Murray wanted to name her Squalling Pink Fleshbag, but Elaine quickly vetoed that idea.
Frankly, after they’d spent four solid hours locked in the study in the gubernatorial mansion on Mêlée Island with the piranha poodles yapping by the window, Elaine pointing out that she could probably find a new giant manatee to swallow Murray and take him back down to the bottom of the sea if he kept on pushing, Murray grumbling something about gnawing off Elaine’s feet if he didn’t get his oh-so-evil demonic way, Guybrush had started to think it sounded like a sensible idea.
On reflection, however, once Elaine had put Murray back down instead of tossing him to the poodles and Murray had resigned himself to muttering half-hearted curses under his undead breath, Squalling Pink Fleshbag Marley-Threepwood had seemed maybe just a tad too imposing for a week-old child. Especially one who seemed to make substantially less noise than Elaine’s precious poodles did. Murray, of course, was heavily in favour of the miniature pirate-maimers on the grounds that they were infinitely more likely to break free and rampage across Mêlée, chewing through a plethora of peg legs in the process, than Baby Girl Marley-Threepwood was.
Guybrush cleared his throat, paused, gave the two of them a wholeheartedly hopeful glance, and then suggested they name her Morgan.
“A name that recalls the late Sir Henry Morgan, pirate and plunderer, sacker of Porto Bello, scourge of the Caribbean,” Murray said, using his most authoritative tone and nodding all the while. Well, he did something slightly odd with his jaw that made him jiggle disconcertingly on the mantelpiece and Guybrush could only hope that nodding was the sentiment intended. “Maybe not as eeevil as I’d hoped for – it’s no Bloodnose or Blackheart or Lacerated Spleen, of course - but respectable in the community.”
Guybrush decided against pointing out that the name of their resident demonic skull was the rather less than fearsome Murray and thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t caused another argument. Yet. Elaine drummed her fingernails on Murray’s parietal, pointedly ignoring him as he snarled in her general direction. Guybrush cocked his head as he glanced down at the tiny blonde baby sleeping remarkably peacefully in his arms, then back up at her; Elaine smiled.
“Morgan it is,” she said. And so, Morgan she was.
The day that Morgan Marley-Threepwood was born, the pirates threw a party on Mêlée Island. It was the middle of summer and the bright Caribbean sun was shining, Blondebeard fried up a batch of Plunder Island feral chicken and there was a peculiar mix of caber-tossing and spitting contests down by the harbour that may have actually resulted in more injuries than all of the insult competitions in the five preceding years put together. However, Stan had recently set up shop next door to the International House of Mojo where he peddled the latest in previously-owned prosthetics, so everything somehow worked out for the best.
At the other side of the Caribbean, all was not so well. The monkeys were shrieking. Below Monkey Island, on a cursed ship moored in the lava-filled caves beneath the reconstructed giant monkey head, another child was born; the chief surgeon of the crew of the undead pirate LeChuck held the child in his bony hands and Kathryn Krebbs wiped the sweat from her brow.
After she’d gotten the heck away from Flotsam Island, Krebbs had sailed the Caribbean seeking vengeance for her bitter humiliation at the hands of Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate. Within the tri-island area she knew she had to tread carefully; Governor Marley did seem somewhat exasperated by his new grandson-in-law but that wasn’t a great reason to go laying siege to Mêlée Island – she’d just end up eating rats in a mouldy old jail cell, fingers crossed for a visitor with a cake with a file in it.
She went about her plotting quietly, asked vague questions, got to know the scum in the Scumm Bar until a salty old seadog pointed her in the direction of LeChuck – apparently a creepy voodoo priestess was keeping the undead pirate’s wispy green remains in a jar and while that frankly sounded like a load of stagnant bilgewater to the skeptical ex-bosun, she set out anyway. She scoured the swamps of every island until she came across for the tell-tale signs of voodoo inhabitants: spooky green mist swirling overhead, annoying voodoo children with their paper dolls and pins, strangely prescient advertising… It took her three long years but finally, finally, she found the voodoo lady. Lurking not too far from the Jerkbait Islands. On Flotsam, of all the places in the cursed Caribbean. Krebbs couldn’t help but curse the day she’d washed up on Flotsam, not to mention the time she'd run into Guybrush Threepwood.
LeChuck was all but gone, the voodoo lady said; there wasn’t enough left of him there in the jar for incarnation. They talked for a while, a nice little chat over slightly odd-smelling voodoo root beer, Krebbs’ sword at the priestess’s throat. Perhaps there wasn’t enough of him for incarnation, the priestess said, but what about reincarnation? Krebbs didn’t hesitate. LeChuck was Threepwood’s great nemesis and thus the only one who could help her find her ultimate revenge, she was certain of it. Still, there was nothing to say it had to be LeChuck Senior.
Something drew her to Monkey Island after that day. LeChuck’s old crew took her in, sighing happily as she berated them daily from his cabin. Just like the master had returned, they said, not entirely sure why it was that they were pleased. After all, none of them had chosen to be the crew of the damned, and to be honest the lava caves were quite nice in the spring if only you didn’t have to worry about being tossed overboard for inadequate swabbing.
Nine months later, the child was born. Krebbs looked into her son’s eerie green eyes, and she smiled. Her revenge was coming. All she needed now was a little patience.
By the time she was five years old, Morgan was insult sword-fighting at a fifth-grade level. Carla turned out to be a great teacher even after all those years thrashing the pants off of questing pirates at her cabin in the woods, though Guybrush had really wanted to teach her himself. After all, he had beaten the Sword Master of Mêlée Island™ and he did have the t-shirt to prove it, though he guessed he'd left it in his other pants.
Elaine got really busy after Morgan turned six; HT Marley (Guybrush had to admit he still had trouble not thinking of him as Herman Toothrot rather than Horatio Torquemada, especially given the disastrous state of his dental hygiene) had retired from the governorship and after a rigorous campaign - in which Elaine soundly thrashed all competition with a mixture of wit and a judicious use of insult arm-wrestling - she was back into politics. The governorship of the tri-island area was a huge undertaking but Elaine did so love to govern and Guybrush had to admit that something about seeing the gubernatorial seal in his wife’s hand was still strangely alluring. Besides, it meant that as long as he flew the governor’s flag on board his ship, Guybrush could sail about the general vicinity with Morgan on board, fearing no piratey attack. Really, though, with Carla and Otis and the Plunder Island barbershop trio on board, Reginald Van Winslow at the helm and Guybrush Threepwood as their captain, what could go wrong!
They’d visit the Phatt Island library for books for Morgan to study or pick up an audiobook on parrot, let the crew sunbathe at the Brim Stone Beach Club while they visited the theatre and, grudgingly, he let the distressingly dapper Van Helgen teach her to play the banjo one summer - after all, you never knew when the ability to riff on a banjo was going to come in handy. Bloodnose the Pirate taught Morgan all about maps and only sniffled a little when Guybrush taught her to call him Wally. Slappy Cromwell taught her to juggle knives while reciting Hamlet, which oddly wasn’t her most useless skill. They learned biology with the merfolk, though Guybrush was still just as confused with every visit (and flirting with Anemone was still just as disconcerting, for the both of them). Morgan learned to play piano under Jojo, though he’d relocated from Scabb Island to the Scumm Bar on Mêlée – apparently the scurvy bilge-swilling pirate patrons thought it added a certain je ne sais quoi to the ambience of the place, though Guybrush suspected the only reason no one savait quoi was the strength of the grog and the overwhelmingly chickeny aroma of the Blondebeard fried chicken franchise that had moved in next door.
When they went home, Elaine taught her all about politics, about their islands, about the Marley family heritage and the correct care of piranha poodles. Her batty old great-grandfather taught her to fire a cannon at the age of six, much to Elaine’s chagrin, though they luckily managed to limit her exposure to his particular brand of neo-existentialist cartesian zen taoism. She loved to learn and sail and fight, she loved to sing, though unfortunately she’d inherited her skill in that particular area from her father; Haggis McMutton tried more than once to dissuade her (politely) from her spirited rendition of There’s a Monkey in My Pocket before he bought a set of strange voodoo earplugs from the House of Mojo and clucked like an oddly Scottish chicken for a week.
Sometimes, they ran into Morgan LeFlay, Ghost Pirate Hunter. Morgan and Morgan would sit in the captain’s cabin on board the Screaming Narwhal and talk for hours; Guybrush never tried to stop it, though he had to admit that seeing Mo again always made him a little sad. Okay, so she’d captured him and turned him over for trial (and execution), but she’d been a good person deep down inside - without her, he could never have defeated LeChuck. Naming his daughter after her had really been the least that he could do.
Sometimes, they came across the voodoo lady. Not that they frequented the swamps of the tri-island area by any means, but with Murray reading the map it was hardly surprising that they wound up off course on occasion. Murray always asked to be left outside before they went in to see her just in case the voodoo kids were home, complaining about being shoved into a bag despite the fact that he actually spent half his time in Guybrush’s pants and the rest haranguing passers-by from the deck of their ship, El Pollo Diablo. Blondebeard glared at them over greasy fried chicken every time they said the name in his presence, but Guybrush couldn’t help himself. The tar-and-feathers story still made Morgan laugh, even when she was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old.
It was never anything like the days when he’d battled LeChuck, but they had their adventures.
Guybrush couldn’t help but be proud of her, too: by the age of twelve she could hold her breath for ten whole minutes.
It was sunny the day of Morgan’s seventeenth birthday. Elaine gave her a shiny new cutlass and Guybrush had bought her a monkey ornament made from the unbreakable glass of Flotsam Island – she had a shelf full of them in her room in the governor’s mansion, monkeys with swords, monkeys eating bananas, monkeys fighting Monkey Kombat… he’d sweet-talked Crimpdigit into making a new one for her every year, possibly with promises of a fine leather jacket that would maybe one day be forthcoming. Stan came to the party every year, and frankly unbreakable glass was always a good plan around his rather expressive hands. Thanks to Stand and his gestural accidents, the tri-island area gubernatorial budget was probably single-handedly keeping the Well Blow Me Down Glassworks in business.
Morgan was clutching a folded topsail made entirely of an odd fabric with a worryingly familiar science-defying pattern to it when Guybrush went upstairs from the party to find her and her mother; he strongly suspected Stan had come entrepreneurial full-circle and left his used prosthetics for previously-owned vessels (and attendant paraphernalia).
“But mom, you have to let me go!”
Elaine sighed, hands on hips. “It’s not safe, Morgan. You’ve heard your father’s stories.” She sighed. “We’ve all heard your father’s stories. You know it’s a miracle he came home alive.”
“Hey!” Guybrush interrupted, stroking his well-cultured piratey beard. “I like to think it’s equal parts luck and my boyish good looks.” He paused, frowned. “Wait, what are we talking about?”
Both of them turned to him with the exact same look on their face. Morgan was really just like a younger version of her mother sometimes, the same fiery temperament and same stubborn set to her frown, just with her dad’s blue eyes and blonde hair. She was going to make a heck of a governor one day, Guybrush thought, or a heck of a pirate, or a lawyer, an actress...
“Guybrush, your daughter wants to sail to Monkey Island.”
“And mom won’t let me go.” Morgan dropped the mind-bending sail by her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m old enough to sail a boat and drink grog and have my own life… besides, you already defeated LeChuck! I’m not your little plunder-munchkin anymore.”
Guybrush frowned as he patted the little glass monkey sitting in his coat pocket. “You’ll always be our plunder-munchkin, Morgan.”
Morgan huffed, paused for a moment as she looked at him, then shook her head and knelt to gather up the sail. “I know, dad. Really. But… look, I really want to do this. I’ve got a ship together, and a crew and a map just like you did. Grandpa Horatio gave me some navigational pointers, Stan gave me a great discount on new sails for my birthday and, well. I’m going to go.” She stood, the oddly-rendered sail back in her arms and that familiar stubborn look on her face, the one that she probably got from him now he thought about it. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back before you know it, you’ll see. I love you, mom. I love you, dad.”
The two of them watched her go in silence, straight out of the bedroom door and down the stairs, making excuses to guests as she made her way to the front door and away. There’d be a ship waiting for her in the harbour; a couple of hours to finish provisioning, to rig the rather unconventional sails, and she’d be gone.
“She’s really going,” Guybrush said.
Elaine nodded. “I guess so. So you’d better go with her.”
Charles Krebbs-LeChuck had an uncommon childhood.
The lava lake was a little on the warm side but he supposed you got used to the gusts of burning embers searing layers off your skin, after a while. By the time he was six or so, the screams stopped being quite so disconcerting; he barely ever woke up in the night at the sound of the inhuman wailing anymore. The fact that half the crew were skeletons and the other half were voodoo-hypnotised monkeys… well, that just seemed perfectly normal because up until the age of seventeen the only other living person he’d ever actually clapped eyes on was his mother. Well, his mother and the occasional tutor that the crew had kidnapped for him. It was kind of awkward, really, trying to learn Spanish when his teacher was curled up in a ball under the desk. For a month or so when he was nine, the only Spanish he knew was 'madre de dios, es el pirata diablo!'
His mother liked to tell him stories. Usually they were about his father, and she made sure the crew assured him that LeChuck Senior had been absolutely every inch as evil as she'd told him he was. When they weren't cowering, it was always ‘oh, them were the days, when yer dad were here he'd flay the skin off yer bones soon as look at yer! If there were any skin left, that is,’ or ‘he was a proper pirate, yer dad... made keelhauling into a proper art, he did!’. He didn't have the heart to tell them that keelhauling sounded messy and frankly he'd been sick of the flaying since he was twelve. They all seemed far too attached to their reminiscence of tortures past to understand what he was going through. The undead really weren't any fun.
The real problem was, there was nothing to do on Monkey Island. All of his dad's cool stuff was gone, no one ever came there anymore, he'd run out of the right calibre of cannonball for the artillery at the fort about a year ago and really, who wanted to live entirely on a diet of voodoo-enhanced bananas? There were really only so many ways to eat them and 'banana surprise' had never really been surprising, considering the only possibly ingredients they had were bananas, coconut and seawater. And he didn’t understand why he couldn’t have a pet when there were so many monkeys around the island. It wasn't even like the crew would need to make a special trip to pick one up.
“You’re the Ghost Pirate LeChuck, Junior!” his mother would tell him. “Yes, perhaps you're not the demonic undead just yet, but it'll happen one day soon, you mark my words... and you’ll rule the Caribbean, spreading misery in your wake, striking terror into the heart of every man, woman and child who dares to cross your path!”
His mother had always had something of a flair for the dramatic, so when she ripped the arm off of a passing crewman and tossed it into the lava he was hardly surprised. If only she'd stop tinkering with voodoo curses in the captain's quarters once in a while (muttering something confusing about nacho sauce under her breath) and maybe go outside, feed a monkey, walk on the beach... He sighed. She had no zest for life.
“Including people called Threepwood?”
His mother glared, the glow of the lava hot in her eyes. “Especially people called Threepwood!”
On his seventeenth birthday, he asked for a parrot. He was even willing to compromise and settle for an ex-parrot, but his mother shot the idea down immediately with the same old nonsense about his demonic destiny and the doom of Guybrush Threepwood, how he should be asking to quest for the Cutlass of Kaflu or to start rebuilding the Carnival of the Damned, as if rehashing his father’s failed ideas was all he was good for. That was the final straw.
"We're leaving," he said, striding onto deck where the air was warm and the crewmen were cowering. "We're leaving right now. If I'm destined to knock off the Threepwoods and rule the Caribbean then what are we waiting for? We'll sail for Mêlée Island and have their lubberly livers squished into pâté by breakfast." He signalled to the bosun to weigh anchor. His mother looked so very, very proud.
"And then I'm getting a damn parrot," he muttered to himself. It was probably best his mom didn’t hear.
The boy Morgan met on the beach in Puerto Pollo had the strangest green eyes she’d ever seen. And, considering her dad’s long list of slightly weird acquaintances (all of whom had seemed to turn up at least once over the years, usually claiming that he’d left them shipwrecked somewhere exotic, that he owed them money or that he’d stolen their monocle, their party dress, their piano-playing monkey), she’d seen some extremely strange things.
The crazy sails that Stan had given her for her birthday had had a bit of an accident at sea - they’d hypnotised a flock of passing seagulls and the next thing they’d known there were feathers all over the deck, beaks poking holes in just about every available surface and Murray clamped to the gull-damaged bowsprit by his teeth. With Murray clattering about the deck chasing down the stupefied gulls once retrieved (for a disembodied skull he could be surprisingly spry when the situation called for it), they ran out the oars and pulled for Plunder Island. A couple of hours later, they moored in Danjer Cove.
Of course, after that, the crew had wanted a break. Considering their combined history of varied and interesting mutinies, she’d thought it might be prudent to give them a couple of weeks ashore before weighing anchor again for Monkey Island. Haggis went up to the grassy knoll to fashion them a new bowsprit between gleeful caber tosses, Cutthroat Bill set to sharpening every knife on board with the old barbershop’s equipment, van Helgen took the opportunity to brush up on his banjo playing and Carla and Otis headed straight for the beach. She went with them; her dad wasn’t much for sunbathing, though, so he wandered off into town to catch up with Slappy at the theatre. Apparently his new play was a real hit with the monkeys - how could he resist?
Three days into their unscheduled sojourn, a ship moored off the island. She watched through her spyglass from halfway up a palm tree as a dinghy came ashore and while the rowers returned to the ship, the guy with the strange green eyes and oversized floppy hat wandered the island. Morgan’s dad had said something cryptic about Captain LeChimp and vanished back to Danjer Cove the night before (she knew better than to ask for the particulars anymore), and Carla and Otis were worse than useless once they were stretched out in the sun, so Morgan was pretty much alone when the new boy made his way to Brim Stone Beach. He couldn’t be too bad if he’d made it past the cabana boy, after all, and she hadn’t heard any terrified shrieks of papapishu! wafting down the beach so she doubted he'd forced his way in. Effective security the cabana boy was not - he was a bit of a ‘fraidy cat when it came down to it - but he worked pretty well as an alarm.
She glanced at guy as he laid out his towel and stretched out on the sand - he was already strangely tanned, though considering they were lounging on a beach in the Caribbean that did make a certain amount of sense. The occasional burn did seem a bit much, though, and kind of reminded her of their family vacation on Blood Island that one summer… Her head still hurt at the memory of the volcano shots she’d drunk with Carla while her mom and dad were out at the barbeque with the Goodsoups. To say she was meant to be her teacher, Carla never exactly been a good influence.
The new boy turned his head, and their gazes met. They frowned. It was so strange...
“You look really familiar,” they both said together. They sat up quickly. Carla and Otis didn’t.
She supposed that the useful thing about being brought up around (and by) pirates was that she wasn’t afraid of them. They’d been threatened by gangsters in the alleys of Phatt Island, they’d been challenged to duels on Booty Island, she’d beaten more grog-addled deck-swabbers at insult sword-fighting than she could count anymore. She had a sword handy, the new cutlass her mother had given her for her birthday, and her hand went for it slowly, hunting across the hot sand.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Charles Krebbs-LeChuck,” he replied, and shrugged his expansive shoulders, one hand searching surreptitiously beneath his heavy coat “The Demon Pirate LeChuck, Junior. And you are?”
“Morgan Marley-Threepwood,” she replied. “Mighty pirate.”
LeChuck Junior chuckled. "I'm pretty sure I'm meant to kill you now."
Morgan couldn’t help but laugh, pulling her cutlass around in front of her as she sprang to her feet. At last, a real adventure, just like her dad always had! "Likewise, I'm sure."
Sword-fighting on a beach while wearing only a skull-patterned bikini really hadn’t been on Morgan’s to-do list for such an early date in her very first official captaincy. Then again, neither had taking her dad along, or headhunting his crew when it turned out that no one else on Mêlée really fancied the voyage to Monkey Island. It turned out that pirates weren’t actually the most adventurous types. It was really a miracle any of them ever did any plundering at all.
They scurried back and forth across the sunny sand, blades crossing to the sound of under-breath curses as they hit a particularly hot patch or two. Carla and Otis seemed unperturbed by this, though the feral chickens clucked disapprovingly in the undergrowth. She’d fought so many stinking, bloodthirsty pirates - she’d been the insult sword-fighting senior champion of the tri-island area for the past two years running - but somehow her heart just wasn’t in this like the other times. Weird, she thought, considering this should have been the biggest fight of her life so far. He was good, she was pretty sure she was better, but in the end, after trading a few petty insults of which frankly she should have felt ashamed but couldn’t quite summon the sentiment, it all just petered out rather pathetically. They lowered their swords. It was all rather anti-climactic.
It was an odd feeling, just standing there with her sword dangling limply in her hand, not really sure where to go next, but she just didn’t really feel like running him through. Apparently he didn’t feel it either, since all he did was hop off of the hot sand back onto his towel and scratch the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” he said. “You’re really supposed to be dead.”
She nodded her agreement. “My dad’s going to kill me.” She paused for a moment and thought that through. “Or he’ll just lock me in my room for the rest of my life and then I’ll never get to see the second biggest giant monkey head he’s ever seen.”
LeChuck Junior gave her a skeptical look, sort of like she’d completely lost her mind. To be honest, she was kind of used to it; you really don’t get to be the daughter of Guybrush Ulysses Threepwood without inheriting a few of the weirder quirks, like his terrible singing voice, his abiding love of bizarre pirate quests or his aversion to… porcelain. Ugh.
“If it makes you feel better, my mother is probably going to unleash an evil voodoo curse on the island when she finds out,” LeChuck Junior told her, looking strangely apologetic about the whole thing. “She overreacts sometimes.”
He flipped his sword in his hand, shuffling uneasily from foot to foot. It was sort of cute, which was a strange thought, she thought. “And to be fair, the monkey head isn’t that big.” He took a deep breath, apparently waiting for her to speak, but she stayed silent. “So… what now?”
Morgan set her hands on her hips, a determined set to her brow. “We should go get fried chicken,” she said. So, they did.
“You’re doing what?!” Elaine screeched.
Guybrush took a step back and adjusted his ear. His plunder bunny did have quite the piercing note to her voice when appropriately angered.
“We’re getting married, mom,” Morgan said, clutching the hand of the rather strapping young lad standing there beside her in the hallway. Elaine did not seem impressed by this, not in the slightest. Nor did she seem impressed by Guybrush’s silence, or the presence of Kathryn Krebbs in the Mêlée Island gubernatorial abode. Apparently the trial on Flotsam Island had left an impression, and it wasn’t exactly a good one.
“But Morgan, he’s a LeChuck!”
“But he’s not the LeChuck. I mean, mom, c’mon, he’s never even killed anyone!”
Elaine looked over at Krebbs; Krebbs sighed.
“A fact that’s as disappointing to me as it is to you, I promise” she conceded. “I always tried to encourage him to toss his tutors overboard but he was more interested in learning than lynching."
They’d been home for twenty minutes and unfortunately this was the result so far. Guybrush had been hoping Elaine would be pleased to see them, since they hadn’t actually sailed to Monkey Island, hadn’t been attacked by any undead pirates, hadn’t been sent on any strange voodoo quests to save the Caribbean, hadn’t even set foot in the lava caves… okay, so it hadn’t been the most exciting voyage in the tenure of El Pollo Diablo, but at least they’d come back minus the creepy StanTech sails and without a single mutiny on the books. And Morgan hadn’t had to find out that Big Whoop was actually really, really disappointing.
And, to be honest, LeChuck Junior seemed like a pretty nice kid. Not exactly the cutthroat his father had been and really, for all his skills with a sword and the offputting green swirliness of his eyes, there didn’t actually seem to be much demon pirate in him at all. Krebbs had confirmed it once he’d beaten her soundly in a round of insult gin rummy to get her to call off the undead attack; she’d reluctantly sat down to a plate of chicken on the deck of El Pollo Diablo and sniffled into a hankie as she admitted that her son just wasn’t the pirate she’d hoped he’d be: all he wanted to do was drink root beer and travel the world… she couldn’t interest him in voodoo or curses or even a simple flogging anymore. Guybrush had his suspicions about that root beer, and was thinking that maybe sending a fruit basket to the voodoo lady wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Elaine sighed deeply and gestured to Guybrush; he went over and dutifully patted her back as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her red hair was starting to grey, there were a few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but she was still every inch the woman he’d married twenty years before: strong-willed a just a little scary round the edges.
“You can have the house on Booty Island as a wedding present,” she muttered as she looked back over at Morgan. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when he turns completely evil, summons a demon army and tries to take over the world.”
Morgan hugged her mother tightly. Her smile could have lit up the whole tri-island area all by itself. Guybrush hugged them both; Krebbs just rolled her eyes and sighed.
It was a beautiful wedding. Morgan and Chuckie looked so completely happy as they met at the altar, just like he and Elaine had, like they still were when Elaine wasn’t quite so busy wielding her gubernatorial powers. Not that that was ever a problem - he had ways of keeping himself busy, not all of them including a rubber chicken with a pulley in the middle or opening the Guybrush Threepwood School of Insult Sword-fighting.
Guybrush gave Morgan away, albeit a little reluctantly, trying to avoid the evil eye being pointed his way by ex-Bosun Krebbs. Apparently no matter how many times he explained to her that Guybrush Q Threepwood was a completely different mighty pirate, she just wouldn’t give it up. Of course, she drunkenly admitted that the substantially more piratey Morgan was probably a good influence for her boy Chuckie and a couple of months later she was shacked up with Ignatius Cheese, serving cheesy nachos out of the Scumm Bar with a side-order of scowl... but that was quite another story.
The happy couple did move into the Marley mansion on Booty Island. Eventually. But the honeymoon came first and for Morgan Marley-Threepwood-LeChuck, Mighty Pirate, a honeymoon could never be a simple thing… she got her first quest after all, with Chuckie along for the ride, and Guybrush was so very proud of her.
In some ways, she was just like her dad.