Guybrush's day of furious pacing continued as the nurse showed him to his room. Though she'd been chattier that day than she had been in her entire time of acting as his ward, she was clearly beginning to tire of his antics. She turned and handed him his tray as they neared M85. "Have a good night, Mr. Moriarty. And try to get some sleep. You've been pacing all day, and that's not good on your legs."
"Not good on my legs?" Guybrush asked. "You know what isn't good for my legs? Or my back? Or my mental stability? Getting mauled by a Nightmarish Being of Literally Indescribable Terror, then watching it kill a man you respected. And to top it off, the nurse who keeps shooting you dirty looks says you scratched your back too hard. Have you seen this hook you guys gave me? I couldn't poke a hole in a wet napkin!"
A slight noise of disapproval escaped the nurse as she opened his door, her lips pursing in annoyance. "No more talking about these delusions, Mr. Moriarty. I can see I'm going to have to tell the doctors your condition has worsened."
"My condition?" he cut back, incredulous. "What about Javert? I'm pretty sure his 'condition' is the kind you don't just chalk up to delusions!"
"I've already told you that Mr. Hunt is just fine. He was released this morning, and you should be happy for him. He was here for quite some time."
"And now he's dead. Very encouraging."
She put a hand to his back, pushing him into the room. "Goodnight, Mr. Moriarty." And with that, she closed the door.
While Guybrush wasn't often one to fume, that was exactly what he did. Setting his tray on the desk, he was ready to prepare himself for the night, heading for his closet to retrieve his things. He wasn't sure what he was going to do yet, aside from deliver the goods to the Voodoo Doctor, but he was ready to blow off steam with a night of adventuring. He wasn't even going to have to head to the inspector's room for a change, which was something he'd been doing almost every night since his arrival, so that would save—
His fevered thoughts came to a halt as he threw open the closet. He'd expected to find his usual possessions: Elaine's sword, his underwear sash, other seemingly useless knickknacks. Hanging in the closet was Javert's greatcoat. Tentatively, Guybrush pulled the garment from the hanger; it acted as a final sign that his comrade was really gone. Elaine, Morgan, Javert- even LeChuck, in a way. How many more would come and go?
M85
"Not good on my legs?" Guybrush asked. "You know what isn't good for my legs? Or my back? Or my mental stability? Getting mauled by a Nightmarish Being of Literally Indescribable Terror, then watching it kill a man you respected. And to top it off, the nurse who keeps shooting you dirty looks says you scratched your back too hard. Have you seen this hook you guys gave me? I couldn't poke a hole in a wet napkin!"
A slight noise of disapproval escaped the nurse as she opened his door, her lips pursing in annoyance. "No more talking about these delusions, Mr. Moriarty. I can see I'm going to have to tell the doctors your condition has worsened."
"My condition?" he cut back, incredulous. "What about Javert? I'm pretty sure his 'condition' is the kind you don't just chalk up to delusions!"
"I've already told you that Mr. Hunt is just fine. He was released this morning, and you should be happy for him. He was here for quite some time."
"And now he's dead. Very encouraging."
She put a hand to his back, pushing him into the room. "Goodnight, Mr. Moriarty." And with that, she closed the door.
While Guybrush wasn't often one to fume, that was exactly what he did. Setting his tray on the desk, he was ready to prepare himself for the night, heading for his closet to retrieve his things. He wasn't sure what he was going to do yet, aside from deliver the goods to the Voodoo Doctor, but he was ready to blow off steam with a night of adventuring. He wasn't even going to have to head to the inspector's room for a change, which was something he'd been doing almost every night since his arrival, so that would save—
His fevered thoughts came to a halt as he threw open the closet. He'd expected to find his usual possessions: Elaine's sword, his underwear sash, other seemingly useless knickknacks. Hanging in the closet was Javert's greatcoat. Tentatively, Guybrush pulled the garment from the hanger; it acted as a final sign that his comrade was really gone. Elaine, Morgan, Javert- even LeChuck, in a way. How many more would come and go?