FicWad

For those who died in the submersible, Titan, on the expedition to the Titanic's wreck may you Rest In Peace; also in memory of those who died on the fateful night of the disaster in 1912.

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"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." -John 16:33

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Ireland, Belfast, 1892

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He laid upon the grass near the trunk of a tree; the sun glistened down as it slowly sank behind the hills. The kangaroo, who had a sand-colored patch of fur and a tail that was as tall as his own spine and skull, slept in grace. The lad wasn't worth that of such a sight, wearing a collarless unbuttoned white shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers, he was as fairly dressed as any of the other "steerage" class person was in the rest of the town. A tweed flat cap rested on his breast as a copy of the good book was at his side. The kangaroo's ears twitched every now and then when a pest had the audacity to buzz near him. One might've assumed he was passed out drunk or dead, for his figure made not a move unless another pest grew near.

A splash broke the eerily quiet atmosphere. The kangaroo's eyes opened in a flash and his head turned frantically to locate the cause of the disturbance. He gazed at the loch that rested not far from the tree. An old, rickety dock, whose posts were being eaten away slowly by the forces of nature, stood yonder from the kangaroo's view. A young, grey wolf sat on it. The canine had his paws firmly grasped around a fishing rod and beside him stood a poorly-looking bucket, which most likely contained bait. The wolf's tail slowly wagged from underneath him. His fur was as grey as ash.

The kangaroo just looked down onto the loch and the wolf, whose attire was that of another steerage being, before heaving his figure up. His joints ached as he stretched and yawned. The kangaroo returned his cap to his head, concealing his brown patch of hair underneath, before taking his Bible from the flesh and hairs of Mother Nature's lovely being. He slowly strolled down the hill and onto the dock. A creak followed with every step the kangaroo took. The wolf paid no attention to the noise, he just kept his gaze on the end of the line that bobbed up and down on the loch. The kangaroo just stood a few feet from the wolf, watching with small interest. The younger lad glanced over his shoulder briefly before returning to his profession. The kangaroo looked toward the loch and then bowed his snout and head in prayer.

He concealed his prayer with the sign and glanced back up onto the pond. The wolf then felt his rod being pulled from his paws but got a hard grip on it and tried to reel in his catch. The kangaroo smiled and left the wolf to his own ordeal. Slowly, the kangaroo found a stone brick street; he glanced to his left and then toward his right. Nothing was in sight at either end of the street as far as he could. He strolled down the right path of the street.

The kangaroo dragged his tail behind him like it were a long cape of royalty. As the day submerged behind the hills, carriages would trot down the street its occupants, a male wild animal of various species in poor clothing, with a feral horse pulling the load behind him. The mentioned rider would stop and light a candle that lay inside the lampposts that stood beside the street.

Eventually, the kangaroo was making its way past buildings. He stopped once he got to a complex, which stood two stories high and the amount of land it occupied had been sadly lost to time, and entered the premises. The light of the gibbous moon illuminated the kangaroo's path. He passed door after door, barrier after barrier, before finally arriving at a rickety planked door titled B-12. The kangaroo placed a paw on the knob, ruffled his snout, and opened the door. The scent of liquor reeked within which he figured was better than the smell of a dead rat. The floorboards creaked as the docks had under the kangaroo's weight and the door squeaked close. He took off his cap, placed it onto a hook, and followed the stench. As the kangaroo entered the living room, he placed his Bible on a side table that had a half-melted candle on it.

Slowly, the kangaroo scouted the room. There on a stained sofa, whose material it was made with would make one's body feel like fleas were all over them, laid a feminine-shaped mouse. She wore a white dress, which wasn't luxurious-looking but pretty nonetheless. Her fur was as sand-toned as his own with an underbelly as white as snow, but she seemed all pale in the moonlight. Her worm-like tail squirmed feverishly but her breathing was steady and calm. Beside the sofa, on the floor laid a bottle of scotch, its contents partly spilled out on the floor and partly in the bottle. He walked over gently, placed the bottle upright, and knelt beside her. His shadow covered the rodent's being like a blanket. The kangaroo ran a paw softly through her blonde hair. A giggle escaped the mouse's lips as he straddled himself over her. She placed her own paw on his cheek and gazed into his violet eyes. The kangaroo himself was lost in her own blue eyes the smell of the scotch entered his nostrils with every breath that escaped hers.

"How was the forgery today, Ed?" the mouse asked in a light Irish accent voice.

"Same as always," Edward, as that was his name, answered. His voice too was also accented. "Paid as usual and a day well spent."

His voice was tired but his heart was beating like crazy. Susan, the mouse, felt his weariness and slowly let her paw snake its way down from his cheek and around his trousers strap. Edward smiled as Susan brought his snout to hers. Their lips attached and she kissed him passionately. Neither recalled what followed afterward but to them, it didn't matter.

Edward wiped away the sweat which had formed on his furry brow with the back of his paw. His chest was visible to anyone who cared to look as he had only the straps from his trousers as a top garment. Edward carefully melded the iron wheel in the flame of the forgery, his paws grasped the hammer with care. As the heat died down, the kangaroo cooled off the boiling metal. After the wheel hardened, Edward placed it up against the wall before testing its strength. Using a rock, Edward bashed the wheel violently. While there were a few wobbles the wheel held its form. Edward tossed the rock aside and rolled the wheel over to the wagon stable which was conjoined with the forgery. A wooden wagon, its planks polished brightly, laid within. A peg held one side of the axles up properly. It stood out like a sore thumb without a wheel. The three other axel ends bore steel wheels similar to the one Edward carried now. He angled the wheel to fit onto the axle and pushed it on perfectly. Then he slid a piece to secure the wheel on after and grabbed his hammer. Edward then stepped back to see his quad work completed.

Edward was a blacksmith, like his father and his father before him, and so on. He was no older than nine when his father decided to train the young kangaroo in the profession of forgery. On his first time trying to weld with fire he burnt his middle finger which still is black from the incident. His father only laughed and stated that Edward had got it lucky.

"At least it's still intact," the elder kangaroo said before brandishing his own paw. For the first time in his life, Edward noticed his father lacked a thumb on the paw. "Twas welding a sword I was. I think I was twelve. Pulled the blade out too quick and it lopped it off like it were butter."

Years went by. Edward took up his father's profession at seventeen only a month before his father's death. He had been found under a stone bridge, whiskey bottle in one paw and face down into the stream. Whether it was intended or simply an accident, not a soul knew. Edward took his father's death greatly, not a day went by that he didn't mourn his father. Edward had been an only child and his mother had left him with his father at a young age. It was an affair and she had no empathy for them; his father, being the good catholic he was, willngly raised the boy. Now, with his father gone, for once in his life Edward felt alone.

Of course, that was until one night. The kangaroo had just made enough pay for a meal, for at that time with the industrialisation in the world, blacksmiths just managed to get by. Edward was just leaving the pub when he heard what sounded like a high pitched squeak of pain. Edward turned to see he had let the door close upon what seemed like rope but when it swayed like crazy he realized it was a tail. The kangaroo opened the door quickly and met the angry glare of two blue eyes. Before anything else happened, Edward buckled back and rubbed where his cheek stung as a result of the slap the young pale-furred mouse had delivered. But even as the slap had hurt, Edward did catch a bit of the softness of the feminine rodent's fur, and it caused him to look at the mouse with a sense of wonder and more.

A week went by and Edward soon discovered an opportunity of a big pay. Walking along the path to his forgery, he noticed whom he assumed were a couple arguing beside a wagon, which listed slightly. Edward then noticed the corpse of a feral horse in front of the wagon, its reins having been removed, and its leg and hoof twisted. Edward assessed the situation and decided to intervene. But as he began to speak with a male velvet-furred mouse, he noticed that the other being present was the same mouse who had slapped him. Nonetheless, Edward agreed to help and together he and the velvet mouse pushed the wagon to his forgery.

There Edward learned the couple was actually siblings. The velvet-furred mouse, who was called Jarren, explained that he ran a small furnishing company, which wasn't a lot but one which managed a good payment. The rodent's explained their unfortunate events: Their horse had managed to stumble into a pothole and twist its hoof, it died not long after. To make matters worse an axle of the wagon had snapped as a result of the wooden wheels, which fell apart with the weight of the horse's fall. Edward examined the damage and said he'd do his best to help. Jarren thanked Edward kindly and tried to hurry off to his work. However, the rodent's sister wasn't too eager to leave, out of doubt that the kangaroo wouldn't keep his word, and agreed to meet her brother again by dusk.

Alone, Edward and Susan, as was her name, remained silent as the kangaroo continued to try and fix the wagon. Edward had no experience with wooden objects yet he knew a carpenter in town who could help. As he prepared to retrieve the carpenter, Edward turned to Susan and offered his arm. Susan glared at the kangaroo with a mocking and offended look and preferred to walk alone. However, as they wandered through the town, the two could sense they were stealing looks and whether it was out of fear or seeking comfort, Susan clutched Edward's arm tightly. After retrieving the carpenter, returning to the forgery, and having a little conversating, the carpenter reluctantly agreed to help. The elder anthro woodpecker had similar experiences a lot, as this was happening more and more often.

"At this point," the carpenter said, "We should just come up with a new way to prevent this shit from happening."

Soon after that day, something did happen. The carpenter retold the same statement to a different blacksmith who later attempted to make a way to fix the issue which resulted in the new production of iron horseshoes and steel wheels, both of which made the blacksmith business prosper once again.

But returning to the night, Edward and the carpenter, with the surprising aid of Susan, fixed the wagon. Edward rewarded the elder woodpecker. and was once again alone with the white mouse. It was silent all the way to sunset but eventually, Susan spoke with Edward, the two slowly began to dote over each other until Jarren had returned with a newly purchased stead. The velvet mouse thanked Edward greatly and when asked about his payment the kangaroo answered, "A dinner at your place'll do," before secretly winking at Susan, who turned her gaze away quickly but smirked a little as the two rodents left.

A year went by and soon Edward and Susan were married together, a happy couple (or so they thought at the time). It was at a chapel around noon. Since Edward was as devout to Catholicism as his father, the two had agreed to elope in a holy manner although Susans wasn't one to believe in God. I'll fix that eventually, Edward had thought, but a year in marriage and no luck. However, Edward soon found someone else who was interested.

Edward, who had just delivered his quad work to its owner, returned to the spot he had rested at yesterday. After reading a few bits of the good book, the kangaroo scanned to see if he could spot the young grey wolf. He didn't and decided to nap before going back home. Not long after, Edward awoke to the groans of pain that came from the dock. Edward turned in the direction of the voice and noticed the young wolf, fishing pole in paw as the other clutched the arm which held the aforementioned rod. The wolf seemed badly injured, his face under his fur seemed bruised and a few cuts allowed blood to seep into the pup's fur.

Edward only lay and watched as the wolf pup sat at the end of the dock groaning. Slowly, the groan became soft, quiet sobs which finally motivated the kangaroo to go inquire about the issue. Edward slowly crept toward the pup as the latter muttered a few salty words under his breath in an Irish brogue. Finally as if just noticing another's presence, the wolf turned around to gaze up into Edward's violet eyes. The pup's eyes themselves were a brown color and seemed quite sore from all the sobbing they did. Edward only glared back with a sympathetic hint in his eyes. He slowly produced a ragged, sweat-soaked handkerchief and began to lean in, but after the cloth touched one of the pup's wounds the wolf pulled back.

"Ah!" the pup winced, "Can't ya take more care of cleaning, Ed?"

"I could ask something along those lines, Macquin," Edward replied and tried to wipe again. "You gotta be more careful when walkin' from and to the orphanage, Wolfy."

Edward had known Wolfy Macquin for a year or two since the kangaroo had chosen to use the area as a 'mental unwinding space' in the afternoons after work and before supper. He had been enjoying a nice nap until he felt something poke at him, or someone. Edward opened his eyes to look at the younger pup glaring at him curiously.

"Thought ye were dead fer a second, mister," Wolfy had said in a voice that made Edward chuckle.

The two then began to properly introduce themselves. Wolfy had been abandoned at the door of the town's refugee, which was substituted as an orphanage, and was raised there. The wolf however was interested in the kangaroo's Bible. Wolfy had never seen one, let alone read oneand seeing a chance, Edward agreed to read the pup a chapter a day around the same time as it was then. This lead to Wolfy fishing around that time as to seem out occupied with a profession, not a stranger.

Wolfy winced once again as Edward had finished up cleaning. Wolfy didn't need to tell why he had been so badly injured, Edward if not the whole town had been aware of the small ragtag gang of thieves known as... nothing. Most people didn't pay much attention to name titling a small band of nobodies. But title or no title, the band was ruthless nonetheless, one a poor unfortunate chap was found not only badly bruised, but also dead, with a broken whiskey bottle glass twisted on his stomach. The scary part was that you never knew where'd they appear next.

Wolfy had more than his fair share of beatings from the gang on his trips. Most of the time he'd fight back but Edward always disproved of it. The two always argued over it but always ended with a middle ground.

"I'd like to see you face them," Wolfy said, "Snout to snout."

"Maybe I will," Edward retorted.

There was a short silence before Edward spoke, quoting scripture. Book of Wisdoms 1:1-16. The duo argued over its meaning here and there before falling silent again. Just as the sun made the atmosphere a hue of orange, the duo stood up and walked side-by-side toward the direction of town and the path toward the orphanage. However, as the two drew near the destination, their ears perked up as they swore they heard shuffing and hurried their pace but once they were sure that phootsteps were folowing them, they broke into a run.

It didn't last long however, as new steps seemed to escape near every exit except one alley, which the duo turned into but stopped at the end. It was fenced, trapping the two. Edward, not wanting to see his companion injured again, heaved Wolfy over the side and told him that he'd be alright. With that, Wolfy was off; Edward straightened himself and turned slowly around to face a group of fifteen teenagers (some as tall as him). There were various canine and feline breeds amongst the gang, not that Edward cared.

"Where's the wee arse?!" one of the boys asked in a threatening tone, "And don't get smart with me, ya roo!"

The young canine slowly produced a rusty shank as Edward only reached into his pockets to produce a horse-leathered sack full of cash and tossed it toward the group.

"That's all I got," Edward exclaimed, "Honest to God. As for the question, I haven't who yo-"

He was cut off by the sudden thrust of a punch by one of the smaller gang members. Soon, Edward was surrounded by the whole gang and one-by-one each laid a nasty blow on the lad until it was almost dark and left Edward injured in the alley.

Eventually, Edward came to with the help of one of the candle lamp lighting men who heard the groans of the kangaroo. The hyena offered Edward a flask of whiskey, which Edward took a single swing from but the canine insisted that Edward drink some more, which he did.

Besides, Edward reasoned in his mind, I'm sure Susan'll understand~

Little did Edward know that when he got home, an unpleasant surprise was awaiting him.

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London, England, 1907

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The mild, mid-summer night was still, the only sound to be heard was that of a horse drawn carriage being pulled through the London Streets while hooves on cobblestone echoed throughout the silent but not abandoned street. 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 Belgrauia.

A lovely, forty-year-old female, grey-furred lynx, with green iris's that twinkled brightly, slowly struted onto the pavement and halted as if awaiting someone. Her attire twas breathtaking; a beautiful red, lowcut evening dress that touched the ground, concealing her lower high-heeled boot covered paws (or pheet as they called it as not to get mixed up with upper paws which were just called paws). To add to her attire, she grasped an extravagant pawbag.

Soon, as another figure emerged from the carriage, having paid the cabbie, the affore mentioned lynx laced her arm about the dashing being with passion. The male, a well-built, blonde-furred churchmouse, who bore a swirled mustache on his upper lip, smiled confidentally. A simple silk tophat was crowned upon his head with side openings for his small paw held platter sized ears.

Not long after, the couple approached the opulent looking mansion, the gentle-mouse gave a knock which was soon responded to as it quickly opened with the aid of a portly, yet well-dressed cat, who gave a dignified bow to the guests. Immediately stepping aside, the cat gestured he couple in. Afterward, the couple were escorted to an elegantly frunished sitting room. The only other occupants present were an elder couple, both of whom were that of feline descent, and their early-sixties, however their orange fur was so light it was nearly grey.

The male feline, was a one, Lord Pirrie with his wife. Pirrie was the owner of Harland and Wolff shipyards in Belfast, Ireland. The orgins of Harland and Wolff dated back to the 1840s, where dredging of a deep-water passage in the section of River Lagan known as the Victoria Channel created by Queen's Island in the middle of the channel. Robert Hickerson built a shipyard on the new island and began the construction of iron ships there in 1853. Edward J. Harland, a artic fox, came to the yard, which was known as Hickerson and Company, as a manager in 1854 and bought it outright from Hickerson in 1859. Gustav Wolff, as one might assume was a wolf who had fur as black as coal, was a silent partner when he first joined Harland in 1861, but by 1862 the yard was known as Harland and Wolff.

Harland and Wolff were shipbuilders in the most complete sense. Not only did the yard construct the hull and superstructure of the ships they designed, but the yard also produced the heavy machinery, engines, turbines, boilers, and most of the associated equipment as well. This not only made for a more efficient constitution but also eliminated the costs of subcontracting, which saved the owner's money. More importantly, it allowed Harland and Wolff to set and maintain the unusually high standards of quality that came to characterize their ships.

The shipyard at its peak employed more 14,000 anthro men, from marine architects and draftsmen, interior designers and decorators, electricians and plumbers, carpenters and woodworkers, to a bewildering assortment of caulkers, moulders, clootmen, heater boys, holder-ups, and shell platers. To guarantee a steady supply of workmen trained to Harland and Wolff's exacting standards, an extensive apprenticeship program was introduced.

One of these apprentices came to the drafting department in 1862, a fifteen-year-old feline lad of Canadian birth and Scottish ancestry. His name was William James Pirrie, and he was hardworking and ambitious. By the time he was twenty-seven he had become a partner in the firm, and upon Harland's death in 1894 he became chairman of the board.

"My Lord," the butler said, "presenting Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Ismay."

The mouse, whose name was that of which the butler had stated, was the eldest son of Thomas H. Ismay, one of the shipping magnates of the last half of the nineteenth century and himself the son of a small Mayport boatbuilder.

Thomas Ismay acquired the flag of White Star Line in 1867, then promptly reorganized it as the Oceanic Steam Navigation Company, LTD. The White Star Line was the successor to a line of wooden sailing ships that piled the profitable Austrailian emigrant trade in the middle of the nineteenth century, but Ismay a perceptive business-mouse, and rewarding as the Austrailian trade was, he was shrewd enough to realize that there were far greater profits to be made on the transatlantic passenger run, bringing immigrants from the Old World to the New and shuttling wealthier passengers back and forth between the two. Almost immediately the White Star Line created a niche for itself by sailing liners that were fast and, by the standards of the day, luxurious. In 1870 Ismay formed a partnership with William Imrie and created a holding company called Ismay, Imrie, and Company, one of the first bussiness transactions of which was to contract with Harland and Wolff of Belfast to build a fleet of Iron steamships for the White Star Line. It was a happy union.

The first ever ship built for the White Star Line was luanched in 1870, more soon joined. All were built by Harland and Wolff, and soon the Belfast shipyard found itself building ships almost exclusively for the White Star Line. The firm operated under an unusual "cost plus" basis with its client, building the finest ships possible, then billing White Star for the cost of construction plus a fixed percentage of the cost for a profit. By all accounts this was an eminently satisfactory arrangement all around, for it guaranteed the shipyard a reasonable return for it's investment in time, labor, and material, while assuring, White Star ships built by a yard whose reputation for quality and probity were already becoming legendary. It is a matter of record that each and every bill submitted to the White Star Line by Harland and Wolff was paid on time, without question.

J. Bruce Ismay's father, Thomas, had been able to buy the White Star Line in 1867 with the financial assistance of Gustavus Schwabe, Gustav Wolff's wealthy uncle who had backed Edward Harland too. It was a calculated business move by Ismay to abandon the Australian trade, which was making the White Star Line a handsome profit, for the North Atlantic run, but Ismay preceptive enough to realize, a full quarter century before the passenger trade on the Atlantic reached its flood tide, the vast money-making potential that existed there. He also was clever enough to throw out conventional ideas of shipboard accommodation and passenger comfort.

In 1874, Ismay's son, J. Bruce, entered the family business. Born in 1862 , the younger Ismay was educated at Elster and Harrow, two of the most exclusive preparatory schools in England, and had spent a year a pupil at the fashionable finishing school, of Dinard in Paris, France, though he never acquired a degree. After the year-long "world tour" that was customary for young anthro men of his station in that day, he went to work for White Star Line. His first day was an illuminated experience, highlighting as it did the elder Ismay's character as well as the nature of the relationship between father and son. Having left his hat and coat in his father's office, the younger Ismay was startled to hear his father, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the office to hear, tell a canine subordinate to instruct the new office mouse to leave his hat and coat elsewhere. Despite his imposing physical appearance and a carefully cultivated air of self assurance, Bruce Ismay found himself never quite able to move out of his his father's shadow, to follow comfortably in his phootsteps, or to escape his dominated presence altogether. It created a flaw in his character that in one night shattered him.

In the meantime, Thomas Ismay had decided that it was becoming too expensive to continue to pursue both unrivaled speed and unparalleled luxury in White Star ships. Instead, since luxury had made White Star's reputation, luxury would continue to be White Star's hallmark. The Line's ships would continue to be nearly as fast as its competitors, but the out-and-out race for the Blue Ribband (a prize that went to the fastest liner that made it across the Atlantic crossing the quickest) would be run without the White Star Line. Of course, this didn't stop a personal quarrel between White Star and its competiting company, Cunard Line's.

However, a wealthy American dog named J. P. Morgan, had conceived of a vast frightening monopoly that would control the shipping rates of goods and the fares of passengers being transported from Europe. Thomas Ismay tried to rebuke the wealthy American's intent but failed and passed away in 1899. Bruce tried to follow his father's suit and rebuked Morgan from acquiring White Star for a little while until, Pirrie, who worried about the success of his shipyard, pressured the younger rodent to submit, to which Ismay did in 1902. Cunard, however had skillfully found a way to stay out of Morgan's paws by wring considerable concessions to the British government to let the company stay a British company. In return they'd produce two new super liners.

The two new liners that Cunard was to build using admiralty assistance were intended to outstrip any other vessel on the North Atlantic in sheer speed and outdo White Star's best in pure luxury. Launched in 1906, they were the Lusitania and the Mauretania. Immediately they presented a challenge to the White Star Line that could not go unanswered. It was this same issue that brought Bruce and Pirrie to have supper together on the summer night of 1907.

The two couples spoke and ate for a while, but as the dishes were cleared away both men asked their wives to leave them to other matters. Alone, Lord Pirrie ordered cigars and brandy for him and Ismay before he turned to talk with the mouse.

"I sense you've got questions," Pirrie said, "off with them."

"William," Bruce began, "I noticed you put in a order for three of your slipways to be demolished for two massive... what's the word?"

"Gantaries," the elder feline answered, "This is the matter I was hoping to talk about."

"If I may assume," the mouse said, "would any of these orders happen to be part of a intention to respond to Cunard's ships?"

"Indeed it is," Pirrie answered, before he produced a sketch pad, "I've been wondering, Bruce, and I wanna hear your words for this, how is it that these new ships which Cunard had produced are a huge ordeal. By which I mean what is it that you think that makes their new superliners such achievements?"

Ismay pondered as Pirrie scribbled away on his pad.

"If you're asking for my upmost honesty," the church mouse answered finally, "it's got to be in their journey time."

"Bruce, I've been over this subject," the feline replied, "our motto is luxury, not speed. I'd thought your father taught you this."

"The only thing my father taught me," Ismay retorted, "was not to be a fool and how not raise your kin."

Upon the last remark, Pirrie frowned at the young rodent, who drew back in fear.

"Ah well," the feline sighed, "I will admit your father was no caring figure, hell, to be quite honest he was stubborned. But I don't find you insulting him in any tastes ripe."

Just then, the cigars and brandy arrived, Pirrie continued to scribble away on his pad.

"But let me share what I think makes Cunard's ships so extravagant," the feline said slyly, "It's in the size, Bruce, the size. Have you ever been fascinated by the Greek myths, Bruce?"

"Indeed I have heard've them," the church mouse answered after he took a sip of his brandy. "Truly they are fascinating... but I fail to comprehend how this is connected to our current affair."

"I'll explain, hold on," Pirrie said as he fixed a issue on his sketch, "Yes, truly they are. My nephew, he's a book worm on it."

Pirrie was of course mentioned Thomas Andrews. Born in February 1873, he was the second son in his otter family, which had a long and honorable reputation in Ulster. His father, also named Thomas, had early on established himself as a local politician of some note, and in 1870 he had the good fortune to marry Eliza Pirrie, Lord Pirrie's daughter. Thomas had a early marked fascination for ships, along with a remarkable gift for things mechanical. Consequently it came as a surprise to no one when at age sixteen he became a premium apprentice at the shipyard of Harland and Wolff. The apprenticeship lasted five years, one and a half of which the otter spent in the drawing office. Now Thomas himself became manager of Harland and Wolff's design office.

"Well, as I was saying," Pirrie said, "That's the thing, Bruce, people are fascinated by the sheer size of things and what they can behold. So in order to beat Cunard..."

The feline looked up from his sketch pad to see Ismay gaze back. The church mouse seemed to be waiting for Pirrie to continue, and that's exactly what he did next.

"If we're going to beat the Lusitania and Mauretania at their own game, we must outdo them in size," the feline exclaimed, "If Cunard wanted big, we'll build bigger; if they wanted to offer luxury, we'll offer luxury on a scale never before seen on the North Atlantic!"

Ismay nearly choked on his own drink before looking bewildered at Pirrie.

"You mean to tell me," the church mouse asked dumbfoundly, "that you're proposing... building a giant?!"

"The biggest the world has yet to see," Pirrie stated.

"How can you achieve such a thing?!" Ismay questioned.

"Simple, Bruce, time, money, production, and workmen," the feline said, "I've already been going over it with my nephew and Alex."

Pirrie was referring to his brother-in-law, Alexander Clarise.

"Volia!" Pirrie said, as he presented Ismay his sketch.

The church mouse sat in awe as he gazed at the majestic concept of a luxurious-looking, three funneled liner.

"Wonderful..." Ismay said blankly, "you'd think two be a match?"

"I'd assume so," the feline replied nervously, "why?"

"Well," the church mouse said, "if we want to out do Cunard, I'd say build three."

With that, the two agreed to meet again so Ismay could officially sign off on the deal. Six months later, Pirrie followed through with his order to have the three slips demolished for two new giants. Nearly a year later on July 29, 1908, in the main office of Harland and Wolff's drawing office's, Pirrie and Ismay stood over a more detailed design of the sketch from the other night.

Flanked beside Pirrie was a tiger who seemed as old as the yard's owner himself; he was Alexander Carlise. On Ismay's side was a thirty-five-year old otter, who wore a bowler hat and a sleek black tuxedo. Thomas Andrews beamed at his blueprints, he had just married last month to a beautiful otteress named Helen.

"Magnificent," Pirrie said, "truly splended work you two."

"Well, if I may say, Uncle William," the otter stated, "Alex did more of the details."

"Ah well, you still have credit for thinking it up, Tom," the tiger retorted, "I wouldn't have detailed a thing, had you not."

But Pirrie seemed concerned as Ismay exmanied the model. The church mouse seemed quite curious about the design's outward apperance.

"Interesting," he said, "there are four funnels now. Whereas you stated there would only be three engines."

"Yes," Andrews said nervously, "since Cunard's flag ships have four funnels, I assumed you'd want yours to have no less."

"But then what is its use?" the church mouse questioned.

"It carry's vents from the turbine engine room and coal stoves from the main kitchen," Alexander exclaimed and gestured to the blueprints. "See?"

"So," Ismay asked for clarification, "the fourth funnel, other then being a ventilation tool, is simply for show?"

It was tense as Andrews confirmed the rodent's speculation. All the men knew, that if Ismay didn't sign off on the contract to build the ships, all the work was for nothing. However, as the church mouse beamed, all the other men let out a sigh of relief.

"Well done, Thomas," Ismay exclaimed, "you've won my signature."

"Well once the paper work is done," the tiger said, "we can begin construction on four-hundred and four-o-one."

"While we're here," Ismay began as he grasped the documents to bear his signature, "let us give them their titles. Simply calling them their slip numbers won't do."

"If I may, sir?" the otter offered, "my uncle said he shared my interests in mythology."

"Indeed he did," the church mouse exclaimed

"Well," Andrews continued, "since these new superliners are meant to be of size and luxury, one might think of Mount Olympus. So, why not title four-hundred, Olympic?"

"Brilliant, Thomas," Ismay declared, "And four-o-one?"

"She's all yours, Bruce," Alex teased.

As Ismay realized what he meant, he beamed before he responded.

"Thomas," Ismay declared, "Mind telling us the only beings that rivaled the gods?"

"The Titans," the otter answered.

"Indeed," the church mouse said, "So wouldn't it be fitting if four-o-one were titled... Titanic?"

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Eighty-Seven-Years later, 41 degrees 43'57" N 49 degrees 56'49" W, North Atlantic

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Darkness.

That's all there was in the vast empty space; shrouded by darkness. That a faint ping echoed through the darkness, distant and muted at first, only for it to grow louder as a bright eternal light descended. The object which emitted the actions revealed to be two Russian submersibles as the sunk into the dark depths of the sea. Once they reached the ocean floor, the atmosphere felt so space-like it could've been compared to the Saturn V mission landing.

"We're here," a burly Siberian panther stated with a Russian accent into a radio set within MIR One.

His blue jumpsuit blended seamlessly with the almost futuristic interior of the cramped submersible as he guided the vehicle through the water, his tired eyes scanned the otherwise flat seabed. But as the two MIR submersibles moved forward along the sandy ground two and a half miles down, their lights soon picked up on something out of place on the sea floor.

Out of the darkness, like a ghostly apparition, came the bow of a ship. Its knife-edge prow seemed to come straight at them, as well as seeming to plow the bottom sediment like ocean waves. It towered over the sea floor, standing just as it landed eighty-four years ago. The Titanic or at least what's left of her.

"Still gets me every time," a grey wolf, although his fur was more brownish, said within the MIR One's cabin.

"It's your guilt from stealing from the dead," Joseph Marx, the panther, said.

The scraggily looking Grey Wolf steadily held a brand new JVC camcorder, the lens focused on the wolf's face, the faint white collar of his own jumpsuit pecked into the shot as he began to narrate his adventure. As he did, the portly black bear, clad in his own jumpsuit at the back of the sub, rolled his eyes as a teasing smile formed on his muzzle. But the part-time treasure hunter and oceanographer, Lunarus Wolf, paid his friend and colleague, Brutus "Jack" Agustus any mind.

"Thanks, Joseph," the canine said sarcastically, "Work with me here."

Alongside both sides of the wide bow, covered in rust and silt were two, massive, sixteen-ton anchors. Just as the subs rose over the rusticle infested railings of the bow, at the center of it rested a large crane. As the sub moved forward, it's lights shined off of two massive chains, each disappeared in opening's of the deck only to end at the two anchor's that the crew had seen just minutes earlier.

"It still gets me every time," Lunarus repeated, in a attempted tone of somber, yet dramatic tone, "to see the sad ruin of the great ship sitting here where she landed at two thirty in the morning of April 15, 1912, after her long fall from the world above."

The sub continued to move up over the deck, it's lights trailed up a toppled mast, that had fallen from it's own weight into deep dark chasms of two opened cargo hatches. As the two sub's continued to ascend over the ship, their lights shined through the smashed windows of the forward A and B deck cabins. Within one cabin, the lights briefly captured the reflective surface of a framed photo, rusted and partially covered in slit, a wedding photo. A newly wedded couple, of a female vixen whose greyish-white fur was hidden by the monochromatic of the picture, beside her stood a nicely dressed grey wolf with brown iris's in a naval uniform. Jack however was more focused on his boss's speech and felt giddy.

"You're so full of shit, boss," the bear chuckled.

The humorous statement made Lunarus look at his friend with a smile and laugh. The wolf shook his head in annoyance as he returned his attention back to the sub's porthole just in time to see the sub hover over the damaged bridge. The once enclosed navigation deck decimated from the foremast toppling onto it during the ship's fall. The only thing left of the equipment that was on the bridge whether it was 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 destructed state from the mast.

"Dive seven," Lunarus spoke, "here we are again on the deck of the Titanic, two and a half miles down under 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... we're gone in two microseconds."

After he finished his monologue, Lunarus turned off the camera. Now he could focus on his main goal; another treasure hunt.

"Lets get to work," he exclaimed.

As MIR One and Two moved along the boat deck, their lights passed over the still standing walls of the Officer's Quarters. Peaking within the decaying walls of one such room, was the sight of a porcelain bathtub, once used by the ship's captain, still pristine as it was that night.

Before long, Joseph maneuvered the sub to come above the Officer's Quarters while MIR Two lingered on the boat deck. Lunarus watched as a large black hole at the edge of the roof of the Officer's Quarters. The wolf ignored the fact that Jack placed a bulky headset over his head, a pair of even bulkier camera lenses covered his eyes as he grabbed what appeared to be two joysticks.

"We're coming up on the Grand Staircase," the canine stated, "Joseph set it down on the roof of the Quarters just like yesterday."

Soon, the Siberian panther set the MIR One down at the edge of the large hole, that was once filled with an opulent oak staircase topped with a beautiful wrought-iron glass dome which was once the glorious part of the Titanic.

"Alright," Lunarus said after he made sure Jack was set up, "launching Jean-Louis now, and we'll head to the parlor suites."

Outside the sub, a small hatch opened at the the front of the MIR. A blocky little robot, a ROV, soon exited from the sub, paying out its umbilical cord behind it like a trail to get lost as its twin stero video cameras swiveled like insect eyes. The ROV descended through the open shaft several decks before it moved to the First Class Reception Room.

As it moved through the cavernous interior, the remains of the ornate paw-carved woodwork which gave the ship it's elegance moved through the floodlights, the lines blurred by slow dissolution and descending rusticle formations. Stalactites of rust hung down so at times it looked like a natural grotto. As Jean-Louis passed through the deteriorating room, it managed to capture images of objects from the ship's ghostly past.

A grand piano in surprisingly good shape, crashed on its side against a wall, the keys gleamed a dull black and white in the lights. A chandelier still hung from the ceiling by its wires, glinted as the little ROV moved on. It's lights scanned across the floor, revealing a champagne bottle, some china emblazoned with the red pendant of the White Star Line. A women's high top granny shoe, and the eerie sight of what seemed like a child's skull revealed to be a porcelain head of a doll.

Jean-Louis then moved on and entered a corridor which is much better preserved. Here and there a door still clung to its rusted hinges, crafted with ornate pieces of molding, all hints of its grandeur of the past. But before long, Jean-Louis reached its destination. The ROV turned before it entered a black doorway, entering room B-52, the sitting room of a promenade suite, one of the most luxurious state rooms of the Titanic.

"I'm in the sitting room," Jack said as he continued to guide Jean-Louis along, "heading for bedroom B-54."

The bear was exceptionally careful not to run the ROV into any debris, something Lunarus sure as hell breathed down his neck about.

As Jean-Louis moved through the water, it's lights eventually picked up the awe-inspiring sight of the brass fixtures of the nearly-perfected preserved fire place, an ornate clock still stood in place, the remains of a divan and writing desk as Jean-Louis crossed the ruins of the once elegant room toward another door.

"I'm crossing the bedroom," Jack exclaimed as he continued.

Jean-Louis soon picked up the sight of the remains of a pillared canopy bed.

"There it is," Lunarus said, having seen the visual on a display screen, "That's the Lazarus's bed, that's where the sonuva bitch slept."

Alongside the bed were broken chairs, and a dresser. But having failed to find anything in the bedroom, Lunarus decided to backtrack a bit and see if they missed anything. As they did, the wolf noticed on the screen that just ahead of the bathroom, which conjoined the bedroom with the sitting room, in a secluded corner of the sitting room was a pile of wooden debris, random junk to the casual looker but upon having noticed the knob on a piece of the wood, it was clear as not just anything else.

"That's the wardrobe door," Lunarus said almost mystified, " I want to see what's under it."

"You smell something, boss?" Jack teased, "GIVE ME MY PAWS!"

Slowly, two small hatches on Jean-Louis opened and produced two thin but sturdy arms, each ended with two mechanized graspers, the robotic claws soon reached forward thanks to the signals Jack sent from his controls which allowed the bear to control the arms in real time.

Lunarus felt his heart rate and blood pressure increase as Jack has the ROV gripped the door which lay in an odd angle and it is pulled into the robot's mechanical claws, the debris moved reluctantly in a cloud of silt that had been kicked up by the motion. Just as Jack had a firm grip on it, he quickly flipped the door, released it and let it fall to the cabin floor, and revealed that underneath it lied within a steel combination safe.

"Oooh, daddy!" the bear exclaimed, "You seein' what I'm seein'?"

"It's payday, boys!" Lunarus exclaimed gleefully.

The sun shone on the Russian research vessel Akademik Mistislav Keldysh, a huge crowd of various anthro species gathered at the very stern of the ship most of the crew included. At the rear of the ship the massive A-frame crane hauled 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 which cable. All around the Keldysh, the sub crews, and a paw-wringing bulldog accompanied by a documentary video crew hired by Lunarus to cover his moment of glory.

In a matter of seconds, everyone crowded around the safe, while in the background MIR Two is being lowered into its cradle on the deck by a massive hydraulic arm, her sister already recovered as Jack and Joseph eagerly followed Lunarus as he bounded over to the safe like a pup on Christmas morning.

"Who's the best?" Jack teased, "Say it."

"You are, Jack," the wolf said to his friend.

Lunarus turned to one of the camera men, a pale horse who held a bulky camera on his shoulder.

"You rolling?" the wolf asked, just to get a thumbs up as he turned back to the safe.

"Well, here it is," he began dramatically, "the moment of truth. Here's where we find out if the time, the sweat, the money spent to charter this ship and these sub's, to come out here to the middle of the North Atlantic we're worth it. If what we think is in that safe... it will be."

Once he finished, Lunarus wore a grin as wolffish as himself on his muzzle as he lightly jumped in anticipation for his greatest find yet. The moment the door was pried loose, it's contents spilled out in a wave of rust-colored water. After it stopped leaking, Lunarus, flanked by the bulldog, Jack, Joseph, and the camera-horse, they got down to examine the contents. But as Lunarus started eagerly to pull them out, a few pawfulls of soggy, orange currency, what appeared to be a leather-bound folder, but nothing else, his excited deminor fell. Not long after, the grey wolf scowled before expressing his reaction.

"Shit," Lunarus muttered.

"You know, boss," the black bear exclaimed, "this happened to Geraldo and his career never recovered."

The thought of his career dying flooded Lunarus and right now the last thing he needed was the camera-horse to intrude his space by getting closer and closer.

"Get that outta my snout," he said.

Some time later, within the Keldysh's carefully prepped research lab, intended to ensure the artifacts Lunarus and his crew did recover were properly treated and catalogued, one of the technicians, a golden retriever, her hair as rusty as the rust-colored objects, carefully removed some papers from the leather folder that had been found in the safe. All around her, other technicians tended over the other artifacts from the stateroom and other parts of the wreck, each was washed and preserved carefully. But as the expert technicians worked, Lunarus barged in, followed close by the documentary crew who were eager to get their out to DNN, who would've covered the expedition on a special segment VIA satellite, and collect their paychecks. Lunarus however was in no rush to have his reputation ruined.

"You send out what I tell you when I tell you," he growled, "I'm signing your paychecks, not DNN. Now get setup for the uplink."

At that moment, Walter Hyslop, a German Shepard, a terrified expression on his muzzle, held a paw over the maw piece of the satellite phone set, the Shepard definitely wanted to pass on the business partners, who financed the expedition, over to Lunarus.

"Lu," Walter called out, "the partners wanna know how's it goin'."

"How's it going?" the wolf seethed, "It's like a first date in prison, waddya think?!"

But the moment Lunarus grabbed the phone from Walter, who nervously wiped the sweat-soaked beans of his paw on his shirt, the wolf's tone shifted to a kinder one as it attempted to diffuse the situation.

"Hi, Dave, Fuzzy?" the wolf spoke into the phone, "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 mother's room, the Purser's safe on C Deck..."

The retriever suddenly caught onto something with her gaze that was being revealed as she sprayed off the thin layer of gunk from the piece of paper she'd been worked on. When she did was just as Lunarus has finished his talk on the phone, the wolf himself had just seen what the paper revealed. A conte crayon drawing of a very beautiful young vixen. The piece is in excellent shape, though the edges have partially disintegrated. The female vixen is beautiful, rendered, perfectly displayed in her late teens or early twenties, she wore only a luxurious bathrobe which was tight enough to still show her natural curvatures, though posed with a casual modesty. She's on an Empire divan, in a pool of light that seemed to radiate outward from her left eye, the right covered by a long, naturally curly hair, cascading with her natural-sized canine ears, although her left seemed to stand up to keep he hair out of her eyes, the right seemed to be pressed against her skull.

However, besides the tight bathrobe, she wasn't entirely nude, for around her throat lay the very object of Lunarus's desire. A beautifully pawcrafted necklace with one large stone hung just above the crevice of her sufficed covered breasts.

"Hang on a sec," Lunarus said and quickly pawded the phone back to the equally stunned Walter, who quickly moved to hang up the phone before he joined Lunarus, the retriever, and Jack.

The wolf had grabbed a reference photo from the clutter on the lab table, a period black-and-white photo of a ruby necklace on a black velvet jeweler's display stand. As he held it next to the drawing; it's clearly the same piece, a complex setting with a massive central stone which was almost heart-shaped. It was at this moment Lunarus finally noticed that at the bottom of the piece of paper, scrawled above the initials RH, was a date: April 14 , 1912. Beside the date seemed to be a message which read, "For my friend, Edward T-" before it was cut off by the disintegrated corner. Lunarus was in disbelief.

"I'll be damned," he uttered.

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The gentle ocean breeze billowed through the lovely little beach house in the far off city of Miami, full of ceramics, figurines, folk art, walls framed with drawings collected over a lifetime, and the outside surrounded by perfectly trimmed and cared flowers from exquisite to casual.

A small TV was setup in a cozy little living room, where earlier young fox pups of various breeds had played in but now we're resting in their own sleeping spaces, which had worn down a lovely desert vixen with fur like the sands of Arizona, in her late-forties, one Diane Foxington watched the news of DNN. Just behind the desert fox, seated in a glassed-in studio attached to the house, was an ancient red vixen, her orange fur so light it almost was as white as her underbelly. Her wrinkled paw threw aside some damp soil out of a ceramic flower pot, the muddy substance covered her paws as they gently placed a newly blossomed rose in it, but surprisingly strong and supple. As she focused on her gardening, the vixen suddenly found her silent space invaded by the conversation that was transpired on the TV by lead anchor, a lovely tigress named Tracy Tootherine.

"Treasure hunter Lunarus Wolf is best known for finding Spanish gold in sunken galleons in the Caribbean," the tigress began, "Now he is using deep submergence technology to work two and a half miles down at another famous wreck... the Titanic."

At that moment, the old vixen is on her pheet, her dirty paw grabbed 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 and muzzle became more wrinkled as she tried to focus on the sound being emitted from the TV. Her squinted, yet still very bright and vibrant orangish-brown eyes just as alive as in her youth, focused on the screen as Tracy continued.

"He is with us live via satellite from a Russian research ship in the middle of the Atlantic," the tigress explained before an insert of Lunarus's face appeared on the screen. "Hello, Lunarus?"

"Yes, hello, Tracy," Lunarus shouted over the sound of the North Atlantic wind and constant activity that occurred around him on the deck of the Keldysh, "you know Titanic isn't 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."

"But it's no secret that education is not your main purpose," Tracy stated, "you're a treasure hunter, so what is the treasure you're hunting?"

"I'd rather show you than tell you," the wolf exclaimed with a coy smile, "and we think we're very close to doing just that."

At that moment, Diane noticed the old vixen make her way into the room. The younger fox rushed to aid the frail female, only to be waved off by the old vixen who issued a very polite, but still firm request.

"Turn that up please, dear," the red vixen asked.

At first Diane was stunned by the fox's firm tone. The desert vixen didn't hesitate to do as told and increased her volume just as Tracy spoke again.

"Your expedition is at the center of a storm of controversy over salvage rights and even ethics," the tigress exclaimed, "many are calling you a grave robber."

Lunarus merely laughed off the accusation, much to the red vixen's annoyance.

"Well, nobody called the recovery of the artifact's from King Tut's tomb grave robbing," the wolf defended, "I have museum-trained experts here, making sure this stuff is preserved and catalogued properly. Look at this drawing, which was found today..."

The camera panned off Lunarus to the drawing, in a tray of water, the image of the almost nude vixen filled the frame, which made the old one's widen in amazement. She smiled as she looked carefully at the screen as Lunarus continued to speak.

"Here we have found a picture dating back to the day of the sinking of the Titanic," the wolf explained, "having been sitting underwater for nearlt eighty-four-years, and my team was able to recover it.Unfortunately, we have no idea who the lovely vixen is in the picture. If there is anyone who does know who she is, please call me at 101-555-1956. I will be waiting."

The elder vixen however didn't focus on what was said. Her mind washed with so many thoughts as for the first time since she listen to the news report she spoke.

"I'll be damned," she muttered in a trembling voice.

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That night, Lunarus prepared another dive to explore the Titanic. But just as the wolf prepared to climb the ladder to the top hatch of MIR One, Walter ran up to him.

"LU!" the German Shepard called out, "THERE'S A SATELLITE CALL FOR YOU!"

"Walt, buddy," Lunarus protested and indicated to the MIR, "we're luanching! Take a message."

"No, trust me!" Walter insisted with a grin, "You want to take this call!"

Five minutes later, Lunarus walked into the otherwise empty lab with Walter. The dog immediately picked up the receiver before he pawded it to the wolf.

"Now," Walter explained, "you'll have to speak up, she's a bit old."

"Great," Lunarus groaned in annoyance.

He snatched the phone from Walter's grasp. The wolf angirly pushed down the blinking line and attempted to mask the anger in his voice.

"This is Lunarus Wolf," he said into the phone, "What can I do for you, Mrs....?"

The wolf covered the receiver with his paw as he looked to Walter to help him fill in the blank.

"Coulter," Walter answered, "Marian Coulter."

"Mrs. Coulter?" Lunarus asked, satisfied.

Marian, who was seated next to a mystified Diane in her sunroom spoke easily into the phone.

"I was wondering," the elder vixen began, "if you had found the Ruby Soul, Mr. Wolf."

Lunarus's fur tensed as he nearly dropped the phone. The wolf looked at Walter surprised The Shepard himself bore a smug smirk.

"I told you you wanted to take this call," Walter said.

With a frown, Lunarus returned his focus to the woman on the other end of the line.

"Okay, Marian-" the wolf began but was interrupted.

"Please," Marian said, "call me Mary."

"Alright," Lunarus said annoyed, "You have my attention, Mary. Can you tell me who the vixen in the picture is?"

"Why of course," the vixen said cheerfully, "the vixen in the picture, is me."