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Diligent

The Obra Dinn creaked and groaned in tortured agony as she once more began to heel onto her starboard side. Rod tightened his grip on the edges of the stool he sat upon, knuckles turning white. He kept his vision locked dead ahead, unwilling to let himself get frightened by the assault being committed against the ship. Well, in truth, he was frightened. Frightened out of his mind. But he would dare let that show; he had to appear as though he was completely unmoved by what was happening around him. He had to be diligent, ready to jump to action at a moment's notice. That's what he'd always been told. Too much of a slacker, always getting distracted. Not this time. He stole a glance at the boy standing across from him. His eyes were hollow, absent, drained of all vitality. Rod could hardly blame him. Those eyes had to lay witness to whatever unspeakably horrible monster was causing the ship to thrash about like a wild stallion.

Rod turned his attention to the faint sounds drifting into the cabin from outside. Most apparent of these sounds was the coarse, barking voice of Mr. Wolff, shouting instructions to the crew manning the cannons that lined the port. There too was the occasional grunting reply from one of the salty dogs, or the loud clanging of metal against metal. Every so often, boom. The deafening blast of a lit cannon, launching a ball of iron out at the monster, which, in Rod's mind, didn't really exist, had no tangible form which could be damaged by cannonballs, for he didn't even know what the bloody thing looked like. He would ask Davey, but he guessed that the boy wouldn't be inclined to give him an answer. That was probably for the best anyways; Rod would've been terrified no matter what creature Davey may have described to him. Although perhaps not knowing was just as terrible in some ways.

Then there was a sound that deviated from the usual cycle Rod had grown used to. It was a scream, an utterly tormented, horrible scream. And before Rod had even the time to react to it, there was an explosion. It was similar yet markedly different from the other ones that made Rod's ears ring. It was aimed within the ship herself. The shattering of wood accompanied the explosion, as did the sound of flesh being stripped from bone. Rod jolted onto his feet, the panic becoming too great for him to bottle up anymore. He had to act. Now. Things had to be different this time, and now was his chance to make that difference. Two nights ago, those demons raided the ship and slaughtered people who did not deserve to die. Nine souls. Nine souls were claimed by those wretched things. And what had Rod done to prevent that? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And he despised himself for it. He couldn't just sit around and let people sacrifice their lives for him. He had to be the one taking risks, being brave, standing up for those who could not defend themselves. How else could he ever hope to become an officer?

"That sounded bad." Rod said, hoping to finally elicit a response from Davey.

Davey only replied with a wide-eyed stare.

"We—I have to go out there." Rod continued.

"Wh..what? But Mr. Davies told us to stay in here until it's safe." The first words Davey uttered ever since he had entered the cabin to seek refuge, and they were defying Rod. The steward knew there was some validity behind those words. He was defying orders, after all. But... wouldn't the officers respect him that much more if he, just a young boy, managed to save someone's life?

Rod's eyes were pulled to the door. His hands were itching to throw it open and leave the claustrophobic space. "What if someone out there is hurt? And.. and they die because no one is there to help them? I need to make sure everything is alright."

"What!? You're not the ship's doctor, Rod! You're just going to get yourself killed!"

"If you just want to worry, and fret, and wait for things to happen to you, that's fine... but I'm going out there."

"No, wait!"

But Davey's plea fell on deaf ears. Rod was already reaching for the door handle. And once Rod made his mind on something, it was unchanging as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. He was gone, out the door in a rush. Davey was alone. He tried to escape back to the London of his imagination, which was how he had been dealing with the horror before Rod had marched out to his doom. He tried so desperately to return to the aroma of a fresh, homemade pie, the warmth of a faintly glowing fireplace, the chattering of children playing games in the street. But the realm of illusion was gone from his mind. He was stuck. Here, on the Obra Dinn. He couldn't go back. Not now that his friend faced near certain death. All he could do was wait. Wait and hope beyond all hope that Rod would be alright.

It didn't take long for those hopes to be crushed.

There was a voice, too muffled to be identifiable. The owner sounded concerned, urgent. Another voice answered, himself sounding much the same. The second voice was loud enough for Davey to know it was Rod. The ship began to tilt again. The first voice shouted out desperately, in a frightful plea to the second. More metallic clangs, and then...

Crash. The second voice tried to speak out, to cry for help that couldn't come, to defy the fate that had been dealt to him. But the impact of... something, cut him off. It was a crunching, crushing impact, although be it wood or bone, Davey could not tell. Perhaps it was both.

"No!!" The first voice howled in anguish.

Davey heard then that Mr. Perrott was the owner of that voice, although he could hardly care about such a detail at that point. He slid down onto the deck, unable to remain standing on shaky, panicked legs. He drew his knees in close to his chest and clutched tight onto his shins in a pitiful attempt to calm himself down. He was stuck, waiting again. Not in a hopeless desire for Rod to return, but for someone to come into the cabin and tell him everything was okay. In that moment, as the hull of the Obra Dinn nearly became her keel, that desire seemed just as hopeless.

~~~

Finally, the painful, eternal loneliness was put to an end by a gentle knock on the door. It cracked open, and in the slit was Moss's face.

"Come on, boy." He urged in a hushed tone.

"Eh? Where's Mr. Davies?"

"He's busy. Come now, quick. Perrott has something for us to do." Moss tilted his head down the passageway.

"Oh, yessir." Davey's feet carried him out after Moss, though his heart wished to remain in that cabin, however cramped and lonely it may be. Leaving meant he had to face it, whatever awful thing had happened to Rod. He tried with all his might to avert his gaze, but some force drew his eyes over, the same force that pulled Rod out of the cabin in the first place: stupid, childish curiosity. Cannons, knocked loose from their bracing, partitions splintered into a thousand pieces and scattered about, on a deck painted with blood and entrails. Underneath one of the cannons sat a body, chest caved in from the sheer mass of the weapon, messy strands of blond hair peeling away from the neatly-maintained style, youthful face sapped of any life. God, why did he have to look? Why couldn't he just keep his head pointed forward?

A firm hand pressed against Davey's back, guiding him along.

"I'm sorry, Davey. I really am. But we can't linger."

Davey forced back tears as he began to walk aft, in stride with Moss. He had nearly grown too tired of crying to do it anymore. Nearly. "Right. I apologize, sir."

"Once we're finished with this, gather your things. We plan to be off this ship in due time."

After all of this, all of the things he'd went through.. and Davey would just be able to walk away from it all. This was wrong. All of this was so wrong. Rod was supposed to be alive too. He, not Davey, was supposed to be assisting Perrott in whatever he needed help with. He was supposed to be participating in this escape plan alongside him. But no, instead he was pinned beneath a ton and a half of pure iron, all the fiery passion for his future extinguished. And for what? A badge of honor? A promotion? A modicum of recognition for his hard work? Such things were worth little to Davey, and hardly worth a life. It was always best to keep one's head down and do what one is told, he had learned. Just as he was doing now, creeping down into the orlop deck by Moss's orders. He hardly knew what sort of task Perrott expected him to perform. But if it meant remaining alive for even a minute longer, if it meant avoiding the same fate as Rod, then of course he'd do it. Of course he'd be diligent.