inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

[vestigemods]

VESTIGE TEST DRIVE MEME

WHAT IS THIS?

This is a test drive meme for Vestige is a musebox-game successor to The Box (yeah, the one that died like five years ago). It's invite-only with no activity check and almost no application to speak of.

This is a horror jamjar based on Cabin In The Woods, in which characters are pulled into this containment zone run by the Technicians working from a lab underground with the goal of creating Good Quality Suffering™️ to appease the elder gods who hover on the verge of creating a worldwide apocalypse. But of course, suffering is pointless if everyone is too numb to properly suffer, so there are plenty of morale boosts provided in between bouts of fear and misery.

This TDM is ongoing and will fill the gap between now and when I get around to setting up the comms. There is no official start date and currently literally nothing but this TDM available for perusal, but I'll update this section of the blurb as that changes. Threads in this TDM are welcome to be game canon once this shit opens because fuck it. If you have questions, feel free to ask in the top-level below or just wing it tbh, we'll be doing a lot of winging it up in this shit.

Characters arrive with all powers intact and carrying all items that they had with them on their canonpoint.

Also, feel free to hit up the Intro + Friending meme to network with your future peers in this suffering endeavor. (EDIT 5/20: We also now have a DISCORD SERVER! So hop on into that if you'd like.)

PROMPT 1 ► just your ordinary cabin in the woods

⬛ARRIVAL + GENERAL PROMPT

Whenever you're from or wherever you were, you awaken now with the mildest of headaches in a medium-sized wooden cabin. Maybe you wake in a bed, barely padded and covered in dust (so are you now, congrats!). Maybe you wake on the floor, arguably softer than the bed in spots thanks to some handy dandy water damage. Either way, you certainly aren't where you were before, and you have no recollection whatsoever of arriving.

The cabin is modest but multi-roomed and fully kitted with a kitchen and cozy living room. Nice, dry wood sits stacked by the fireplace, and if you check the various switches, the lights turn on with only the faintest protesting static. The cabinets are surprisingly well-stocked, as is the fridge, with perishables and non-perishables alike. As if someone has been here recently... but how, when everything else seems so thoroughly abandoned?

Should you choose to ignore the cabin's supposed hospitality and try to leave, you'll find that both the front and back doors are securely locked, in a way that no amount of fumbling with the locking mechanism seems to remedy.

That's when a sloooooow creak draws your attention to a door nearby, one you may not have noticed before... but it's open now. Was it before? Better yet, should you check out what lies beyond?

PROMPT 2 ► who's up for some fighty-fight, kids??

⬛MONSTER HORROR.

The basement is musty and dim, though a pull-string at the curve of the creaky stairs seems to turn on a sparse row of lightbulbs dangling precariously from the ceiling along the center of the room. This little bit of light illuminates a room absolutely packed with items, furniture and boxes and various knick-knacks of unknown and questionable origin. Spiderwebs litter nooks and crannies, many with actual spiders still nesting inside, and a layer of dust coats most every surface in sight.

It doesn't seem like there's anyone down here, nor is there any sign of an exit at the basement's far end. There is, however, something that catches your eye. An item, one that your feet seem to carry you toward without your mind quite telling them to do so. Perhaps it's familiar somehow. Perhaps it's so foreign to you that you can't help but get a closer look. One way or another, you somehow end up reaching out to touch it. But what harm can that do, a single touch?

Oh, sweet summer child. Haven't you seen this movie?




---




Whatever else your characters might touch, to activate this prompt they'll also touch one of the following five items:


• A child's drawing, of what appears to be... shit, what even is that? Is it a bat? Is it some kind of... reptile? We just don't know. (result! warnings for gore/violence.)
  
  
• A light-blue paper face mask, the sort used in hospitals for patients who have a cold. Maybe you guys should've brought masks too. It sure would keep all this dust the hell out of your nose... ( result! warning for body horror! )
  
  
• A buzzsaw blade, dusty but intact. ( result! warnings for gore/violence. )
  
  
• A music box, covered in faded yellow flowers. I wonder what music it plays? ( result! warnings for gore/violence and Alarming Children. )
  
  
• A funeral urn. But... It seems that someone glued it shut around the edges? I guess that's one way to make sure nobody spills grandma. ( result! )

These enemies can and will follow characters outside, should they try to flee. It might actually be a good idea to face these foes outdoors where it's less confined, provided they don't stray too far from the cabin (see prompt #4).

The blurbs are just guidelines, feel free to scale up or down how strong/weak the monsters are, how many there are, etc. in order to better fit your characters' level of capability. The Technicians know your characters' strengths and weaknesses, so they'd know how to send enough to make this challenging but not insurmountable.

PROMPT 3 ► congratulations, you fucked up

⬛SURVIVAL HORROR.

Perhaps you didn't touch anything in the basement. Hell, maybe you didn't even set foot through that ominous basement door. But hey, we get it. Not everyone likes to party. You're not getting off easy, but at least you can say that you didn't fall into the trap.

If, by the time an hour has passed since the creaking open of the basement door, no object has been touched and no baddie has been summoned, you'll find your nose assaulted by the prevailing smell of smoke. One glance out any window tells you why: The cabin has been surrounded in it, an oblong ring of fire six feet thick burning tight along the exterior cabin walls. You're safe inside for the moment, but how long will that last?

Now, you have no choice but to try to escape the blaze. It overtakes the cabin quickly, creeping up over the rooftop, shattering windows and burning a path inside. No matter which way you try to run, you're almost certain to get burned... But that's certainly better than burning to death in here.

PROMPT 4 ► "escape"? never heard of her.

⬛PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR.

For some, staying in this creepy cabin with its stupid locked door was never an option. Maybe you break one of the windows and crawl through that, or maybe you're angry and OP and punched a man-sized hole in the wall itself. Hey, we're not judging. You got yourself outside, and that's what counts.

The outside of the cabin is... actually pretty nice. Picturesque woods, birds singing, perhaps a couple of deer bounding through the trees not far off. This place might actually be relaxing, if it weren't so alarming and kidnap-y. But it is, so it's time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Or to try to, anyway. Just a few short meters into the trees, you find yourself entering a deep and all-encompassing fog. You can barely see your hand out in front of your face, let alone your path through the forest ahead. If you're not alone in this venture, you'd best keep a hand on your companion lest you lose track of them, as well. And is it just you, or is there a slight chemical taste to the fog that you're breathing in?

(Yes. The answer is definitely yes.)

Before long, you find yourself turned around, stepping back out of the fog with the cabin in front of you. Little do you realize that simply turning you around is the most merciful fate that this fog has to offer.

---

This is easier to break down without narrative, so!

• The first time your character ventures into the fog, they're just turned around and sent back to the cabin.
  
  
• The second time, they hallucinate things that they don't want to hear. Something they fear, something that hurts them, something that stresses them the fuck out. Maybe a character's worst fear is wildcats and they hear one growling just out of sight in the mist. Maybe instead they hear a loved one crying for help back in the direction from which they've come, drawing them back to the cabin. Or maybe they hear the voice of someone they admire berating their cowardice or stupidity or something, for running away from the cabin in the first place. The goal is to psych them out and send them running back to the place where the action is happening.
  
  
• The third time, it's the same but full-blown visual or even physical hallucinations. Basically anything that might lure, scare, emotionally wound, etc. them into going back to the vicinity of the cabin.

Characters are welcome to start off venturing into the mist together, or to discover one another while they're already in the mist. If it's the latter, look out - it may be harder to tell friend from foe when you can't quite trust your own mind.

THE LOOP ► a note on replayability

Regardless of which prompt your character faces, they'll be left unbothered after the creature is defeated or the problem is overcome until sunrise the following morning. Though the fog still keeps characters from straying from the area, they're welcome to recover and lick their wounds in the immediate cabin vicinity. An unburnt cabin leaves them food and resting facilities, while a burnt cabin... Well, at least the fire never spread from that self-contained ring, so they have some nice unburnt grass to sleep on.

Come sunrise, all characters still awake will fall unconscious. At this point, many of them will reawaken in a perfectly undamaged cabin back in Prompt #1 to begin the loop anew. They may have the same comrades in this loop, or perhaps they have different ones. Maybe their new companions have done this before as well. Maybe they're brand new and have no idea what they're up against. R.I.P., you poor unsuspecting fucks.

This is, in effect, a series of trial runs by the current batch of Technicians to see if they're able to run this containment zone scenario long-term. When Vestige opens properly, characters will awaken free of the loop and will have quite a bit more continuity and recovery time between horrors. The 'loop' mechanic is specifically in place to give this TDM some shelf life and let y'all entertain yourselves while I work on the actual pages and such, rather than the one-and-done feeling of the usual TDM.

CODE BY TESSISAMESS (patreon)

Comments

[hydraulics]

[ Pace yourself, buddy. Well, you can't really go wrong with not fucking somebody. You don’t actually like tequila at all, do you.

A bunch of things Mace finds himself wanting to say to Ian, one after the other — a bunch of things he ends up keeping to himself because Ian’s still talking and what he’s saying next is, in fact, a lot more informational than the tragic tale of Montezuma. Mace’s gaze goes a tad sharper, looking carefully for how he says things now, as well as what he says.

The chase, like it’s a bad thing. Mace doesn’t know about that, figures what Ian’s describing is something everybody’s guilty of to some extent. Seems pretty logical to him — you like somebody, you focus on why you like ‘em, end up liking them more and more. Although he supposes the eventual downside is that people are inescapably a sum of their parts, but.

Is it really an idealistic pedestal if half of it is real? ]

Oh, if I’m royalty, then you’re Sir Party Animal, at the very least.

[ Reaches over and taps the nearest shoulder to him with a solemn air and something of a twinkle in his eyes, knighting him with an imaginary sword. Sir Ian, though, huh? It does have a nice ring to it. ]

Gotta say one thing before I take my turn with storytime. I don’t think what you did was all that bad. The guy you were into, he could've just as easily made the first move as you. Not like he asked you out and you told him to get fucked, right? He can share some of the blame.

[ A shrug as he takes the rest of the first shot, watching Ian’s face over the rim of his glass. Mace is a big believer in facts, and an even bigger believer in accountability. From where he’s standing (sitting, whatever), it’s beginning to seem like Ian tends to take a little too much accountability, and pretend like everything's okay under the weight of all of it. ]

As for me, though, I dunno. I made all my crazy dating mistakes before college. Well, except for … [ Slowing down, now. Because that’s really not true, and arguably his biggest mistake had taken place right before Icarus II had launched. And not a day had gone by in the next year and a half that he hadn't had to see it staring him right in the face. Just the memory of it has him contemplating his second shot and then downing it in one go, before declaring: ]

There was this girl. [ And then stopping abruptly, pausing to give Ian a look that’s a mixture of amusement and frustration, both entirely directed toward himself. ]

I’m not really a good storyteller, just warning you. Probably gonna sound like an evening news report.

[wittingly]

[ A laugh escapes through his nose, a rhythmic breathy chuckle; he'll take Sir Ian. It'd be an honor to share the first part of a title with Gandalf, even though he hasn't done nearly as much to earn it as Magneto did.

He seems appreciative, at least, of the forgiveness Mace grants him. It's not so much that he feels guilty about it, or that it in any way haunts him. There are no lingering regrets, no pain. It's just a piece of himself that he looks back on and analyzes. Finds both it and himself to be wanting. Lacking. Having the opportunity to have been far better than he was, but missing that opportunity because he couldn't see the forest through the trees.

He misses the bigger picture when it comes to matters of the heart.

Got it all together when it comes to social dynamics, work, work-life balance, diplomacy. Healthy eating habits, healthy lifestyle.

Then you get down to the big, giant core of his issues - the real ones, the defining ones - and it's like he's willfully ignorant. He keeps repeating the same mistakes over and over again because he won't or can't deal with it.

So college guy came and went, and then multiple college people simultaneously was his replacement strategy, and then came grad school and a few relationships where he fizzled things as they were starting to get real. A few relationships where he went lukewarm and all but forced them to end things for him. Eventually, a refusal to let things progress to that point altogether.

And now he's edging on 35, and it'd take weeks before anyone realized he died here. It'd be the human resources representative at Berkeley, he guesses, who would give an additional two weeks to respond to phone calls and voicemails and emails and follow-up emails. Then they'd probably do a wellness check on his residence, and then file a missing persons report which would disappear from everyone's minds in six or eight months.

And then he'd be gone.

The end.

Thank fuck for this tequila though, right?

Better, this pivot over to Mace's personal history. While he talks, Ian begins the undressing process. The careful unknotting of the bandages, the slow unwind around his own torso.

The intention is to lie down, to get Mace to talk, to tell stories as a distraction for his mind while he goes about doing this deed. Something for Ian to close his eyes to focus on.

(Rather than fixate on the pain. The fear. The fact that now that he knows how much it hurts getting slit open, he knows that this is going to be worse, and he almost fucking can't go through with it.) ]

Oh, man. There's a girl. I want you to know I'm already, like, incredibly invested.

[hydraulics]

[ A butterfly bats its wings and halfway around the world, a hurricane tears a new scar across the continental United States.

Ian Fowler teaches a class at Berkeley, sparks a love of engineering in the heart of some college kid who otherwise wouldn’t have looked twice at it as a possible career choice, and that kid — well, who knows? Engineers a device that can jam a nuke from going off, saving the lives of millions? Grows up to become the next Nikola Tesla, because fuck Thomas Edison in his plagiarizing ear with one of his bulbs? Ends up becoming an engineering teacher himself, eventually inspiring someone else down the line?

Could be any of those. Could be all of those. Statistically speaking, a positive impact was almost guaranteed with the amount of students Ian must’ve had over the years.

At least, that’s what Mace’s counter would be if he knew what, precisely, was going through the damp-haired head of the man sitting across from him.

But he doesn’t know, can only guess by that self-deprecating chuckle that there’s something else Ian’s thinking of. And at any rate, Mace's commentary wasn’t unwelcome, which is a silver lining too — he didn’t overstep. Didn’t misstep either, even if he might’ve only grazed whatever was at the center of Ian’s thought process there. ]

Hold onto that investment, I’m gonna go wash up.

[ A slightly more businesslike tone, because he sees what Ian’s going for — half-leaning against the bed, now, as he unravels his bandages in a clear indicator for what’s to come. It’s a pretty sound idea, Mace thinks, exiting the bathroom a minute later, hands as sterilized as they’re going to get.

Ian’s laying back in bed, his wound open to the air, and something turns a little cold in Mace’s stomach at the sight, the formerly comforting burn of the tequila going acidic. Fuck. He doesn’t want — but he’s gotta do this. They both do.

A deep breath as he he lights up the candle on the nightstand, and then picks up the blade, holding it above the flame. It’s gotta get hot, but not red-hot. Just enough to coagulate the blood, not enough to cause further, deep tissue trauma.

He can do this. ]

Okay, now — where were we. [ Right. There was a girl. But the story starts a little while before that, doesn’t it, and Mace steels himself enough to look into Ian’s eyes, his face serious and reassuring at the same time, his voice softening now. ]

We met during training. Both of us were specialists in our fields, the whole team was … made up of specialists, hand-picked. It was a very specific mission, see. And it was really fucking stupid of me to go and fall for one of my own goddamn teammates, but what the hell can you do, huh? If you need me to stop, you tell me on the spot. No big damn hero shit.

[ This last bit added seamlessly, because the knife’s done heating up. Mace swallows one last time, hard and bracing, before directing his attention fully to the first patch of skin he’s about to sear closed. His left hand comes up to hold the wound closed and steady, and then he lowers the edge of the knife to it, pressing gentle and exact. ]

[wittingly]

[ At some point between the time Mace left and the time he got back, Ian's summoned up a thick blue mouth guard. Simple, semi-flexible, enough to jam between his teeth to keep him from grinding them or biting through his tongue. He hangs onto it loosely with his right hand as he stares up at the ceiling, stoic.

Mostly.

He peels his eyes down at the start of the story, intending only to glance and instead caught by Mace's deliberate gaze.

Your eyes are very blue, you know?

He's hanging onto every word right off the bat, so it takes him a second to catch up when Mace jumps the tracks. His lips twitch down into a muted frown - not at the order, but at the break in immersion. ]

Yeah.

[ He agrees roughly. Licks his lips, and he can feel the first heat of intoxication in his face. Making things a little brighter, a little more... something.

Eyes back on the ceiling. Mouth guard slotted into place.

Right before the knife touches down, he asks around the plastic: ]

What was her name?

[ Metal hits skin.

He truly, truly is not in control of the way he jerks back from it, stomach sucking in, elbows pressing into the mattress doing their best to peel him somewhere he can't go - the headboard blocks the north, though he's crammed against it so tight he has to bend his head forward toward his chest a little.

He locks up too tight to make sound at first. The required movement of vocal chords and of air expelling from the lungs is absolutely blocked by how fucking rigid he goes - just for two, maybe three seconds.

It escapes abruptly, a low tone through teeth that are obviously bared and clamping down hard. Muted by the piece in his mouth, but clearly a yell that would've frayed at the edges. It's sandpaper in his throat, it's all vowels, it's animalistic, and his eyes squeeze shut so tight it hurts.

Thought he'd have the capacity to pay attention.

Hilarious. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Thank god Ian put in a mouth-guard, otherwise he'd most likely be either cracking his teeth against each other or fucking biting his tongue in half.

Something to bite down on, Mace had said, but he hadn’t been prepared for what that would look like — even out of his peripheral vision he can see the gleam of Ian’s teeth around the plastic, the way his face scrunches up in sheer animal agony.

Worse than being cut into must've been, the first time around. Fucking motherfuck.

Mace's left hand stays as steady as his right, holds the skin together even as Ian's entire body jerks hard and helpless, a reaction that's completely out of control. That had been something Mace had expected, along with an open scream of pain which doesn't come. Just a choking silence for a few horrible seconds —

— before a muffled wail slowly, painfully rips its way out of Ian's throat.

Mace knows there's no way Ian's gonna be focusing on a word that comes out of his mouth at this point, forget following the thread of a story. It had been a sound idea, but theory was one thing, practice was another, and right now it's on Mace to make sure he doesn't fuck up even the slightest. No distractions, not even for him, and he works the knife down with a quiet, ferocious focus, continuing his split-thread of talking directly to Ian about Ian, instead. ]

You're doing great. You're okay, you're gonna be fine. I'm here, I'm right here. Brave, crazy bastard.

[ His voice is soothing, a low constant thrum to serve as a backdrop, not necessarily a rope for Ian to hold onto or pay attention to but to remind him he's not alone in this. A stream of praise and strained curses, talking him through.

It's all Mace can do.

Fuck, but what he wouldn't do for some anaesthetic right now.

After a period of time that seems interminable but that he knows logically can't have been forever, Mace pauses and lifts the knife up. It's gone all the way cold and he has to reheat it. His voice comes out hoarse as he does so, drawing his attention away from the wound to look at Ian's face again, mind full of a concern and fear that he refuses to let show in his expression, because Ian's gonna need Mace to be a rock for him right now. ]

Okay, we're taking a break. Just the last stretch to go, huh?

[wittingly]

[ He doesn't really hear it. Maybe some recess, some background sensory acknowledgement, but not a single goddamn syllable of it makes it into his upper layer of thinking. There are no flowery words to describe the sensation, no apt metaphor, aside from:

It feels like getting your fucking flesh burnt off by a hot fucking knife.

Any accidental touch to a hot pan, any grazing your hand on an oven, any accidental incidents with candles or bonfires or boiling water - they're notorious for sucking. They're also notorious for lasting less than a second, usually, and anyone can tell you that singular second leaves a pain that lasts radiating and sharp for minutes after.

The knife goes on. The knife stays on. The knife cooks his fucking flesh back together. Pain interpretation is a funny thing, because somehow it feels hot and cold and strangely like being electrocuted all at the same time somehow.

White noise in his brain. No mental exercise even stands a chance. He's not nearly used to pain enough to employ one.

He honest to god doesn't even realize the knife is gone at first once it leaves. It still hurts, it's still enough damage to the nerves that it radiates through his core and steals his fucking breath.

It doesn't go away, until...

Still there.

Fucking fuck.

And then slowly, microscopic increments, the level comes down. It isn't the pain but rather the relief that brings sudden flooding wetness to his eyes. Even shut tight they're leaking, trailing down from the corners and past his temples to mix with the new sheen of seat in the roots of his hair.

They're taking a break.

It's not done.

Three, four, five heavy breaths that lift and lower his bare chest. A mounting frustration that comes to a head abruptly in the form of one hand ripping out the mouth guard and the other haphazardly lifting is torso up off the mattress. Not that he can go far, just the two feet between the bed and the wall where he catches himself. ]

What the FUCK is wrong with me? Who the FUCK does this on purpose? Why the FUCK ARE WE HERE?

[ And then a quick-snap jerk of his arm to fucking hurl the mouth guard at the wall hard enough for a solid thwack. It doesn't even hit the ground before he's snarling out one last line: ]

I'm A FUCKING TEACHER. God damn it. Fuck.

[hydraulics]

[ For a moment, with the heavy rise and fall of Ian’s chest, the way a tremor is going through his body still despite the fact that the knife is gone, Mace worries if he’s gonna go into some sort of breathing attack, something Mace can’t help him with if his own body turns against itself.

What happens instead is better and worse. Better because thank fuck, it’s not that. Worse, because now Ian’s able to verbalize his pain and it’s horrible to witness. Witness and not be able to do a goddamn thing to help, witness and know that he’s the sonuvabitch inflicting it on the guy in the first place.

Agreeing, still in that low, placating tone: ]

I know. I know. It’s absolute fuckin’ bullshit. I’m —

[ And then the mouth-guard goes flying out of Ian’s hand, hitting the far wall with a muted thwack, and Mace stops abruptly.

No, but he gets it, he really fucking does. The fact that Ian’s still conscious, the fact that he’s got words to put together after all that unbearable pain, is a feat in and of itself. Throwing the mouth-guard? Is honestly the least he could be doing right now, including the verbal, uncontrollable rage. What the fuck else is the guy gonna do? He’s being slowly, carefully burned right along a fresh wound.

Mace puts down the knife on the nightstand, careful not to let the blade touch the wood so as to stay free of contamination, and then goes over to where the mouth-guard is on the floor. Picks it up, takes it to the bathroom, gives it and his hands a good scrub down before bringing it back out, placing it in Ian’s palm for him to put it back into his mouth. ]

You are a crazy fucking teacher.

[ He confirms, steady and even as he picks the knife back up again, focusing his attention back to the wound. About seventy-five percent of it is a charred, angry line, the remaining part bloody but mercifully not nearly as prone to opening up as it had been before, closer together.

He holds the split skin together again with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, lifting the knife away from the candle and bringing it back to Ian’s lower abdomen. ]

And I am so fucking sorry for this.

[ Spoken right before he begins the last stretch, again steeling himself to work his way through with uninterrupted, laser-point focus, not stopping this time until he’s all the way done and the knife is put away again. He takes a step back with a deep, almost shuddering breath, observing his work to make sure there’s no fuck-ups before looking Ian in the face again.

Fuck. Jesus god. It’s over. Bordering on ragged, his composure finally straining now that they’ve gotten through the worst of it: ]

It’s done, buddy. [ A dry, tacky swallow. ] The motherfucker who sent us here, I hope he goes straight to hell.

[wittingly]

[ To Ian's credit, none of his tantrum winds up directed at Mace. Granted, it means flat out ignoring him for points instead, with not a sound summoned up in response to the reassurances, the commentary, the apologies. Just shut eyes and a clenched jaw. He knows, he knows none of this is Mace's fault. He knows that he's pissed off. He knows that anything that comes out of is mouth right now is going to be venomous as hell, and he's got enough self-awareness to check it instead.

By the time it's done, his muzzled screaming devolves into choked out, dry sobs. Shaky, jerky, chest-heaving things. Something derived from utter futility, giving up and giving into being consumed by a sensation.

And then minutes pass after Mace finishes, long ticking eternity until the pain tapers down from excruciating to just really fucking painful.

He presses one hand into his eyes. Thumb and forefinger in one socket each, massaging back and forth rhythmically. Rubbing out the dryness that comes after shedding too many tears.

He's soaked through with sweat. Sheets, hair, face. His stomach is a long line of pissed off, shiny red. His chest rises and falls in perfect time, exact seconds like he's counting and manually controlling it.

He doesn't say a fucking word yet.

The tequila didn't do a fucking thing.

Eventually, he breathes out exactly one syllable. There's no weight in his voice, no conviction, it almost sounds robotic. ]

Fuck.

[ That's... about all he's got right now. It's like he's in some post-pain stasis, some vegetative state where he's blank and just riding the wave of post-pain post-adrenaline vacancy. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Mace isn't thinking of this as anything even close to a tantrum. Isn't expecting any sort of coherent response from Ian for anything he's saying, either, just means it as that same background noise as he'd meant it to be from the start.

Dry, wracked sobs now fill the air from Ian's body as Mace douses a piece of cotton into cold water from the bathroom and gently wipes the area as clean as he can get it without disturbing that horrible red-black line running down the center. There's sweat all over him, which means he's going to get cold all over again, and fast — but touching the seared wound with a blanket is probably not the best of ideas.

In the end, Mace arranges the blankets around him in a way that covers his arms, the sides of his bared chest and stomach, and leaves the rest of it in open air to heal.

Fuck is about right.

Nothing else to say, but there's still something more to do, and Mace summons up some untapped source of stoicism from deep inside, and gets ready to do it. Compartmentalizes the screaming he'd just heard, the pain he knows he had to inflict, the absolute emptiness in Ian's sweat-soaked face, and puts all into a little box and kicks it to the back of his mind for now.

Then it's off to the kitchen to open the fridge and take out any food that won't go bad in the night, plus all the water he can grab. Other non-perishables from the pantry, bringing the whole schlock in the master bedroom and neatly setting it off to the side. Back again to the rest of the cabin to do one last perimeter check and wedge the second couch against the basement entrance before returning.

Locks the bedroom door and slowly pushes the dresser in front of it for good measure, because he knows the moment it's lights out for him he's going to fall into a slumber so deep, he won't be able to wake in a hurry if things go sour for them again.

The only good thing coming out of this is that, because it's not stitches, Ian won't open up again by accident and bleed out. Mace sets a pillow onto the rug next to the bed and finally lays back with a long, almost silent sigh. The lamp at the bedside is still on, the last light in the room, but it won't be too much trouble to reach up and turn it off. He's leaving it on for now, just in case, planning to turn it off when he thinks he can hear Ian's breathing slow into sleep. ]

[wittingly]

[ For a while, he's burning too bright for sleep to even be a consideration. Flaming heat throughout Mace's scavenger hunt through the cabinets. Through the sound of moving furniture that he listlessly acknowledges he could've been helping with if it weren't for this. Still and smoldering as the dresser slides in front of their door, but at least by then the steady rise and fall of his chest is slower.

More calm.

Pretty confident that if he lays here until he stops hurting he'll nod off at some point.

It's just--

Rusty-voiced and tired: ]

If I let you sleep in the fucking floor tonight on top of everything else you did I deserve to have my asshole cauterized next.

[ Frankly. It's just -- it's not really fathomable that the guy should have to sleep on the fucking rug.

Granted, he did sweat into the sheets, but that's entirely on one side of the bed. There's a whole dry, clean expanse on the other, and something tells Ian he won't be fucking tossing and turning much tonight to wind up hogging it. ]

I'm not gonna get fresh with you. I'm like a third date minimum guy.

[ Which really isn't true, he doesn't have a set of rules like that, but. You know.

While the words are joking, his tone can't carry the lightness it would've earlier. Just... fatigue. ]

[hydraulics]

[ As with every other decision, Mace picking the floor to sleep is an ultimately strategic move; it'll mean he can get up faster and not sleep for as long, won't fall into the coma-like slumber that a comfortable mattress would have him enter.

He's about to summarize this best as he can when Ian speaks up, explain that it's not on him to worry about this. But then he continues in that utterly exhausted voice, summoning a joke out of god knows where through all the residual pain he must be feeling, and ...

Third date. ]

Think we qualify for a common-law partnership after all this.

[ Faintly, only a little wry as he gets back on his feet, turning off the lamp and heading to the other side of the bed next to Ian. He takes off the shoes he'd been intending to sleep in and then crawls into bed, the tactician in him protesting at the softness underneath him, the rest of him welcoming it as he stretches out, supine and with his arms and legs close to him.

He'd intended to stay conscious at least until he could know for sure that Ian was asleep, but he's got no chance of that now. Well, at least he's used to sleeping in a small enclosure without much movement, so there won't be any chance of him accidentally knocking into him into the night.

Right before exhaustion finally drags him into his usual dreamless sleep, he murmurs his answer to the question Ian had asked. ]

Her name was Cassie.

[wittingly]

[ Cassie. It's a pretty name.

Mace settles into the bed, and Ian would be lying if he said the gentle dip and radiating heat of another person didn't set him a little at ease. Might be true that he could lean over and look down onto the floor, but having it right there without the need for any real thought is just...

It's better. It feels better.

Eventually his torso settles enough to become static. Background noise. Everything fades to something softer. Absolute exhaustion settles in heavy, and he falls asleep not long after Mace.

He dreams of fire.

When he wakes up, it's alone. The food has all disappeared, the knife and all the other supplies are gone. The dresser is back where it began. All of the extra blankets are missing from his person, and he's laying shirtless atop a neatly made bed.

It scares him more deeply than he can put into words for reasons he can't articulate, and it's that fear that sends him stumbling hazardously through the door so hard it bangs against the wall. Following it, the unsteady wall-supported fumbling rush toward the other bedroom in the cabin, that he prays to God isn't empty, stomach screaming in protest all the while. ]

[hydraulics]

[ He doesn't know what it is that wakes him up. It's not his body, which seems perfectly content to remain sunken into bed underneath him, despite the sudden lack of warmth it can sense; it's not some loud noise, persistently knocking him into consciousness. But a relentless unease pervades his slumbering mind, his senses picking up on an anomaly and urging him to wake up.

Mace opens his eyes and stares with bleary incomprehension at a completely different ceiling than the one he'd seen yesterday, unable to put together for a long moment what the hell's happened.

And then with a horrible rush, everything comes flooding back. He hears the distant sound of something going bang, and his hand shoots out to his side, but the mattress next to him is empty — empty and dusty and smaller, because this isn't the goddamn master bedroom, he's in the second room and he's alone. ]

No.

[ The denial is out of him before his feet even hit the floor, a strange, alien fear running an icy finger down his spine. It's washed out by the sudden anger that fills him, though, seeing the bare room around him — the door that he hadn't had the chance to fucking reinstall the day before, closed in his face like somebody's mocking him.

He slams into it shoulder-first, but it doesn't even budge, the knob rattles loud and useless in his palm, and the next sound out of him is Ian's name, as loud as he can make it, his fist pounding into the wood. ]

Can you hear me? Ian!

[wittingly]

[ Jesus Christ it's a fucking relief to hear the voice, even if he can't see the face. Maybe it's selfish, maybe silence would've meant Mace made it out somehow, but his gut instinct says that's not what he'd believe. Silence would have filled him with a keen, unshakable dread. The overwhelming suspicion that they'd taken him, and if he wasn't dead he'd be wishing he was. ]

Yeah-

[ Called back, raspy and relieved, very noticeably in close proximity to the door. A second later there's a soft thump as the side of his fists hits it, a support he uses to bear most of his weight and lean upon it. ]

I'm here. Are you alright?

[ His voice is raised up loud enough to make it through wood, he thinks, and while there's a soft tremor of leftover shakiness, he's mostly back to steady again.

Just a door.

Just a door.

(And then the constantly working lower echelons of his mind murmur that the door is locked, that they've been separated like test subjects forced apart, that there's likely to be a follow-up experiment because why else bother with that specific piece?)

And then the following realization that Mace is barred in, but Ian's out in the hall, in the open floor plan of the cabin.

Alone. Wide open, it feels like. Fuck. Jesus, fuck. ]

[channellings]

Fearsome shriek? Right, yes, keep telling yourself that, Jiang Cheng.

His mesh shirt is definitely questionable, but at least the coat could pass off as some sort of bizarre robe with the ends constantly hanging open, leaving him looking like a permanent mess in many peoples' opinions. Oh, and let's not get into the absurd lace-up leather pants or haphazardly tied hightops he's still got on.

For whatever it may be worth (although it's probably very little consolation), Klaus'd be impressed to know that Jiang Cheng understood the remark. How unfortunate, even the slightest hint toward it has the idiot's mouth curving at the edges. Seriously, how hasn't anyone killed him yet? That is the true mystery here.

“Thank you,” is what he manages to get out before things, quite suddenly, aren't nearly as okay as they were a few minutes ago. Saying that won't help matters any either, except he hasn't got time to consider it, given the abrupt change of this new individual's demeanor. He watches the sword shift, eyes becoming comically wide once they avert to the fancy little piece of jewelry. The brilliant lightning streak circling around his neck makes him stiffen immediately, tattooed hands flying up, splayed all the way out.

“Alright, alright.” Then his arms tentatively curl inward, the tips of his fingers dipping between his throat and the whip, just in case. “Where do we go from here? Because this only ends in one of two ways.”

[channellings]

[hey, yolo and all that, you know? getting an idea of what minato can do is part of his plan, though if it happens that he struggles with summoning something, then klaus can offer to help. it's a good thing he's sober at the moment or he wouldn't have any way of helping even if he wanted to.

in spite of himself, he keeps climbing the stairs, making it almost halfway before stalling again. dawdling even, considering how he fidgets, taps his fingers along the urn's base.]

Wouldn't that be a little inconvenient? Besides, there's fire upstairs. We'll be warmer there than down in his dingy shithole.

[channellings]

[wen ning, you're far too kind for this idiot.]

A fierce corpse? [he narrows his eyes, considering, mouth opening then shutting immediately after.

whoever he is, he's softer than soft, it's a bit worrisome. what if someone picks on him and he can't (or won't) fight back? clearly, klaus will have to threaten anyone who picks on him! that's the obvious answer here.] I've never heard of anything like that.

[channellings]

[in spite of himself, klaus hesitates, eyes widening at vanya's reaction. to be honest, he doesn't blame her a single fucking bit, considering the last time they saw one another, but this is different— he's different, with his weary-eyed look, all the long hair piled atop his head in some messy bun.

it's been almost a whole year for him, whereas she's probably coming in fresh. between their brothers, he's very likely the best one she could've run into. was it not him who suggested they let her out of the sound-proof container? she'd deserved a chance to explain after discovering that crazy shit out and it was the least they owed her. they'd been terrible siblings.

warmth settling comfortably in his hand causes klaus to glance down, blink once, twice, then his lips curve with fondness. he squeezes gingerly, exhales a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.]

Honestly, Vee, your guess is as good as mine. As always, I don't know shit.

[channellings]

Who the hell thought it was alright for these assholes to have time-based magic? It's not like Five's, where things go forward or backward; it's just stuck on repeat and frankly, that's goddamn worse than time-travel.

This... boy already looks disoriented and if it's not his first time, Klaus can only assume every other time he'd experienced was real as well. Fuck, he thinks, lifting a hand to rub across his forehead, thumb pressing lightly at his temple. Things are somewhat muddled, but he distinctly remembers saying those exact words to someone else however long ago.

“So it would seem,” he sighs toward both his own comment and Newt's, head nodding. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure I have, but maybe I'll get used to it at some point.” That, unfortunately, is a lie because he'll never get used to reliving those Godforsaken monsters.

[channellings]

[wow, okay, you ain't gotta call it out like that, damn. (but it's not incorrect, unfortunately—)

his attention returns to the stairs once more, expression creasing, lower lip worrying between his teeth as he considers their options, takes a few steps upward. emil, please, he doesn't want to burn the place down. klaus's plan has more than one step, after all.]

Listen, if we get it into a big enough area, I can use my telekinesis alongside your fire magic and help compress the flames within a certain area. [a beat] It sounded better in my head...

Man, I dunno, I can't explain it properly. Let's just. Stick to weapons for now, alright?

[channellings]

[making jokes at the most inappropriate times is something klaus lives for; if he doesn't have his morbid sense of humor then hell, what else has he got? good looks, he guesses, but being sociable is important, too.

though he's focusing on the door, it takes very little for him to ever-so-slightly tilt his head, regard ian with a raised eyebrow and the faintest grin while he's being looked over. everything about him is nonchalant; shoulders lowered, hands resting on his knees, half-lidded eyes casting back toward the door. his curiosity, meanwhile, has been thoroughly piqued.

y'know, packing shit up and heading toward civilization sounds like a great idea in theory. there's only one small problem: getting past the door first. his doubt of ian's screwdriver isn't lacking any, no matter how long he stares, but here's hoping the other man's pluck wins out. especially considering there might not even be anyone else around. and that, quite frankly, is what worries him the most.]

Well, that's quite optimistic of you. I figured it'd be monsters coming back to tear us apart limb-by-limb. At least dissection would be cleaner.

[he chuckles softly, lifts his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug.] For now, since I couldn't get the doors or windows open. I'm hoping you'll prove more successful than myself so I can follow you the fuck outta this place.

[porndealer]

[Well it's good at least one of them has a sword. Huaisang would have if he cared at all for such things, but he's never been one for sword play. Thus he's stuck with just his fan and... er, well, the torch he'd dropped down the stairs into the cellar.

Minato yells for him to get back to the basement, but he hesitates if only because that's a dead end and while outside was a mystery as well, at least there was potentially a way to escape these demon girls. Yet with the door not giving he relents with a defeated cry rushing back to the open basement door, yet pauses to watch Minato dive into the demons. He wished he could be so brave.

Turning to go down the stairs he stops at the top only a few steps down, eyes widening.]

Minatooo! Fire, there's a fire!

[It wasn't like he meant to set the basement on fire, but there was a whole lot of stuff and the torch hand landed near something flammable and it wasn't going to be long before it was a roaring blaze down there. Turning back to what he'd been escaping from doesn't look any better either. In fact one of the demon girls leaps at him so quickly Huaisang barely has the reaction time to grab and pull the door shut, hearing her slam into it hard enough that something must have been broken. Yet he still hears something going at the door and now he's stuck with that one one side and the fire at his back.]

Ahaa... why is this happening?!

[And Minato is still alone fighting too... trying to stay calm, ha, Huaisang breathes out and holds his hand palm up and using the fingers of his other hand scrawls a talisman using spirit energy on it. It's a basic one meant to banish or ward away evil so maybe... bringing his hand back now he'll slam it against the door, imbuing the power of the talisman onto it and hoping the force would drive away the one demon.]

[porndealer]

[Welcome to Huaisang's life. He doesn't know what a lot of stuff in this place is or at least it doesn't look like how he understands things back home. He's still uneasy and annoyed, flicking his fan open to cool himself down a little. It's getting nice and toasty with that fire going after all.]

You say that, but...

[Grumbled, but he'll let it drop for now. Electricity. Klaus brings it up again and he doesn't know what that means. It just sounds like magic. A magic metal box that keeps food fresh.]

So it's some kind of magic that makes it cold? Electricity, that's what you call it? Never heard of that before...

[hydraulics]

[ The relief that sweeps over him to hear Ian’s voice — slightly unsteady and hoarse, but still normal, unharmed — is as alien as the rest of this situation, a balm to an injury he didn’t remember sustaining. Because for a moment, all Mace could think was that this was it, they’d somehow separated the two of them and taken Ian for good. Locked him in here as a reminder that it didn’t matter what lengths the two of them had gone to the day before, didn’t matter how hard he’d fought. ]

Thank fuck, I thought —

[ Almost angrily, stopping before he finishes that sentence and taking a slow, deep breath. Then he turns around, taking stock of the rest of the room. Something, anything, to help him open this fucking door, break it down if he has to.

There’s nothing. A bed. The sheets, the pillow, a nightstand, a lamp. The curtains with their stupid, kitschy floral pattern.

And then, out of the window, hanging from the nearest tree, he spots something that makes every muscle in his body tense up, his voice going oddly toneless as he says, ]

I’m fine, buddy.

[ A flash of pale blue, waving gently in the fog.

He's beginning to understand what this is. To use his previous mice analogy, this is the set-up for the second experiment, and he’s starting to think, bizarrely, that it’s not some living creature behind any of this at all. That it’s this fucking cabin itself, toying with them like some sort of monstrous cat before it — what, devours them? Drives them nuts before picking them off one by one?

What the hell is the point? ]

Ian, listen to me. [ His voice drops in pitch but keeps its volume, the words quick and urgent. If he's stuck in here, that means Ian's injured and vulnerable in the emptiness of the rest of this cabin. ]

Get back to the master bedroom, lock that door, and wait for me. All right? Don’t open that door no matter what you fuckin’ hear. I’m gonna — I’ll find a way to you.

Re: 1.

[legbreakings]

It's too much. It's just too much.

He forgets the weapons he wields, he forgets the superhuman strength Wen Ning has, he forgets every little bit of caution he has acquired in the past years.

"You're sorry?!" he spits with tears shining in his eyes and stomps towards him. Zidian is sparking at his finger but he pays his spiritual weapon no mind, instead raising his fist to grab Wen Ning by the collar and haul him close the old-fashioned way with bare hands. Nothing else will be enough now, he wants to feel this vengeance when he takes it. "You murdered Jin Zixuan! You are the reason my sister is dead! You are the reason my brother is dead! And you think you can just say sorry and it's done?!"