
Was aflo-
DRIP!
The bunny was pulled from her reading by the sight and sound of a drop of water landing on the page she was reading. At first concerned that the room had sprung another leak, the bunny soon got her answer as she felt a tear run down her cheek. And it was only after wiping the offending drop from her cheek that she noticed she had retaken her seat in the comfortable armchair, book in her hands as she sat completely alone. And as she gazed at the clock, by the TV, she was amazed to find that an hour had passed, the bunny vaguely remembering that her grandchildren's parents had come to pick them up at that point, each receiving a more than acceptable goodbye from their grandmother, despite her distracted state of mind.
But, as she returned her gaze to the book in her grasp, the old rabbit soon find her expression growing firm as she realized that this one story needed to be joined by another…or two.
"Sasha," she called out, pleased to find her caregiver having just been in the adjacent kitchen putting on a pot of tea, the setter running into he living room thinking something was wrong, only for her step to falter when she saw the committed expression on her charges face.
"Do you know how to make a satellite call?"
That night, Charlie was preparing to do another dive to explore the Titanic, the MIRs in the process of being launched over the side. MIR 2 was already in the water, MIR 1 in the process of following. All she was waiting for was her last passenger, Charlie, to get in. But just as the dalmatian prepares to climb the ladder to the top hatch, Itchy ran up to him.
"CHARLIE!" he practically yelled over the deafening noise of the machinery, barley catching Pongo's attention.
"THERE'S A SATELLITE CALL FOR YOU!"
Charlie merely rolled his eyes as he just stared at Tibbs.
"ITCH, BUDDY, WE'RE LUANCHING!" he yelled back, pointing towards the MIR right by their side.
"SEE THESE SUBMERSIBLES GOING IN THE WATER?! TAKE AMESSAGE!"
"NO, TRUST ME!" Itchy countered, a small, but still very present smile growing on his lips.
"YOU WANT TO TAKE THIS CALL!"
Not five minutes later, Charlie, after sending Dodger in his stead into MIR 2, walked into the otherwise empty lab with Itchy, the shorter dog immediately picking up the receiver before handing it Charlie.
"Now," Itchy began with a tentative manner, "you'll have to speak up, she's a bit old."
"Great," the annoyed shepherd groaned, snatching the phone from Itchy's grasp, wasting no time in angrily pushing down the blinking line, the dog taking great care to hide the angry tone in his voice.
"This is Charlie Barkin. What can I do for you, Mrs...?"
At that moment, Charlie covered the receiver with his hand as he looked to Itchy to help him fill in the blanks, which the dachshund did without hesitation.
"Goodwin, JUDY Goodwin."
Satisfied, Charlie took his hand off the receiver.
"Mrs. Goodwin."
And needless to say, when Judy, who was seated with a mystified Sasha in her sunroom, warmed by the late-afternoon sun, answered Charlie, the shepherd nearly dropped the phone.
"I was just wondering if you had found the Zumpango Diamond, Mr. Barkin."
Looking to Itchy, Charlie was surprised, and even more annoyed by the smug smirk on his colleague's face.
"I told you you wanted to take this call."
With a small laugh and roll of his eyes, Charlie returned his focus back on the women at the other end of the line.
"Alright. You have my attention, Judy. Can you tell me who the woman in the picture is?"
And with a smile on her face, Judy answered.
"Oh yes...The woman in the picture is me."