Night 56: Bus Unloading Area

[fangirlfatale.livejournal.com]

[from here]

....Make that the cold night air. God, how did she not think of a coat?! Morgan: 0, Landel's: a hundred. She rubbed her bare upper arms, smearing blood from her injured right shoulder onto the fingers of her gauntlet. Normally she'd wipe it clean; right now, she didn't care enough to bother. She just wanted to keep moving and make up for the time they'd wasted getting smacked around by a kid with a stick. Anything that would make tonight feel like less of a failure.

"Ouch." She grimaced in Guybrush's direction, looking for signs of major head trauma. "Nooot exactly one of my most spectacular moments. Are you okay?"

Comments

Sorry for the delay! D:

[threepwood]

Guybrush followed Morgan out the door with as quick of a step as a guy with busted ribs and a minor concussion could muster. He grabbed hold of the handle as he crossed the threshold, pulling the door shut with a snap that echoed in the quiet night around them. The process hadn't been pretty, but they were out of the institute and facing the possibility of freedom: cold, questionable, tentative freedom.

"Yeah," he responded to Morgan's question in a hushed tone, wary that there were probably more guards waiting for them somewhere. "Aside from adding another bruise to my growing collection, and that span of time where I couldn't tell if it was me or the room spinning uncontrollably, I'm all right. And I don't see any of this miasma stuff she was talking about anywhere, so I guess she really was a little off. You know, brainwashing aside."

Guybrush shut his trap with a short gasp as he caught sight of the blood. There went the E rating for comic mischief and violence. "Morgan, your shoulder!"

No problem. D:

[fangirlfatale.livejournal.com]

"Oh, that?" Morgan rolled her eyes dismissively. "It's fine. Probably just a sprain." A bleeding sprain. It wasn't that bad, though. The two throwing knives had been small enough that the wounds were neither really big nor really deep; there probably wasn't even muscle damage. Not even worth noticing for someone who'd been skewered through the gut and lived to tell the tale!

...well, sort of.

Yeah, maybe she'd wrap it when they got to town. If she didn't have to use her sword arm too much on the trip, the bleeding should calm down by then.

"Anyway, I'm glad you're okay too. Let's get going." Morgan started decisively off to the south(?) along the edge of the road that led to Doyleton. There was something hanging in the air all right, but it was just fog and mist, not "miasma." She was grateful for the cover right now--for once, discretion might actually be the better part of valor if they ran into any more guards. At least being able to hide in the fog could give them the element of surprise in a fight.

"So when that stick-wielding voodoo witch said, 'You may not come back,' you think she was saying it like, 'you might die out there'? Or more like, 'if you go out there, I'm not letting you back in so you're free'?" she asked after a minute. Personally, she was gunning for the latter, but that might be too much to hope for. Brainwashed prisoners probably didn't have that kind of pull.

[threepwood]

Guybrush took a few quick steps, rubbing his head as he caught up to Morgan to walk beside her. He turned off his flashlight and tucked it into his sash, the pale light of the moon enough illumination to see the road. It probably was a good idea to not draw too much attention to themselves, anyway, given the substantial number of visible injuries between the two of them. He wasn't sure he believed Morgan's insistence that she was fine, but he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt: if there was anything Morgan wasn't going to do, it was die. Again. Or at least not of something something less obviously fatal than being impaled on her own sword. She'd never outlive the embarrassment.

"Either option sounds better than being stuck in there," Guybrush replied, adjusting the chain of underpants around his shoulder. In hindsight, it was probably a good thing he hadn't had to fight the guard. With his ribs still in bad shape, it would have been a short and ultimately shameful duel. "Whether she thinks we'll die out here, or she's locking the door and won't let us back in, at least we're out. And what are the chances two expert fighters like us will die on a simple walk to town?"

He wasn't going to answer that question.

[To here.]