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A Ship Gone Astray

Chapter 1

Sleep never came easy to the midshipman, with hours of each night wasted away as he sat in waiting for his eyelids to grow heavy. He was growing restless. He needed to take a walk. The boy dropped to the floor and wandered over to the trunk in the corner, rummaging blindly through its contents for the tinderbox. His fingers found it, and took it out over to the lantern on the desk. He spent a few minutes striking the flint and firesteel together, waiting for a spark great enough to set the lantern aglow. Success found him eventually, and he went out into the passageway softly illuminated by the flickering light. He climbed up the nearby stairs to the main deck.

The main deck was always a bit eerie at night, a place usually alive with activity now rendered lifeless and quiet, like an altered reality that had been broken into. It was even more chilling that night, as the limp body of that foreign man still hung from the rigging, blood still dripping down to the deck beneath him. Those with a weaker mind, like Tom, or a weaker stomach, like Charlie, may have found the scene disturbing. But Pete knew that this was simply how things had to be. This was how justice at sea was served.

He looked elsewhere on the deck, not wanting to let his thoughts hang on his mind just as the man hung from the rigging. The helmsman was standing in his usual place, the Dane was doing his night watch duty, and same for the Scottish topman in the rigging nearby. Two seamen were staring Pete down from the aft deck above. It almost seemed to him like his presence was unwanted by them. Why were they looking at him like that..?

"Milroy, isn't it?" Pete wouldn't be afforded the opportunity to think about an answer as the Scot called down to him.

"Yeah."

"What're ye doin' out here at this hour?"

"Just needed some fresh air."

"Right. Aye, Linde!" called, getting the attention of the Danish sailor standing nearby. "Think you 'n Milroy could lend me a hand?"

"With what?"

He gestured to the hanging man. "That. Perrott asked me to cut 'im down at some point durin' me watch, 'n I need some lads down here to catch 'im when I cut the rope. Willin' to do that for me?"

Pete looked for the response from Linde, who gave the topman a nod and began walking over to the Formosan. Repressing a whimper, Pete moved to join him. The two crew watched as Butement climbed through the complex series of ropes with the ease of a monkey. He had nearly reached the line that the Formosan was hanging from when..

"Aghh!!"

A struggle from the stern side of the ship. Pete whipped his head around; those two seamen from the aft deck had moved to the helm, and Dalton was sprawled out on the ground before them, howling in agony.

"Hey!" Pete shouted, without really considering the consequences of such an action. The two men turned to face him, and began to approach. "Shit!" He looked to Linde beside him. "What do we do?"

"Whatever you can."

Those words filled Pete with little confidence as the men reached them, and it appeared that the clean-shaven one was coming straight for him, cudgel in hand. In Pete's hand was one mere lantern. There was no way in his mind that someone as small and ill-equipped as he would be able to win a fight such as this. But he of all people was not one to back down just because of that. His attacker began with a wide, horizontal swing, aimed directly at Pete's head. Pete was able to swiftly duck underneath the cudgel as it wooshed through the air, having gotten used to such obvious, unmasked attacks from his sword-fighting duels with Tom.

"Hurry it up!" Someone's voice hissed from across the deck. Pete tried to circle behind the seaman, perhaps to hit him from behind. As he did so, he looked to the source of the voice. Galligan? And two more crew members were with him, lugging a strange, ornamental chest up towards the aft deck stairs. What was this? A mutiny? Why the hell was that crusty old steward of all people wrapped up in a mutiny?

Thud.

As Pete got carried away by his thoughts, the cudgel made a direct hit on his abdomen, though it wasn't quite enough to knock him off his feet, leaving him locked in place. Pete's attacker wasn't finished yet, and he prepared another swing aimed at his head, this time determined not to miss. An opportunity made itself clear to Pete at that moment, and so he held onto the handle of the lantern with both hands and swung it hard. The iron base struck the seaman squarely in the temple, throwing him off balance enough to knock the cudgel from his hands. He was rather stunned too, not swift enough to retaliate as Pete tackled him onto the deck. As he struggled to keep the larger man pinned down beneath his own weight, he looked back up again. The mutineers had succeeded in loading the box onto a boat hanging from the side, with Galligan perched atop the gunwale. What was he doing, just standing there and watching? Why didn't he just leave?

Pete's questions were immediately answered as his assigned officer, Nichols, emerged from the gun deck, with two more of the Formosans following behind him. The man whipped around, hearing the commotion caused by the fighting.

"Dammit!" He hissed. His plan was not being executed in the way he had envisioned. Serves him right for pouring all his faith into a bunch of filthy, dim-witted seamen.

Masks of panic appeared on the Formosans' faces, realizing that they had been led right into a trap.

"Come on!" Nichols barked. "Tie them up and get them on before it goes to complete shit!"

Pete had to do something fast; he couldn't be wasting his time fighting one insignificant fellow while a kidnapping unfolded before his eyes. He gave the man a few hearty punches to the face, making sure to strike the same area he had hit with the lantern. All those fights in the schoolyard were at last making themselves of use to him. Finally it seemed the man had been rendered unconscious, or at least, in too much pain to bother keeping his eyes open any longer. Pete quickly glanced over his shoulder. Linde had evidently fared poorer in his own fight; he had been knocked over, face-down, and was now struggling to sit up again. His adversary, the one with the mustache, was already running from the scene to assist in stealing away the hostages. He had no clue where Butement had gone.

Pete leapt up and grabbed the lantern again. It had already proven itself useful so he had better hold onto it. He began to approach Nichols, the man seemingly behind this whole scheme in the first place. But.. how? Nichols always came across as such a nice gentleman, always willing to help Pete and the other midshipmen out when they needed it. And now... kidnapping? A mutiny? It almost seemed like someone else had taken over Nichols's body to use for their own sick purposes.

"Stop!" Pete yelled, an iron-clad grip on the lantern as he held it up.

Nichols stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face the midshipman. A grimace of pure disgust spread on his face, the same type that one gets when about to crush an insect beneath their shoe. "Go ahead and try to stop me, you half-witted little wanker." He moved his arm up, going to reach for something in the inner pocket of his jacket.

Jesus Christ! Was he trying to pull his pistol out on him?! Pete had to really think quick if he were to come away from this encounter with his life. He was still too far away from Nichols to pull the same move he had done with the seaman, and so he took the next best route that presented itself to him: throwing the lantern at him as hard as he could. He had only wanted it to hit the man, just hard enough to take him off his feet, maybe knock him out cold if he struck the right spot. He couldn't have possibly expected— or wanted— it to shatter into a flaming mass that clung to his body and made him scream like a damned soul escaped from hell. He collapsed onto the deck, writhing and shrieking in torment.

"Shite!" Galligan muttered to himself, eyes wide at the sight of his officer being set ablaze. Nichols was hardly in the condition to be going along with him now. He had to flee the Obra Dinn at once, if this rapidly decaying plan were to achieve anything remotely resembling success. With O'Hagan seemingly incapacitated, the numbers in the boats were thrown off. He quickly thought of how to accommodate. "Come on! We best push off! Hong, join Toporov in his boat. I'll stay here with the chest and Nikishin."

The men worked quick, taking the bound-up hostages aboard the boats and cutting the ropes that kept them attached to the Obra Dinn while Pete stood still as a statue. They disappeared down into the watery darkness below with a splash. The adrenaline that had just been coursing through Pete's veins now felt as though it had been replaced with ice, locking him in place as he watched the officer burn before him like a bonfire.

"What the hell is happening here?!" Witterel demanded when he at last emerged from his quarters.

Pete was unable to answer, as he had been left wondering the exact same thing.

Chapter 2

Robert Witterel had seen many a strange thing throughout his decades working with the Company. Signs of sea monsters, men driven mad before his very eyes, even plans of mutiny. He had deluded himself into thinking, then, that nothing would surprise him anymore. But no, he turned out to be wrong in believing that. Nothing could've prepared him for that night, on which he awoke to tortured screams just beyond the comfort of his quarters. He knew only a man within only inches of losing his life made sounds like that. He rushed out to the main deck as fast as his feet could carry him, not even taking the time to put on his jacket.

By the time he made it out, the screaming had faded into nothing. His eyes were immediately drawn to the blazing, twitching mass that was once a man, sitting only a few feet away from him, in front of the starboard stairs. He, whoever he was, must have been the source of those horrible cries, though Witterel was too late in stopping his suffering. Even if he was, by some miracle, still breathing at that moment, there'd be no preventing him from succumbing to the deadly infection that would surely follow. His eyes scanned elsewhere; two crewmen were further down along the deck, one helping the other back onto his feet. A lone midshipman stood still by the gun deck stairs, ghastly pale and gaze locked onto the flaming entity. Just to Witterel's left, Dalton was laid out on the deck with a spear impaled through his thigh, groaning in agony.

"What the hell is happening here?!" He spat out.

The midshipman just looked through him, mouth barely hanging open. He was unable to muster up any words for his captain.

"Captain, sir!"

Witterel looked up to see one of the pair of crewmen approaching him.

"Butement, go on, get the surgeons! Quickly!" Of course, it was intended for Dalton and not the man that was still burning before him.

"Aye!" The topman raced off for the gun deck.

"Milroy!" Witterel called the midshipman by name, hoping to finally snap him out of his stupor. But still, nothing.

Witterel shook his head, forced to take action himself as the boy stood idly by like a gawking, useless passenger. He grabbed a water bucket from underneath the aft deck stairs and dumped it onto the fiery shape sitting just outside his door. The fire died with a loud, crackling hiss, and he crouched down before the smoldering remains, seeking to find out who it once was. One mere glance at the uniform wasn't enough to give away his identity; it had already been charred to black, beyond recognition. Cautiously, he nudged the man's shoulder, so that he could see the face. It was hard to recognize at first, it had been so thoroughly disfigured. But he was able to recall it after some thought. He had seen it nearly every day of this voyage, after all. It was his own second mate, Edward Nichols, made to suffer an agonizing death for God knows what reason.

Witterel looked up to see Butement returning to the main deck. Following behind him were the two surgeons, who were quick to see to Dalton's injury.

"What.. what is the meaning of this?" He asked the topman. "What happened here?"

"I'm honestly not too sure meself, sir. I was way up in the riggin' when it started."

"Do you know who did this to him, at the very least?"

"I.. I think it was the midshipman, sir."

Witterel's whole body tensed up. Whatever reason that.. child could possibly have had for burning his third-in-command to death would have to be a really damn good one, and he was determined to squeeze it out of him.

"Milroy!!" He roared. He rose to his feet and approached the boy, towering over him. "Explain yourself at once!"

This was finally enough to shock Pete back to life, who responded by stumbling back a few steps away from the captain. "I— I—"

Witterel clenched his jaw, doing his best to not let a tirade of insults and accusations slip from his mouth. Patience to let a stuttering boy explain himself was not a luxury he could afford right now.

"I— I didn't mean to.." Pete looked Witterel in the eyes and clasped his hands together beggingly. Out of the corner of his watery eye, he could still see the Formosan's body hanging. "It was an accident, a mistake, I swear on my life! Please don't kill me, sir!"

Witterel's posture loosened, troubled by how his presence had instantly brought the young boy into such a terrified state. He took those steps that Pete had previously put between them and carefully put a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down, Milroy. Just tell me what happened."

Pete took a deep, shuttering breath as he attempted to compose himself. "Nichols... He.. he was.. I don't know what he was doing. But he had a group of men steal a.. a box of some sort and kidnap them..."

Nichols, a mutineer. Honestly, Witterel was less shocked than he expected he would be. There was always something strange with that fellow, he thought. But, why this? What box was Pete referring to and, more importantly... "Kidnap who?"

"The.. the Formosan people. Two of them. The lady and one of the men. The older one."

Shit. The box must've been that chest they were always guarding. If Witterel managed to lose those royals under his watch, he wouldn't know if he could live with himself. He had to get them back, somehow. "Where are these men who were helping Nichols?"

"Gone, I guess. Cut the lines and rowed off in the launch boats." Pete limply pointed a finger towards the aft deck. "I.. I don't know where they planned on heading."

"Dammit..." Witterel rubbed his temples. "Butement! Fetch the bosuns. Tell them to prepare the crew for a change in direction. We head east." The Scot nodded and was off again.

"B-but I said I—" The midshipman began.

"The closest land in this sector of the Atlantic is all east of here. And if I had to bet my money on it, they're heading for the Canaries to be exact. Now, Milroy." Witterel shook his head again, still unable to grasp the otherworldly situation he found himself in. "What did you do to Nichols?"

Pete winced. "I.. I was trying to stop him from doing whatever he was doing. But then.. he tried to pull his flintlock out on me, and.. I was so scared. I thought he was going to kill me! So, I threw my lantern at him. But— but I had only wanted to knock him unconscious, honest! I didn't want to do that to him at all!" He started to lose control of himself again, tears running down his face, which was already salty from sweat. "Please, I didn't mean to be a murderer! Don't kill me, I beg you!"

So, if the boy's story was really to be believed, he was innocent of murder. Though manslaughter still stained his hands red with guilt. But that was the least of Witterel's concerns. He silenced the boy in the best way he could think of: pulling him in for a firm hug. "...It's alright, Milroy. I'm not going to do that."

Pete buried his face in his hands, too distraught to return the hug. "Oh.. thank you so much, sir... Thank you..."

Witterel sighed. He wanted to ask the boy more questions about what he knew, but trying to recount the events was clearly exacting a heavy toll on his mental state. He needed to rest first. The wounds needed to at least begin healing before Witterel could start picking at them. He stepped back, putting the boy at arm's length again. "Peter, this has been a difficult night for you, I can tell. Get some rest. I'll ask you more questions come morning. Is that understood?"

Pete opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted as a low grumble came out from behind him. His eyes widened to see the man he had knocked out earlier was now coming to. "Oh, oh no."

"What's the matter?"

"That's one of Nichols's men, he attacked me." Pete stepped away from him. "S-Stay away from me, you bastard! I beat you once! I-I can do it again if I really wanted to!"

"We shan't even let him think about attacking you again, Peter." Witterel swiftly moved in and turned O'Hagan around, holding his hands behind his back. The seaman was still in too much of a daze to resist. Witterel looked up to the midshipman. "Come on, get me some rope to tie him up with."

"Right, of course, sir!" Pete dashed off for a nearby rope pile and brought some over. Witterel did well to tie up the grumbling and groaning mutineer quickly. He pulled him up onto his feet.

"Thank you for your help. I'll take him down to the lazarette to deal with later. Go on now, get some rest."

"Yessir. Good night."

"...Good night."

Pete drifted down to the gun deck as barely-awake crewmen fumbled to their stations. He opened the door to his cabin, where his two friends were still sound asleep, wholly unaware as to what horrors he just went through. He climbed up to bed and closed his eyes. Oh, how he craved their ignorance.

Chapter 3

Galligan nearly tumbled out of that damn boat when it dropped down into the sea below. He grimaced at the water lapping at the hull as he tightened his grip on the edges. When he at last looked up, he found Nikishin staring him down with a frown of his own.

"Well? What're ya waitin' for?"

"You, old man. You must row too."

That's right, there were now only two men per boat instead of three, meaning Galligan couldn't sit back and watch the lackeys do the work for him. He scratched his nose as he looked around for a set of oars. "Téigh trasna ort féin..."

"What?"

"Nothin'." Galligan picked up the oars and began rowing, thinking up a storm of obscenities in his head with each stroke. What the hell was he supposed to do now that Nichols was dead?

Wait.

Galligan nearly started laughing at himself. He wanted that bastard dead anyways! He'd spent so long deliberating over how he'd dispose of him, and that wee stupid midshipman just did it for him! Wonderful... It meant he'd have more energy left in him to take out the rest of the low-lifes he was now in command of. He turned his head up, trying to scan the waters for the other boat. His ailing eyes failed to catch sight of it, but he could at least hear the beating of oars against waves. It was close. A devilish thought wormed its way into his head. Perhaps he didn't even have to get his hands dirty in disposing of most of the mutineers at all. That Formosan woman may have been on the other boat, but both she and the old man sitting in his own boat were of little importance to Galligan; his true concerns lied with the thing sitting behind him: the strange chest with that captivating, glowing shell.

"Nikishin." He whispered.

"Yes?"

"Change course for due east."

"What? We discussed this earlier. We only change direction once we join with the other boat."

"I know that but.. think about it for a tick: it's just you 'n me that're with this treasure right now. Why've we got to share it with those other bastards, eh? I say we just leave 'em, they're not doin' us any good. We split the earnin's, just between the two o' us."

The Russian stopped rowing, and Galligan followed suit. He just sat there, with his back still turned to the steward, making it impossible for him to tell what thoughts were going through his mind. His friend Toporov was on that other boat. What was he willing to part with, a years-long friendship, or a much larger share of money that he so desperately needed?

"No."

"What?"

"I said no, old man. One simple word. Does my knowledge of English fail me, or does yours fail you?"

Galligan growled under his breath. If he were a younger, more stupid man, he would've started a fist fight with Nikishin right then and there. If he were a more charismatic man, perhaps his persuasion would've worked. If he were anyone other than himself, maybe things wouldn't be so shitty and miserable for him right now. He began rowing again, fuming in silence. Even in death, Nichols still managed to taunt him with his superiority.

Only a couple more minutes passed before they bumped hulls with the other boat. Upon noticing this, the Formosan man immediately began yelling something to the woman. She shouted something in reply. Galligan grinded his teeth. With each sentence they uttered he came to regret taking them along even more.

"Aye, shut them up! They'll give us away!" He barked.

"They say strange things! About monsters!" Hong's voice cried.

Before Galligan could even open his mouth to question the nonsense he just heard, there was a woosh cutting through the air, followed by a meaty thunk. Galligan turned around to see the vague outline of Hong's body slumped over on his bench, with something long and sharp impaled through his chest.

Well this wasn't something Galligan ever could've anticipated. Someone.. something, was attacking them out here in the open sea, against all likelihoods. He had to get something to defend himself with, something more than that measly little knife. He knew there were some weapons in the stock on the other boat, if only he could get to it...

He began to rise from the bench but became frozen in place at the sight of a spear sailing through the air and striking Nikishin straight through the throat. The man was seemingly dead in an instant, going limp and sending his oars off into the murky water around them. Galligan's eyes were transfixed on the horrible sight but he managed to pry them away, not letting a bit of death slow him down.

Cautiously, Galligan set one foot on the boat bobbing next to his own, then the other, leaving the Formosan man alone with the chest. He made his way back, around Hong's body, past the Formosan woman as she shrieked in pain as some foul, inhuman creature slashed at her throat, past Toporov as he looked on at the beast in horror. Just as Galligan began rummaging through the crates stored at the boat's bow, a strange, otherworldly sound emitted from the boat he just came from. Looking up, he nearly became blinded as three great arms of light burst out of the now-open chest and plunged down towards the creatures that were crowding around the pair of boats. They screamed in unnatural voices as the beams struck them, then fell silent and limp in the water as they dissipated soon after. Galligan almost would've described those lights as beautiful, had they not instantly put to question everything he understood about this world with their mere existence.

He returned his sight to the lights' origin: the chest. The Formosan man had somehow slipped out of his bonds and thrust his hand into the top compartment of the chest. Whatever he was doing must've been what summoned those beams. He fell over, slumping into the flat bottom. There was.. something wrong with the hand he had put in there; it was glowing... burning. He was groaning in pain, uttering something in a different language. He would be dead soon, Galligan reckoned. He looked to the man in front of him, wide eyes locked onto Nikishin's body in the other boat. It was just him and Galligan still alive, all others killed in a manner of minutes. Galligan fell down onto the nearest bench, breathing heavily. What the hell was he going to do now?

Chapter 4

Four men stood in a loose circle in the gun deck passageway. Three of them had only just been woken up by the fourth, their captain. They hadn't noticed quite yet that the fifth member of their group was absent.

Witterel sighed, wondering how to even inform them of what had happened. He supposed he should get the most shocking piece of news out of the way first. No point in keeping it in for later. "Nichols is dead."

Davies, mid-yawn, immediately snapped to full attention. "What..?"

"He's dead. A few of the crew supposedly happened upon him carrying out a mutiny. They fought back and.. Nichols died in the conflict." The mates did not need to know the exact nature of his demise, nor who brought it upon him.

Hoscut frowned and crossed his arms, folding himself up into as small a shape as possible. He was disturbed by the news, but he wouldn't let that show to the others.

"That.. that can't be true." Davies said, shaking his head slightly.

"I'm afraid it is."

"Are you sure those crew— whoever they were— weren't perhaps committing a mutiny of their own? I mean, it's almost inconceivable to me that a second mate of all people would try to do such a thing." Perrott suggested. "They could be lying to you."

"No, I can always tell when he's lying, always. And.. he wasn't like that this time. This time, it was genuine. All of it."

"Christ..." Davies turned away, head clutched in his hands as if in great pain. "May I.. be excused for a moment?"

"You may."

Davies nodded thankfully and ducked back into the cabin he had only just emerged from.

"So, what's all this about, then? What're they doing?" Perrott asked, gesturing to the seamen and topmen bustling about the ship in the dead of night.

"Some of Nichols's lackeys managed to get away, taking with them both of the launch boats, some supplies, and the two Formosan royals and their chest."

"We're pursuing them then, I see... And what of the remaining Formosan?" Perrott continued.

Witterel shook his head, shrugging. "I don't know. Haven't seen him even once since the execution. He's quite low on my list of priorities right now."

"Well. Is there anything we can do to assist right now?"

"Command the crew in my stead, Perrott. You're the one that's supposed to be in charge during emergencies after all. Once Davies is done wallowing in his own self pity, get him to help you. If anyone asks about what's going on, keep it vague. They don't need to know right now that Nichols was a mutineer. Hoscut, you come with me. There's someone in the lazarette I need to ask a few questions of."

"Oh?" Hoscut tilted his head.

"One of them got left behind during all the commotion. O'Hagan, I think his name is. I want to know what he knows."

"Right, sir."

Witterel and Hoscut left Perrott alone to deal with things on the upper decks as they traversed down into the ship's dark underbelly.

"Who is he?"

"What? I already told you, it's O'Hagan. One of the seamen."

"Not him. The one you said you could always tell a lie from."

Damn. Witterel really ought to keep a keener watch on the things he lets slip out of his mouth. Either that or Hoscut needed to stop being so bloody observant. He stopped in his tracks, and so too did Hoscut. He glanced around to ensure no other crew mates were nearby. "Look, I don't want to let this information get out to anyone else— especially not Perrott or Davies. It stays between just the two of us. Understand?"

Hoscut nodded. "...Aye."

Witterel sighed. "It was Milroy. He was the one who told me what happened. He was the one who.. killed Nichols."

Hoscut didn't respond for a moment as he processed the information. "I won't tell a soul."

"Thank you, Will. He's in a very vulnerable spot right now, and I don't want more people casting judgement on him than is necessary."

"Right. A wise choice, captain."

"Just doing what's necessary to protect my crew. Come on." Witterel said and began walking again. "That bastard's waiting for us down there."

Witterel made no bother to knock at the door to the lazarette when he reached it. He was the captain, and on the other side was a mutineer, unworthy of such whimsical formalities as knocking. O'Hagan, sitting down on the floor that he was chained to, shifted his posture as the two officers entered. His face was still bloodied by Pete's beating, and one eye had swollen shut; a ring of purple-ish black was due to form around it in the coming hours.

"Hello, O'Hagan." Witterel started off, trying to keep things neutral.

The seaman didn't answer, a light scowl carved onto his face. Witterel continued, hoping he'd get over his little grudge.

"I'm going to ask you some questions. To start, Nichols was the one leading that mutiny, was he not?"

O'Hagan turned his one good eye down to the shackle around his wrist as he weighed his options. Now that he was left behind, there was surely no more hope of seeing any of the monetary rewards that may come from that shell. Hell, his attempted mutiny may even be enough to assemble another firing line, though instead of participating in it like he had in the previous one, he would instead fall victim to it. He recalled seeing the man, just hanging there limply, with the bag over his head. He remembered seeing him spasm as the bullets struck him. He shivered. Perhaps if he cooperated enough, he may be saved from such a grisly fate.

"Yah, he was. Though seemed to me like his steward was makin' most o' the important decisions."

"Galligan?"

"That's the one."

"Who else participated in this plan of his, then?"

"Two o' the Russians, Toporov 'n Nikishin. Then one o' the Chinese bastards. Hong, Huang? Can't feckin' remember."

"Alright." Witterel turned to Hoscut. "After this, you go talk to the crew. The friends of these people. See if they knew anything about this, maybe even helped them while staying behind here."

Hoscut nodded.

Witterel returned his focus to O'Hagan. "So, why? Why do this anyways? What was your goal?"

O'Hagan squirmed a little bit. How would the captain respond if he told him about the shell, he wondered. He knew he wouldn't be able to get his hands on it now, but oh, the rage he would feel if he had to watch Witterel get his own greasy hands on it... The glow. The glorious, awe-inspiring glow that made one feel like they were looking through to the gates of Heaven. No one would be able to resist it once they laid eyes on it, not even the 'righteous and wise captain'. He spat at Witterel's shoes. "None o' your business." He then muttered under his breath: "Imagh leat, gall..."

Witterel rolled his eyes. O'Hagan had failed the test. He knew already that greed was the main motivating factor in the scheme, as signified by their taking of the Formosans' chest. Full cooperation was evidently not something that O'Hagan was willing to commit to. He still had strings, attaching him to whatever thing the mutineers were coveting, pulling his actions along. He could not be trusted. Not yet.

"Fine. As you wish." Witterel muttered. "Do you have any questions you'd like to ask, Hoscut?"

Hoscut eyed down the young Irishman. "No, none from me at the moment."

"Right then. Well, we'll be back again in due time, O'Hagan." Witterel backed away, hand on the door.

"Whatever..."

The door shut, leaving the sailor in darkness again.

"So what are you going to do with him?" Hoscut asked.

"..I don't know."

"And I assume the same for Milroy?"

Witterel nodded as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to be the villain in this situation, Will. And it's so easy for me to be one. If you see me on the edge of making a decision you think is out of line, that you think is too far, I want you to stop me. I know you do that already on your own volition, but I'm asking you personally, not as your captain, but as your friend, your brother-in-law. Don't let me make the wrong decisions this time."

"Of course, Rob."

"Thank you." Witterel pulled up the corners of his mouth, offering Hoscut only the faintest of smiles. Hoscut returned it, though his was even weaker. The two men began walking back up to the main deck.

Chapter 5

Sleep never did come to Pete that night. How could it? The events played out in his head over and over again, destroying any chance for inner peace. The screaming, the smell, the way he spasmed and clawed as his flesh was burned away. None of it faded from his memory, haunting him like a ghost.

When Tom and Charlie began stirring in their sleep, near to waking up and starting their day, Pete sat up. What was he going to do about them? The question had drifted into his mind many times throughout the night but the solution never came to him. It terrified him. He was quite tempted to just throw himself over the edge of the ship rather than try to interact with them as the weight of what he had done sat on his shoulders. He was allowed no more opportunity to consider his options as his time ran out, marked Charlie sitting up and yawning.

Pete watched silently, as Charlie hopped down and began to get himself ready for the day. He lit a lantern, shrugged on his jacket, combed his hair, tied his neckerchief and tucked it in. He was just going through the motions, the same motions that started off every single one of their completely boring, ordinary days. He watched as Tom eventually moved to join him, repeating the same motions. He envied that normalcy so much.

"You just gonna keep sitting up there, princess?" Tom asked as he noticed Pete staring them both down from his berth, like an unmoving gargoyle affixed to the roof of a cathedral.

Pete looked over Tom's face, the corner of his mouth turned up into a subtle, teasing grin, eyebrows raised at his playful question. How could he look into that cheerful face and tell it what heinous thing he had done? He took a breath as he slipped his usual mask on. "Nah, just making sure my subjects are doing their work properly first."

He jumped down. He was still dressed from earlier that night, and so the three of them went out into the passageway. By then, all of the crew were already in their proper places up above and had left the gun deck deserted. They meandered over to the galley to grab their plates, only to find it empty of any prepared food.

"Oy, where's our bloody food?" Charlie grumbled.

"And where is everyone?" Tom added.

Pete could only offer up a half-hearted shrug. Just then, one of the seamen plodded down from the main deck and passed them by.

"Hey, what's going on? Where's the food?" Charlie asked.

"Oh, you don't know yet? There's been a mutiny, and we're chasing after them right now. No time for people to just sit about and have breakfast." The sailor explained before going on his way.

Charlie perked up a bit at this. "Really? Heading off to stop a mutiny..." He turned to Pete. "Finally, some action around here! A real opportunity to show off what we've learned!"

Pete shrugged again. "Probably not going to be all that exciting."

Charlie threw his hands up in the air, not bothering to question Pete's uncharacteristically lukewarm reaction. "Well, if any crazy mutineers run at you with a sword, I'll be ready to stab 'em in the heart for you."

Pete quickly deflected his focus down to his shoes. He could feel the mask slipping off his face as he sensed Tom's quizzical gaze on him. He could tell something was wrong with him, though what exactly it was was far beyond anything Tom's imagination could dream up.

"So I guess we'll fix up breakfast ourselves then—" Charlie started.

God, Pete could not take one more second of this. "I'm not hungry." And with that, he pushed his way past his two bewildered friends and towards their cabin.

Tom and Charlie watched him as he blitzed off, a frown on the former's face. He looked over to Charlie. "Should I?..."

Charlie shrugged, shaking his head with uncertainty.

Tom looked back down the passageway. He had to go after him. He walked off, leaving Charlie alone in the galley. He didn't think of Pete's behavior as anything more than his usual theatrics, and so was content to stay behind and begin fixing himself a plate.

Tom cracked open the door to their cabin and looked inside to see Pete sitting down at the desk, staring out the porthole. He stepped inside and approached. "What's the matter, Pete?"

Pete set his head down onto the desk, hiding his face beneath his tangle of auburn hair. Where to even begin, Tom? Did he start off with the news that one of the most respected officers aboard the Obra Dinn tried to commit mutiny? Or did he start off by telling his best friend that he had murdered someone by burning him alive? The desire to just disappear into the rippling folds of the ocean tugged at him again. His eyes twitched as tears built up in their corners. Pete felt a hand press down gently on his shoulder. He turned his head, peeking through his curtain of curls to see Tom, crouching down next to him.

"What is it? You can tell me."

Pete turned his head back down again, mumbling something into the desk that Tom wasn't able to understand.

"What?"

"I said I can't." Pete growled.

Tom nearly retracted his hand from its spot on Pete's shoulder. There was clearly something bothering Pete immensely, and yet he refused to reveal what it was. He had been a valuable friend to Tom for so long, always willing to listen to him whenever he needed to vent about all the things that troubled him. After all of that, Pete wasn't allowing him to do the same when his own time of need came? But Tom kept his hand in place, refusing to leave Pete's side. Could he even call himself a friend if he abandoned him during dark times?

"Well," he began, trying to find the words. "Even if you don't want to say outright what's bothering you, I'm still here if you just... need someone to dump the related emotions on. I'm willing to listen."

Pete ran his fingertips up and down along the wooden grain of the desk as he considered Tom's offer. He supposed it could work, if he remained vague about what he had done. He turned his head again slightly, so that his words were clear. "...I'm sorry. I just want you— I want everyone to know that.. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to go like they did. If I had the chance to go back and do things differently, I would."

Tom's lips parted, a foolish question about to spring from them. Pete wouldn't tell him what thing had evidently haunted him with such terrible regret. It wasn't his place to know. Not yet, anyways. He closed his mouth again, and waited patiently for Pete to continue speaking.

"I.. I want to be punished for what I did. I don't know how. But... I want it to hurt. I want to feel just a fraction of what—" He cut himself off. He tried to drift to another topic. "But.. I don't want you to hate me. I know that sounds so childish and contradictory. I get it. But, what I did was a mistake— a mistake I should've known better than to make— but still, a mistake. Don't hate me for it." He looked Tom in the eyes. "Promise?"

"..I promise."

"Thank you, Tom... Now, can I have a bit of time to myself, please?... I need to be alone."

"Of course. I.. I can tell the officers you're feeling ill, if you aren't up for doing anything today."

"No, it's fine. I can't be putting off my duties now, especially when there's some mutineers to catch. I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Alright." Tom moved to the door. "I.. I hope you feel better, whatever's weighing down on your mind."

Pete wanted to hope so too, though he had no faith in the world that he would. Fate always had always toyed with him, and this wasn't going to be any different. "I do too." He told Tom. The midshipman closed the door, leaving the other alone yet again.

Chapter 6

Perrott walked up to the main deck, taking in the sight of men pulling ropes and unfurling sails in spite of the blinding darkness that seeped down from the sky above. He glanced over towards the helm, only to see Dalton being tended to by the surgeons.

"What's happening here, gentlemen?" He asked as he approached.

"Got injured during the escape. Spear put right through his thigh." Evans explained as he wrapped gauze around the site of the wound while Wallace applied pressure.

"Will he be alright?"

Evans bobbed his head noncommittally, neither a shake or nod. He liked to say he'd be fine, though that incident with the lascars a couple weeks ago had put a slight dent in his confidence in his abilities. "I don't know. Only time will tell. We'll be needing a substitute helmsman for the next day or two at the very least." He paused for a moment as he looked down at the wound. "Alright, that should be enough to stop the bleeding for now. We'll need the stretcher to take him down to my office; he needs to rest if he is to recover. Wallace, if you would."

"Right, sir." His mate pushed himself back onto his feet and disappeared downwards, heading for the orlop deck.

Evans finished tying the gauze and then turned his eyes up to Perrott. "Do you know what'll be done with these mutineers when— and if— we catch them?"

"That's a decision for Captain Witterel to make, not me." Perrott scratched his mustache. He lowered his voice slightly. "Though if it were my choice, I'd like to show them at least an ounce of mercy. I've always found execution and other such punishments a bit... tasteless."

"A strange choice of profession for you, then."

"Perhaps so. I suppose I thought I could change things..." He looked to where Hok-Seng Lau had been hanging, and frowned at the realization that he was still there. Butement must have been interrupted by the mutiny. Perrott would have to track him down again and remind him to do it. He couldn't bear to see that man's body on a macabre display for all to see. His eyes moved down to see a square of cloth laid out on the deck, with the vague shape of a person beneath it. He turned back to Evans. "Is that...?"

"Yes, it's him. Witterel said he'd take care of him personally."

"I see." Perrott's gaze lingered on Nichols's silhouette as he recalled his past interactions with the fellow. He could always tell he wasn't the most sociable fellow; he spent his time sulking in his quarters at all opportunities, never laughed at his jokes, always wearing expressions that were just slightly off. But he never thought there to be something wrong with Nichols; he always chalked it all up to a shy, awkward nature, perhaps a bit too much phlegm for his own good if he were to view it from a medical standpoint. But mutiny suggested there was much more lying beneath that man's surface than Perrott initially believed. More than anyone initially believed, it seemed. Even Davies, the lone person for whom Nichols seemed to foster a genuine fondness; though perhaps that fondness was a facade like many other aspects of his character. Speaking of Davies, Perrott better go check on him.

Perrott excused himself down to the gun deck and stood before Davies's door. He knocked once.

"Who is it?"

"Martin."

"You can come in."

Perrott opened the door and slipped into his quarters, finding Davies sitting on his chair, head hung down low and arms dangling limply from his lap.

"I suppose I don't need to ask you if you're alright, because you clearly are not."

Davies sighed. "I thought he was changing. I really did. I... I thought I was making him better." He laughed humorlessly. "God, I'm so fucking gullible..."

"We all were, John. Don't tear yourself up over it."

"That's the thing though. I thought there was something different. The way he acted when he was around me.. Like he was showing a different side of himself no one else got to see. I thought I, of all people, would be able to sense that he had something else planned, something as drastic as a god-damn mutiny." He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, fidgeting. "But no. I suppose to him I was just the same as everyone else after all."

"Well, that's just it then. If he didn't truly care about you, then that means he isn't worth getting upset over. A man such as yourself deserves better than him."

"...You're right. I know you are, but I can't just throw off the feelings as easily as you make it seem. I'll get over it, I will, eventually. I just.. need some time."

"I understand. Know that I am always here for anyone that needs a shoulder to lean on, you included."

"Thanks, Martin. But, for now.." Davies straightened his posture, finally looking Perrott in the eyes. "We've a crew to command, haven't we?"

"Aye, we do. Ready?" Perrott extended his hand down to be taken.

"Yeah." Davies grabbed it and stood up.

The two officers returned to the main deck. Perrott was quickly drawn into a conversation with the bosuns, and although Davies stood right beside him, he couldn't participate, as his attention was held entirely by the cloth with the shape beneath it. Nichols was that shape, he didn't need to seek confirmation from Perrott to know that. That unmoving, lifeless shape. Some sick, twisted piece of Davies's mind wanted to pull the cloth back, to see what had happened to him, to see his pallid, unstirring face. He knew it was wrong, and he knew he didn't have it in him to actually do it, but the thought still clung to his mind. What exactly brought about his end? ...Who brought about his end? Witterel didn't give an answer to either of these questions, as he recalled. Perhaps that was for the best. Davies wouldn't know what to do with the answers. He hardly knew what to do with the information he was given. He still hadn't understood it yet. Why mutiny? Money? He was already the bloody second mate. He didn't need the money. Fame? From what he understood of Nichols— which was much less than he originally thought— he wanted as little to do with the masses at large as possible; it seemed contradictory to him then that he'd want their attention and praise.

Davies's train of thought grinded to a stop as he saw someone approach the cloth and begin to bend over to lift it. "Oy, don't mess with that!" He added sheepishly, once his brain caught up to the fact that that person was one of the ladies: "Please, ma'am.. it's for your own good."

Abigail startled slightly at his words and turned to face him. "Oh, dear! Sorry, John. Didn't realize it was somethin' I shouldn't be stickin' me nose in."

Davies stepped away from Perrott and the bosuns to talk with the passenger. It seemed the three of them were carrying on their plans just fine without his input. "Are you and the other passengers holding up alright? Are you aware of what's going on?"

"Nae, we haven't a clue. Woke up tae a load of screamin' 'n Robert told me tae sit tight in our quarters while he went tae see what the problem was. Haven't seen him since then so I was startin' tae get restless. What's happenin' here?"

Davies scratched his head at the question, as he figured Witterel would much prefer it if he himself told his wife what was going on. He decided to go with something that wasn't entirely a lie. "I'm honestly not too sure of it myself. You'd best ask Witterel instead. He'd know better than I do." He remembered then that he was apparently conducting an interrogation. "But eh, he's busy at the moment. He should be back up to the main decks later. Ask him then, alright?"

"Aye, will do, Mr. John."

"Hmm, do you or Ms. Bird or Mrs. Jackson need anything at the moment? I'd be happy to fetch you a drink or a meal if you're in need of one; the stewards are still asleep at the moment."

"Aye, I could do with a cup of tea right now. The others probably could benefit from one as well. Is that too much to ask?"

"Not at all, ma'am. I'll get it to you as soon as possible."

"Thank ye, John."

Davies gave Abigail a genial wave goodbye as he headed off for the galley. Only after he went down the stairs did he let his frown appear on his face. He was utterly overwhelmed. Everywhere he was turning, something new had to be attended to. Soon enough, Davey would be waking up, and then too the midshipmen. How would they respond to this unraveling of events? And he was sure other crew members would come to him for answers. It was so much, so many moving parts. But still, he was merely the fourth mate; he couldn't even fathom the depth of what his captain was dealing with at that same moment. If Davies's problems were akin to the depth of a creek, he could only imagine that Witterel's reached far down into the Atlantic that they sailed upon.