Joan was not welcomed with the same care.

"This is unacceptable!" The wizard Prickle's thin voice loudly buffeted Joan, who stood before her boss stiffly. His beady eyes squinted from his furious glare and his long, white beard bounced with every rage-filled word. "First you disrespect one of my loyal clients, then you walk out with a brute of an insulting man and leave the store unattended?!"

"It was an emergency--"

"Don't interrupt me!"

"Someone's life was on the line!"

"If that were the case, they wouldn't be asking for you!" His words cut sharply, like a scalpel making its first incision on your chest, preparing the way for a rib spreader. "I am the only authority when it comes to saving lives. Not. You. How long will it take for you to understand? How many times do I have to repeat myself?!" He marched closer to her, bellowing from his small, old body, and Joan just stepped back and listened. Prickle sighed and regained a modicum of composure. 

"I have given you multiple second chances against my better judgement, and you have not lived up to my expectations, as low as they were. I admit, there is no one else in this village capable enough to assist at my potionary, but my patience only goes so far. You need to reflect on your actions," he accused, wagging an old and bony finger at her nose. "Because another incident like today will not be further tolerated." Prickle stormed off to the back of the store, disappearing through the dangling beaded curtains. They clicked against each other, two of them intertwining briefly before releasing and relaxing to a slow sway.

Joan didn't move from her glued position of accusations and mockery. During Prickle's lecture, her gaze rarely broke from counting the cracks between the floor's wooden slabs. Her hands raised and rubbed her face with a long exhale, and she walked to the counter. She slumped down and buried her head in her crossed arms, just begging for the day to be over.

Joan's mind endlessly swirled with too many thoughts. This happened often- the silent words would furiously string together to make sentences that spiraled into a paralyzed despondence. But only one question echoed above the others: What just happened? She always saw herself as responsible, lawful, not taking unnecessary risks, but what possessed her to operate on an airman whilst blackout drunk? Where did that pride and confidence come from? How did she do it so skillfully? Or maybe she didn't do it at all and this strange airship captain somehow learned of her personal information and made her tend to his crew member using a lie that made her responsible? No... Somehow, operating while drunk sounded like the more believable answer. Joan felt exasperated at that thought.

Secondly, how could Prickle be so immovable and cruel? As egotistical as he was, he wasn't stupid, but how could he let himself verbally say that he's the sole authority over all medical situations that come into town? What would he have done if Crowe came to him last night? More importantly, what would Crowe have done to Prickle when given the same boastful exclamation? She didn't want to think about that. It was strange, though, how knowledgeable Crowe was regarding magic and medicine. It wasn't quite common sense or entirely well-known that magic couldn't heal wounds. If you asked someone on the street in an average city, maybe forty percent of the people would be aware. That's just what happens when magical arts are considered outdated and mages are in a rapid decline. That's what happens when technology becomes easy to use and readily available, while magical capacity is determined by birth and requires years of study to utilize effectively. Even Joan didn't learn about magic's inability to heal until medical school- it was the first lesson drilled into their heads. If a doctor was supposed to "do no harm," knowing this fact was essential. Crowe knew this fact and was quite passionate in saying so. It was surprising. Crowe was surprising.

That brings her tumult of thoughts to its most glaring point that made her stomach coil and tighten: Captain Crowe Meyer. Or more specifically, his strange and sudden offer. What a strange man- or what a strange group of people! They took everything so lightly! Everyone except the injured man, Gideon, who had the frenzied expression that Joan expected. But even at the end, he seemed to forgive her and listen to her. That didn't make sense at all! I don't want anything to do with those bizarre airmen! But even that wasn't completely true. They were an interesting group of people- a breath of fresh air. But that offer... It made her head throb.

Joan hated what Crowe said to her. She hated hearing his words, how he said no one wanted her here, how she doesn't have a place here. She hated it because he was right. She knew that already. She knew it, okay? It's not like it mattered, though, whether she was wanted or not. It didn't matter if it were obvious that she herself didn't want to be there. There's no point in that line of thinking, and there's no point in considering his words.

But what was that offer? No medicine. Join the crew. What was the point? Why did he say that? How could he want her? The woman who, to repeat it for the umpteenth time, performed invasive surgery on his crew mate while drunk. It didn't make sense. It sounded crazy. Hell, it was crazy. How could she just drop everything and leave to be something she's not? Working on a delivery airship? Joan didn't even know port from starboard. It was ridiculous! And yet... it sounded like a dream...

I need to wake up.

. . . . .

There was no rest in the metal underbelly of the Bird of Paradise. The machinery was quiet, but the engineer was active, judging parts, removing valves, and replacing broken pipes. Within ten minutes of inspecting the engine room, Jasper easily found all of the broken sections of machinery and the causes of their deficiencies. The most significant damage to the ship was actually the hull, but with the help of Ren and Valerie, it was quickly patched with a large metal sheet borrowed from another part of the ship. The hydraulics were tricky, with both punctured pipes and cracked valves. Jasper was able to make a temporary replacement for the valves from the miscellaneous airship parts he found in the small market, but only found metal plating of various sizes to weld onto the pipes. Hopefully they could withstand the pressure of the steam.

The fissuring sound of Jasper's welding torch resounded through the maze of overlapping metal pipes that twisted and turned in almost every direction. Crowe descended the metal ladder into the dark engine room and maneuvered to the intermittent flashes of light to approach his crew mate. Jasper kneeled down deep into the metal workings, focused on a valve, his orange goggles protecting his eyes, illuminating from the stray sparks. Crowe waited for a pause in the welding and called to his engineer.

"Jas!" The engineer's head upturned toward the voice. "How much longer?" Crowe's deep tone had a twinge of impatience.

"You can't rush hydraulic repairs," Jasper cautioned. "Unless you want us to fall out of the sky."

"What needs to be done?" Jasper relaxed his arms from welding to rant his diagnosis.

"The pipe connections have been ripped from each other, but I've managed to replace them the best I could with whatever crap parts that merchant had. There're still gashes in the pipes themselves that I haven't welded yet, and only after all that am I able to run diagnostics on the integrity of the system." He sounded irritated with his chore list. Jasper was always irritated.

"Where are the extra parts?"

"Over there." As Jasper continued to weld, sparks flying from the point of contact, Crowe stepped carefully over to the scattered Euless parts on the floor. They all came in different shapes and sizes- Crowe couldn't name any of them- but at least they were all made of metal. He turned his head, pinpointing the lasserations of the pipes, some thin and some gaping, but most of them were only dents or small punctures. Crowe returned his focus to the parts. He took his foot and shifted one over, loosely inspecting it, and after deeming it adequate enough, he jammed his foot underneath and swiftly kicked it upward. The small piece flew into the air, newly surrounded by an energetic light blue glow. The other parts on the floor followed it immediately, and Crowe was surrounded by a small fleet of metal pieces suspended in midair. Jasper paused his welding and looked up at the display of magic. Crowe raised a hand, and with this gesture, the metal parts flattened forcefully, losing their original unique shape and becoming thin sheets of different sizes. Another flick of his hand and the flat pieces fly in the air and conform themselves to the impaled pipes with a metallic bang. Blue turned to a sweltering orange as the pieces seared themselves as patches, then faded back to its original dull iron.

"Well?" Crowe turned back to Jasper. "Ready to test?" Jasper gave him a look and returned to his welding, leaving his captain to fidget and pace as his engineer methodically repaired the connections and inspected the rest of the hydraulics. Deeming the temporary repairs acceptable, Jasper walked Crowe to the control panel for the diagnostic test. He pressed a few buttons, and with a strong and gradual throttle of the engine lever, an initial boom of steam filled the pipes, and the ship roared back to life. Crowe watched as Jasper eyed the machinery once more.

"It looks stable for now," he relayed to his captain, "but this isn't gonna work for long flights."

"Will it give us a couple of hours?"

"It should. Just don't push her too hard. We'll need to make legitimate repairs once we get our payment."

"The treasure's in hand, Tennington's no longer an issue--" Crowe slapped a heavy hand to the small engineer's slim shoulder. "It will be a boring ending to this mission."

"It better be," he growled. "I still feel sick from last night." Crowe hmmed in response. "What happened to that doctor?"

"We'll see," Crowe replied. He started walking to the ladder.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he called, but Crowe didn't look back. "You can't say something creepy like that and walk away." Crowe just waved a hand.

"Get ready to fly," he commanded. Jasper stood there with crossed arms for an extended moment to watch his captain leave. He scoffed and turned to glance at the small clock built into the ship's inner wall: 12:47.

It was 12:47, and Joan felt antsy. She tried to keep herself busy by watering the endless supply of plants in the potionary, but every fifteen seconds, she would look up to the clock on the wall to try and read the minute hand that was slightly obscured by a single vine of ivy stretching for the ceiling. Thirteen-to-one, she thought. Only thirteen minutes left until Crowe's deadline. He wouldn't wait a second more. Should I go? Should I run? Joan shook her head. Abandoning her life to become an airwoman sounded ridiculous. It didn't make any conceivable sense to drop everything- her job, her responsibilities, the life she's cultivated for the past year- and for what? Something so outrageous as becoming a sailor? A delivery girl? Not everyone could be a potionist's assistant, but anyone could be an airman. Besides, she wouldn't be helping people. Helping people? Who was she kidding? Who was she helping? What good could she actually do? It didn't matter any--

Ding ding!

The small bell at the shop door chimed, and Joan tore her gaze away from the steadily ticking clock to greet whichever customer entered. It surprised her to see two men she'd never seen before. They looked like airmen, but wore uniforms that had the same essence as the Air Force, not the clothes of Crowe and his group of sailors. The uniforms were red with gold, but weren't as clean as she expected. They looked dirty, even singed, and the men themselves looked a little worn-down.

"Can I help you?" Joan asked curtly, momentarily forgetting her manners as a service worker. Something seemed... off when she looked at their eyes. But she wasn't worried. Nothing bad ever happens in Euless... right?

"You most certainly can," the first man responded. He lunged, his arm shooting out and grabbing Joan's thin wrist. He pulled her with a strong jerk, and the watering can in her other hand fell and splashed dully. Joan tried to pull away. She tried to cut and run to the back and find Prickle. He disliked her, but he'd help her. She tried to yell and scream, but before she could make a sound, a damp rag thrust itself onto her face, forcing its sickly sweet smell into her senses. Her wrist burned from the sailor's grip and her eyes watered at the chemical onslaught. It was terrible, and Joan was scared.

Her mind left her. Thoughts began to fade and trail, replaced by saccharine waves that pulsed with each breath. The pain in her wrist dulled, but the burning in her sinuses remained. It assured her of her reality, even though her vision faded, even though her eyelids fell. Who knew how this could be reality? But there is no reality without pain, and it was stitched together with a flowing numbness that beckoned to reunite. And abandoning that last burning grip hold of consciousness, Joan sunk into the waters, into a familiar singularity.