[Constantine is at the bar, of course--but for once, he's not here to drink. The lack of any sort of glass in his hand is perhaps more startling than if he had one to begin with. He can be found sitting at one of the stools, staring at the peeling wallpaper behind the bar.

He raps his fingers against the bar counter, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. His chin rests on his other hand, and between his fingers, he holds a lit cigarette--though, judging from the amount of ash currently accumulated on the end, he hasn't been focused on it. Perhaps it's not a particularly good idea to smoke in such a confined room, but Constantine doesn't seem to care.

Eventually, the cigarette burns down to the filter, and Constantine seems to realize that he's wasted it. With a sharp grumble, he stubs it out in an empty glass and rubs his face.]

M'not in the mood to drink. Not tonight.

[After loitering in the bar for a few hours, watching people pass in and out, he makes his way to his usual perch out on the top deck. He can be found leaning against the railing, staring down at the ship's wake. He's jotting notes down into a small handheld journal of some sort, occasionally pausing and glancing back up.

It's difficult to tell what he's writing--his handwriting is absolute shit, and most of it seems to be disjointed words in an effort to get his thoughts down, instead of any attempt to make it readable. If approached, he'll stop, shutting the journal and tucking it into his jacket.]

We've got thirteen people left. Judging from the amount of people who've been dying each week, that means, at best, we have six more weeks before Jack runs out of people to pit against each other. At worst, someone gets trigger-happy and half of us get killed in the process, leaving only a few days.

[He pauses, eyes flitting to the dark storm clouds on the horizon.]

Either way, we're running out of time.