@smugliar asked: "Do you even know where you're headed?"
"I'm headed to the--the exit. The train. It was...this way?" He blinked blearily into the vicious fairgrounds. He couldn't actually remember the way back to the exit.
Everything was working against his senses. The siren's caterwauling, the fake wind searing cold air against his open wounds, the hole drilled through his right hand and rendering it unresponsive, the raising voices of every ex-pop and grunt notified of their impending escape. Everything was collapsing in around them as they stepped through intestinal slush and bleeding concussions.
This was only their...second, maybe third, trial at Futterland. It was still difficult to piece the environment together, to recall what doors were barricaded and which were at least breakable. Quentin at least knew they needed to cut through the diner, past the tubs of hearty soups and out the back door.
Or, wait, maybe he was wrong? Maybe they had to go around the diner instead? Right or left? Right and left? Maybe they ignored the diner entirely?
Quentin looked at Ace, whose mouth was slacken red and nose pulpy. "We just...okay. We just have to get to the carousel, right? Right. Past the diner. We can, fuck, okay, we can get there." It was only them two. The two other reagents sent in with them were far past the point of syringes. Quentin felt awful, always, but right now they needed to focus on themselves.
Out the corner of his eye, past the animatronic ticket booth and an overturned swan boat, rusted with gore, he saw one of those doors that could be unblocked only from one side. He had undid the latch before they entered the tunnel. He inclined towards it.
"There, let's just go through there, follow the outer wall. We don't have a time limit until we call the train. Let's just...take it careful, sound good?"
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