This story was booted from the site a while back because I said shit in the summary. Apologies if I offended anyone. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. So now I'm reposting and taking the opportunity to edit some of the typos that were in the first draft.

Definitely Not Fate

Hello there, dear reader. This is my take on Titanic, because I essentially see spies and conspiracies everywhere, and this is what happened.

Jack sat down at the circular table in his tiny London apartment, and slit open a thick envelope which he had just received from his drop six streets over. Out fell several pieces of paper.

The first was a White Star Cruise Line third class ticket for the Titanic. Jack lit a cigarette, unimpressed. Still cheapskates. The second was a portrait of a young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen, looking for all the world like a porcelain doll. Her skin was a perfect, even white, which contrasted strikingly against fiery red hair, perfectly coifed and curled down one side of her face. She looked terribly boring to Jack. The portrait was subtitled "Rose DeWitt-Bukater, 1912".

Next came DeWitt-Bukater's history, which detailed how Mr. DeWitt had left the mother and daughter penniless, and swamped in debt. There was a portrait of the family, all looking serious and somber, and one with Rose and man labeled as Caledon Hockley, her fiancé. Jack was no idiot. He could infer just by observing the arrogant, privileged air with which Hockley posed that his was money intended to save the DeWitt-Bukater women from destitution. Jack raised his eyebrows. The man looked like a nightmare.

Also in the envelope was Jack's legend. He'd grown up in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, which irritated him greatly. He'd always felt that his indefinable suave allure was diminished by a half when he had an American accent. His parents had died when he was fifteen, he had no siblings or prospects, and was an aspiring artist. Again. Jack wondered when the agency would hire somebody with imagination to write the covers.

The next sheet of paper was the mission, attached to it was a sketch of the enemy agent, traveling under the name Spicer Lovejoy. He was an older man, with a bulbous nose and a crooked jaw. The mission itself was simple: keep Rose DeWitt-Bukater alive, preferably with minimal contact, until she reached New York, at which time another agent would take over the case.

Jack thought the envelope was empty, but as he prepared to take out a match and burn it, he noticed a tiny folded slip of paper stuck in the corner. Jack pulled it out gently and examined the familiar handwriting.

Jack, it read

Be careful. See you soon.


Jack smiled, partly because of the letter, which was written in Dom's usual, brusque tone, but mostly at the prospect of seeing his brother again. It had been a long two years.