Day 56: Morris Park
It was disappointing that the sheriff's office had been closed for some reason, but many humans rested on Sunday for what they considered good reason. Castiel himself didn't understand the thought behind it. God may have rested on the seventh day, but that didn't meant that the rest of them were allowed that luxury. He'd certainly never followed
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Crossing the last street, the Scarecrow made it to Morris Park. He could tell from the sight that his first visit might be his only one: the numerous trees made the area more intimidating that the other park, their gnarled branches blocking both the light and the snow from touching the ground, which was covered enough with various debris as it was. It was a shame to see such a potentially beautiful place in such a state of disrepair, though it did make him wonder why no one bothered to take care of it.
As he was about to turn and head up the street, the Scarecrow spotted a familiar face parked on a bench nearby. "Sangamon, hello!" He almost waved with his injured arm, stopping himself and switching to his left one. The brief movement only sent a small sting through him- no major harm done. It probably helped that the cold air had numbed him a little, just as the snow had the night before.
It was only once he got closer that he noticed the cane. "What's that you've got there?"
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He got cane and feet pointed in the same direction, and took an assisted step. "See, good as new." They'd all taken a few points of damage, but nothing major, unless he'd been more out of it than he'd thought. "How's D.C.?"
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The Scarecrow eyed Sangamon's walking stick, concerned about his friend's condition while thinking he didn't look 'good as new' in any sense. His own arm was in pretty terrible shape, but he reasoned it'd be a lot worse to have his legs impaired in some way, especially when in a town where getting from place to place involved a good amount of walking.
Sangamon's inquiry did raise a few worries in his mind: "Why do you ask? Was he with you last night? He's still in one piece, isn't he?" All three questions came out quicker than the Scarecrow had anticipated, but he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to his roommate. After Kaiji's disappearance, he wasn't taking chances- he'd take any answers he could get when he could get them.
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Now that S.T.'s brain was firing on at least two out of eight cylinders, he realized the Scarecrow wasn't moving like an actor trying to pretend bones were only for Buffalo wings. Stiff, and protecting an injury somewhere.
"I dragged him along to the basement last night. We had a pretty good run." S.T. had been the weak link, as he'd figured. He'd kept himself out of trouble, but it had been D.C. and Scott that had creamed the Walking Fossil Army. Then again, if D.C. hadn't been there, they'd have been facing something else. They'd gotten out with most of their skin intact, which was good enough.
"You look like you had quite an adventure yourself. Find anything interesting?"
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He didn't have a chance to ponder that question as Sangamon asked one of his own. "Do I?" the Scarecrow returned as he straightened reflexively, wondering how he could possibly look like he'd had any sort of adventure. Perhaps Sangamon was just that perceptive- like Abe, but without the touching part. "We- Sergeant Carter and I- went over the wall near the greenhouse. We thought we'd head to town, but I'm pretty sure we ended up on the wrong side of the building. Without a road or anything to follow, we walked until we did find something: a mine."
He added a nod to that last word. While the Scarecrow wasn't sure why there was a mine so close to the Institute, if it was under Landel's (or Aguilar's, for that matter) control, or if it had any sort of significance at all, but at least it seemed interesting enough to mention- more interesting than his possibly near-death experience with the Burning Man, anyway.
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Except he totally could tell Peter he looked like he'd had his ass dragged backwards up a skyscraper. Peter was cool. Not that Scarecrow wasn't, he just had that Oz thing going on.
"A mine?" We talking mountain-top removal or underground perpetual fire machine? That wasn't an exaggeration. Little ex-mining town -- now just ex-town -- in Pennsylvania had lit an abandoned coal mine on fire in a textbook exhibition of why trash incineration was fucking stupid. Threw crap into the air and, without proper precautions, set random things on fire. Towns, islands, Pöyzen Böyzen fans. The world might be better off without the latter, but they tended not to put it out of their misery. Just get really lit.
It was like twenty years before the depth of the fucked-up sank in. Along with sections of the town and local kids. Marauding clouds of carbon monoxide, the works. Instant ghost town. Latest estimates put it at a half a millennium until it burnt itself out. Give or take a factor of two.
Given that Scarecrow still had hair, this one probably wasn't on fire. He edited the question to something that wouldn't require an impromptu lecture.
"Open, or underground?" He mimed a cave mouth with his free hand.
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"We spotted some tracks as well," the Scarecrow added. "Sergeant Carter said they probably belonged to a mining cart. We started to follow them, but I don't recall much after that. It was awfully late by that point, so it must have been the end of night that got us."
Better the end of night than something else. The Scarecrow shook a little, that tingling feeling running down his back. It could have been the chilly air, but thinking about the night and all they'd experienced could have caused it, as well. He did tend to get that way when he thought of the Mangled Witch or the Burning Man.
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How many of the patients would find it the definition of normality? Consensus reality. If asked for a town, this wasn't far off what S.T. would envision. Add a green and a white clapboard church and it could be anywhere in New England; this one screamed midwestern. Newer construction, built for cars, yadda yadda.
So what was an abandoned -- or working, for that matter -- mine doing on the premises?
"You cold? C'mon, let's not freeze our asses off out here." His was numb; stone benches had a lot of thermal mass, all of it ice-cold. His knee still ached despite the atmospheric icing, but if he didn't move he was going to sit here all day. He put two hands on the cane and pried himself up. "We went down to the basement." Even if everyone else was all hush-hush, he was going to talk about it. Information just wanted to be free, man.
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The Scarecrow answered Sangamon's question with a nod, turning to look down the road as his friend rose from his seat. He could see a few places down the main street that looked promising: the hardware store, something to do with a kitchen, and a place called Crossroader's that certainly looked popular. He felt it was probably best they avoided Megahit Movies, which was also within eyeshot; he didn't need to be any more homesick than he already was, and he was a little concerned the owners had noticed one of their collection hadn't been returned. He couldn't help but feel a little guilty, even if it had seemed important at the time to take the movie with him.
"Where should we go?" he asked, turning back to Sangamon. He followed one question with another almost immediately: "And what's in the basement? Aside from something dangerous, apparently."
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Easier to answer the other question. He started limping down the path. Tightened muscles screeched like rusty bike chains after a Boston winter on the porch. "There's these challenges. One side for brains, the other for brawn."
It didn't occur to S.T. until mid-sentence that Scarecrow might still be laboring under some misconceptions about brains. Oops. He continued on.
[to here]
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