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Edward Nichols was always good at running.
He was the fastest of the boys as a child. He ran from his father's stern hand after he'd caused mischief. He ran all the way to the sea to get away from a woman he barely knew and a child he didn't want. He ran from the consequences of killing that fiddler, ran from the Obra Dinn herself after not just stealing and hostage-taking, but now murder, too. He wanted to run from those oceanic she-demons, but the terror in that moment was so great that his legs went out and his muscles went limp.
Even while Galligan all but begged him to do something.
Even when he heard Galligan's body fall.
And now here he was, running again, back to the Obra Dinn.
The captain was reasonable, wasn't he? He'd hear him out, at least, stop any furious crew from (immediately) running him through. Once onboard, he could beg, and plead, make something up. Maybe they'd throw him in the lazarette. Maybe they'd make him work topside until they docked. It didn't matter. He was good at planning, too. When the plan didn't work, he'd run. When there was no where left to run, he'd plan.
The relief when he returned to the Obra Dinn was like euphoria. Naples called for the captain. Klestil called to recover the boats. But no one called for his death. Of course, some of the topmen and seamen certainly looked like they could kill him, but that didn't matter right now.
Then, he saw the barrel of a gun emerge from a nearby porthole.
Nichols first figured it was that last Russian, the hot-headed one he carefully chose to exclude from this venture. But then he saw the silk clothing, and tanned skin, and eyes that were dark and cold like volcanic glass. Eyes full of hot tears and hatred.
Davies called to hold fire, but Nichols knew that didn't matter. It wouldn't have mattered if that lost Formosan could speak English. This was not his ship, and the only man he swore loyalty to was dead by Nichols' side.
The moment Nichols realized he'd find no mercy from a man the last of his kind, he began to reach for the oars, instinctively, to start running again. But he could tell that Formosan would never give him the luxury.
Edward Nichols was done running, whether he liked it or not.