Night 56: South of the Institute

[threepwood]

[From here.]

If there was one thing to be said about the terrible clothing they were given to wear in Doyleton, it was that the selection had its uses. The jacket- not fine or leather, but a jacket nonetheless- kept some of the cold from him; the shoes gripped to the road, slick in places from the layer of snow, better than the issued slippers ever would.

In good news, it didn't look like they were being followed. Guybrush kept a watch behind him, figuring someone would come looking. Maybe the voodoo witch hadn't been kidding about the "you may not come back" warning and really did think they wouldn't survive the night. Why did the guards try to keep people inside, anyway? If the part where they were transported back to the institute every morning no matter where they were was true, why did it matter if a few patients made it outside the building? It would be a pain if the nurses actually had to go out and fetch each and every missing patient, but given that the people in charge had enough voodoo prowess to bring people through time, knocking them out and warping them back to their rooms should have been a snap.

Or maybe they really could get too far, and find themselves out of range of Aguilar's power. That was what Guybrush was hoping for. Unfortunately, they'd lost a lot of time with their encounter, and weren't making up for it much with their wounded pacing.

Conversation would take their minds off their aches. "Did you know this place has a basement filled with monsters?"

Comments

[fangirlfatale.livejournal.com]

"Really? That's...awesome, actually." And that was probably the first and last time anyone had ever said that about anything at Landel's. "What kind of monsters? Have you been down there?"

Morgan was hoping it didn't matter (since they weren't going back there again!) but talking was better than wasting the walk wondering whether her wounds were going to freeze over. The rest of her attention was devoted to scanning their surroundings; next to her, Guybrush kept glancing over his shoulder too. No one seemed to be coming after them yet. Either Aguilar and his creep squad hadn't noticed their little prison break, or they were cocky enough that they didn't care. Jerks.

Even without guards, though, there was still a lot to watch for. All the shadows and mist made it hard to get a clear view of what might be threatening them out there. And she didn't like this mist. The Caribbean wasn't exactly low on mist, but at least there it was pretty to look at (if kind of dull). Here it felt...sinister. Like something could lurch out at any minute, and it wouldn't be the fun kind of challenge.

"God, it's so different here," she finally said aloud. "How far away do you think we are?"

[threepwood]

"I haven't been down there myself," Guybrush answered with a sideways glance, "but my roommate went last night, and said he got into a fight with a pack of robot dinosaurs with laser beam eyes. It had to have been fairly dangerous, given the scratches on his face and his new, noticeable limp. Our room has all the luck with injuries."

Thinking about it reminded him of just how much his ribs hurt- his breath rattled, and Guybrush was unable to keep from shivering as a cold wind cut through him. If he was chilly, he figured Morgan had to be freezing; he'd offer her his jacket, but he had a feeling she'd turn it down in her usual bout of pride and self-reliance. That, and he was still using it.

The silence between them became apparent as he listened to their surroundings, with only the sounds of the road and snow crunching beneath their shoes to break the stillness. He was used to wandering alone on his adventures (well, the ones where Elaine was either kidnapped or recampaigning for the position of governor for an island where she'd been declared legally dead) with only his narration to keep him company, but it was nice to have someone else along for a change. Every now and then, he needed a fresh perspective on the situation to figure out where he needed to go next or how to deal with cochlea-hoarding hoodlums.

The light smile that had appeared on Guybrush's face as he remembered their time in the manatee disappeared with Morgan's next question. "Very, very far," he said with a slump. "None of this looks even vaguely familiar, and I'm no stranger to wandering in dark forests and hiking around mountains. Even the stars don't look the same on the rare nights you can see them. It's not just the land, either- the people are different. Patients from all over time, and not a lot of them pirates, unlike in the Caribbean. A lot of lawyers, but not pirates." He shook his head. "I don't think there's really any knowing of just how far away we are until we find out how much it'll take to get back."

He looked to the sky, the moon behind the clouds giving a pale glow to the world beneath it. "Oh, Elaine," Guybrush said to himself wistfully. "How far away are you? Are you looking at the same sky? Sleeping under the same stars in another time? Or are you still out here, battling the cold like we are?"

[fangirlfatale.livejournal.com]

"Robot dinosaurs?" Morgan shook her head. "Man, some people have all the luck."

She had to grit her teeth against the icy wind to keep them from chattering pathetically. The daytime had been bad enough, but this was worth. And with both of them injured, they couldn't even run to stay warm. Morgan grabbed her collar in one fist to clench it shut and cover a few more inches of exposed skin. Shockingly, it didn't do much good.

Guybrush's opinion about their surroundings only confirmed what she was already convinced of. The stars here were different, and the tinge of salt and sea breeze she'd smelled in the air all her life was completely absent. The snow on the ground definitely didn't spell "Caribbean." And if people were actually coming from other planets--she didn't even want to think about it. "Yeah, I don't even think I've seen a single pirate aside from you three since I got here," she commented. "Except for that Rotgut guy. But still, if we can just get to--"

Uggh, and then Guybrush started waxing poetic. Morgan stole a sideways glance at him, but she didn't need to. He looked exactly like she would've pictured him, with that stupid moony, lovelorn expression Morgan had definitely never worn in her life. It wasn't like she didn't expect him to go on and on about Elaine, it just--still bugged her.

She rolled her eyes. "Wherever she is, at least she's away from your attempts at poetry. Or...whatever that was."

[threepwood]

A snarky reply about how Morgan's attempts at poetry would probably include a list of names and how much she was being paid for her services never made it past Guybrush's lips. He opened his mouth to start, but couldn't help but notice how the cold was affecting Morgan.

Now he felt bad, realizing himself that they should have thought about how they would not be facing Caribbean temperatures on their escape attempt. The warm sea air, tinted with the smells of salt, grog, and the breath of old scallywags who hadn't bathed in a month- while a change in scenery was the perfect setting for a new adventure, he did pine for the familiarity of the Tri-Island Area. The cold wind wasn't fun, though he had to admit it was better than facing miasma or a pox.

Now that he thought about it, a pox, especially one that respected the semantical distinctions most plagues would overlook, might not have added much complication to the situation. There weren't a lot of pirates around, Elaine-of-the-Past technically wasn't a pirate yet, and would therefore be unaffected, and all that pox-generated rage might actually get him somewhere with the soldiers, who didn't seem to listen to reason. However, it would be bad if it was a lawyer-targeting strain. Just why were there so many attorneys in Landel's?

Guybrush shivered in the cold again, his mind brought back to the situation at hand. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like a jerk. "You... want my jacket, Mo?" he asked after some silence. "I have a long-sleeve shirt under here. And while you'll probably insist otherwise, I'm pretty sure you won't be much good for fighting if your arms freeze off."

[fangirlfatale.livejournal.com]

Morgan did not want that jacket.

Okay, that was a lie. Sort of. She really, really wanted to wear that jacket right now; what she didn't want was to have to embarrass herself by taking it from Guybrush, who was only offering because she looked like a complete wuss. When she messed up, she should have to be the one to deal with the consequences, without needing anyone else to bail her out like a leaky dinghy.

On the other hand, her fingers were getting too stiff to hold the Blade of Whoever--no, the Blade of LeFlay. Guybrush had a point. And if she had to take help from someone, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it were him. Once a guy had lost his hand at the end of your blade, become your fake husband, and listened to your last gasping words as you died from gaping stab wounds inflicted by the same blade, it might be time to get over the whole embarrassment thing.

"Yeah," she said finally, letting go of her collar to reach her hand out for it. "Thanks."

Morgan crunched along in silence again for a minute, still peering into the shadows. Finally she decided there was more she had to say. "And...thanks for having my back back there. At the door." She turned to face Guybrush. "I never said this, but...you're not what I expected from all those stories. Trying to sneak out during the fight wasn't exactly impressive. But when the chips are down, you're a good guy." She managed a grin. "Even with that weird obsession with talking about your mast."

[threepwood]

Even with the blistering cold, dreary surroundings, possible danger looming around them, and their future uncertain as they wandered into the snowdrifts on their journey to get as far away from the spooky time-bending, protagonist-stealing institute as humanly possible, it was hard for Guybrush to keep a smile from his face as he handed Morgan the jacket. It was a side of her he didn't get to see often. The fact that the majority of their time together had been spent in the bowels of a manatee probably had something to do with it. There wasn't much room for moments of endearment when surrounded by bile and organs of indeterminate purpose.

The grin was still worn into him as Morgan continued. Those stories did build him up quite a bit- probably because he'd built them himself years ago, and they only got more dramatic as people other than himself started retelling them. That happened when you were the guy who not only repeatedly defeated a dread pirate with a nasty reputation for trashing the Caribbean on a regular basis, but married a high-profile bachelorette like Governor Elaine Marley.

While he had the urge to explain he really was going to see if the door was unlocked while she distracted the guard, Guybrush let it die, opting to keep smiling. The situation may have been pretty grim, but it could always be worse, and arguing a moot point wouldn't solve anything.

"You know, Mo," Guybrush started, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, "you're not exactly what I expected, either. I mean, you did help me out in the manatee, then immediately turn around and turn me in for money. But when you went to try to get my hand back? I... don't think I ever got to thank you properly for that because of the whole dying part. So thanks. Even if it's not tonight, we'll get away from this horrible place together, and when we do get back home? Hopefully, we'll both be alive. I promise I'll try to keep all the mast talk to a minimum until then."