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

[legbreakings]

There's just enough self-control left in Jiang Cheng that he only channels so much spiritual energy into the whip so as it takes to use it as a leash, not trying to actually do any damage with it beyond.

But that's the only mercy to be expected now that he is working himself into a right proper fury, a fury which is only heightened by the fact that the man doesn't seem terribly frightened. Disquieted, maybe, but nowhere near as cowed as he should be in Jiang Cheng's opinion.

"There is only one way this will end," he hisses, stepping towards him and giving the whip a little yank - not enough to truly tighten the noose but enough to show he could, and would. "You're going to explain where I am and why you kidnapped me. And then you will take me back." His eyes narrow. "Unless you want to die. That is the other way this can end."

[wittingly]

[ They've only known each other a day. Ian finds he has to remind himself of that to regain some perspective, and it's completely out of the norm for him to have to do that. It takes him so, so much to get to the point where he feels really reliant on another person - not just in the moment, not just can you help me with this wound, but reliant in a general sense. Reliant as in how do I navigate this without you? He's not comfortable being there as a general rule ever, he hasn't been there since his mother passed away (she was his only constant, his rock, his entire life).

A situation like this breeds rapid bonding out of necessity. It's innate in humans, it's pure survival instinct. Humans are social creatures, their odds go up exponentially in pairs, it's part of the whole reason partnerships developed over the course of human history and became the standard. What's extremely unsettling and extremely ironic about it happening now is the fact that out of anyone he's ever begun to feel it for (romantically, platonically, doesn't matter) Mace is the most likely person to immediately leave him - possibly by flat out fucking dying.

Unlike back home, unlike in real life, he doesn't have the option of cutting it out. It's just not on the table, there's no scenario he can envision where they survive separately like this, where they don't have to come together outside of just in the moment. Even if he wanted to, even if he wanted to make this a we interact for survival only situation, frankly the nature of their rapport and the ease with which it's unfolding makes that practically impossible too.

So here he is on the other side of a fucking door, freaking out because his tether is behind a lock more than the fact that he himself is exposed. Maybe he cares a lot, or maybe subconsciously it's because he's starting to associate Mace with defense. Safety. ]

I can get the knob off.

[ He calls back instead, frustrated and determined, already lowering himself to his knees in that slow, painful way he has to do by necessity because of the fucking searing burns up the strip of his stomach. Beneath the slit of the door, Mace may see a familiar blue.

They can take the fucking tool all they want, the dumb fuckers, he'll make more.

Maybe a fucking ten pound hammer, which might've been a good idea if he had the guaranteed ability to use one right now. ]

loop;

[deferences]

[in sizhui's case, this is his first time reliving the time loop. he's already realized that things were the exact same way they'd been when he'd first shown up; no matter what he overturns or uproots, nothing has changed and everything is exactly as it should be. (cabin-wise, anyway, he can't really speak for himself or the other people around).

instead of immediately going about searching the same things he'd already checked, it's the kitchen he's considering. mainly, the refrigerator with its swinging doors and chilled air flowing out. most of what's inside isn't too recognizable, but some of the fruit catches his eye. should he really eat this random food? no, probably not, and yet he plucks up an apple, gives it a momentary once-over—

before realizing that he isn't standing there alone. slowly, he turns toward vanya, eyebrows curiously raised.] Ah, I'm sorry, is this is your food?

three/four

[deferences]

[an abrupt crash immediately draws sizhui's attention, has him emerging from one of the hallways and coming face-to-face with the gaping hole that's now in the side of the cabin. well, that's one way to make some room, but now the option to go outside has been opened to him, too.

he goes out the same way wen ning went, though once he's outside and actually sees the ghost general, all bets are off. in the case of the monster, anyhow, as he has no qualms with the man fighting—

actually, what is that thing? sizhui's not sure, but despite his reluctance, he steps forward with his own weapon readied.] Wen Ning! [that way there's no mistaking who he is or what he's doing out here with the monster as well. helping is his plan and after shouting like he does, he'll have no choice once the monster directs its attention his way, screeching a ear-piercing warning before scrabbling through the dirt toward him.]

fog;

[deferences]

Against his better judgment, Sizhui had stepped out of the cabin after lingering for far too long in the broken doorway. He has no idea how it got that way, but now that he's able to go, he does— right out into the fog with it's bizarre scent. Oh, wait, it also tastes that way? For a brief moment, he's reminded of the poisonous haze back home, when Jingyi and others from his junior disciple group got sick.

Sword in one hand, the other lifts from his side so he can rest his sleeve over his mouth and nose, hoping it'll at least deter some of the unknown fog from entering his lungs (despite it already unfortunately being too late).

Jiejie! comes a familiar term, something that immediately causes Sizhui's attention to whip in the direction of the voice, which is also somewhat recognizable, although he can't put his finger on it. Thankfully, he won't need to, because that's when Jiang Cheng happens to run by. “Jiang-zongzhu!” Or maybe he's imagining things, too? Everything's more disorienting than he thought, what with not being able to see properly.

Regardless, the Lan boy surges forward, arm still firm against his face while he pushes through. Perhaps it's improper but this time, rather than call out his honorary name, “Jiang Cheng, come back!”

2

[deferences]

[the only reason sizhui had even headed toward the steps was because he'd heard someone talking downstairs. now, having descended them halfway, he's not sure if he's pleased or suddenly regrets every single decision he's made thus far. wherever this place is, it's nowhere recognizable; the basement doesn't feel any more welcoming, much to his misfortune, but he keeps moving anyway.

in wei wuxian's case, it just so happens that he stops during his continued descent whenever he sees him standing there. for a minute, the breath is seized from his lungs, excitement, relief and a million other emotions flooding all at once.] Wei-qianbei, [he breathes through a sigh, the edges of his lips faintly quirking.] Maybe it's for the best that it won't show itself.

[from where he's standing, they're in a foreign place without any idea of how to get back home so far. if there's nothing down here, they shouldn't dilly-dally, and yet sizhui still can't help feeling unsure about abandoning this area right away.

but shouldn't he at least get out of the way in case wei ying wants to leave?] Ah, [and he steps aside, presses back against the nearest wall, cinches his fingers around the scabbard, tucks the sword in close to his side.] I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be in the way. If you'd rather go back upstairs, I'll understand, but I'd like to survey the area for anything that might possibly help.

2

[deferences]

[at times, though he'd rather not admit it, sizhui wonders if his mind enjoys playing tricks on him. thinking he's seen someone familiar head through an open doorway is one of those moments and – against all his instincts – he follows close behind, sword in hand, apprehension tamped except still very present.

trailing down the steps once he's certain whoever has descended them isn't there anymore, an abrupt, unfamiliar chilling sensation dances up his spine, makes his shoulders tense and his spine go rigid. lan sizhui slowly, deliberately turns back toward where he'd just come in, eyes wide and brows arched. something doesn't feel right? however, he cannot put his finger on it, so he continues until his feet meet concrete.

achoo! without wasting anymore time, he follows the sneeze further into the basement, sidling carefully between stacks of boxes, nudging himself forward with caution. huaisang is undoubtedly not who he was expecting to find inside the dreary interiors of an old cabin, but admittedly, it's a relief to see a familiar face. curiosity thoroughly piqued,] Nie-zongzhu, [comes his soft greeting while he pushes past another messy bunch of items.

had there been enough space, he would've bowed properly, but huaisang will have to forgive him for now.] The item you're holding, is it what was making that music?

quintalian. oc. ota. (cw: mentions of casual drug use)

[kinkprofessor]

one.

[ His head pounds as he lays on the suspiciously soft hardwood floor. This wouldn't be the first time he ended up having a bad trip but usually, he has some recollection of where he's waking up. This place? It doesn't ring a singular bell. He doesn't bother getting up from where he's settled himself; the world is still a little fuzzy at the edges and he might not have the appropriate balance to stay upright.

He doesn't explore or investigate. When a door nearby creaks, there's only a groan in response and- ] Don't let the draft in, I already feel sick enough as it is.

[ That's when a tentacle slips out from under the sleeve of his lab coat and reaches for the door to close it himself. Surprise, he's one of the monsters himself. And not just for the tentacles. ]

four.

[ While this cabin is quaint and all, he's feeling the need for some fresh air. He seems completely unconcerned by the sound of shattering glass echoing through the still night as he elbows a window to break it. Quin easily slides through the now broken pane and out into the night. He starts walking with no real destination in mind other than 'out of the cabin.'

It isn't long before he encounters the fog. The faint scent of chemicals makes him miss his lab. He'll have to get back soon or else his cohorts might be worried. They fall to pieces without him, he knows! He wanders for a bit before coming across someone - maybe you - and smiling warmly.

It might be odd how much he isn't bothered by all this. And if whoever he's stumbled upon seems unsettled by him, he doesn't notice. Or care. It's honestly probably a mix of both. ]

Well, hello. Are you also out for a stroll? That cabin was feeling a little stuffy, hm?

wildcard.

(( ooc: if you have another idea or want to discuss the thread with me, feel free to PM this journal or hit me up at Rose#7613! quin does come with some disclaimers and an opt-out option since he's... a lot. you can find it and the details about that here! ))

[casner]

[ graham can thank the aforementioned hypervigilance that he, personally, is even wearing shoes; once upon a time he didn't bother in his apartment, but now the idea that he might have to run from or fight something crawls like worms in the underbelly of his brain, and so: old, worn soft jeans. an equally ancient sweater in, speaking of things going unnoticed, what would in most other circumstances be a flattering shade of dark blue. boots whose newness is currently unremarkable. it's possible they could look more opposite, but probably not without great difficulty, especially given the whole unshaven pallor thing he's currently working.

discomfort was, for him, skipped over in favor of equal parts anger and adrenaline; the latter has finally fizzled out into a pretty spectacular crash, so although he does deign to open his eyes and sit up properly on the couch, he sounds exactly as exhausted as he looks. ]

Don't worry. I'm not the one who locked it. [ at least the undercurrent of irony in his voice says he knows don't worry is just something people say. ] You can get out if you break a window, but I don't advise trying.

[ a pause; he's not like, the most socially ingratiating on his best of days, and this is--okay actually it isn't even the worst day he's ever had. jesus. ]

There are other details, none of them pleasant. If you'd rather find out for yourself I won't stop you.

[ otherwise she could sit down and hear this list of unpleasant details, he doesn't actually say. perhaps it's implied?? look, that was like a commencement ceremony's worth of speech for casner here. ]

[porndealer]

[Very confused is a mood for everything happening right now, Huaisang can attest.

Stay back! That could definitely be either or, but Huaisang is going to take that as Wen Ning telling him to stay back, which he is more than happy to do.]

W-What-- demons?!

[They're unlike anything he'd seen before or heard of. They looked so normal besides the giant maw of teeth on their faces. What kind of demons were they?]

Are they still dancing?

[It looked like it, it wasn't anything familiar to him, but they moved all at the same time, getting closer and closer. He'll just huddle behind Wen Ning on the stairs, not thrilled that they have no where to run.]

loops and loops and loops;

[deferences]

[being far too observant for his own good, sizhui absolutely notices him sitting there, although doesn't make any sort of fuss whenever graham reveals the door is secured. he spares a glance toward it with the faintest head-tilt, brows coming together with consideration.]

You've already tried?

[or so he'd assumed, given the information, after all. despite the lingering apprehension, he steps toward where the man is seated, places himself just within graham's peripheral (if he opens his eyes!) and politely dips his head in greeting.] Are you injured, sir? [considering the way he's curled on the couch, of course it'd be sizhui's first assumption. that, and his less than amenable remark speaks volumes. if he's hurt, he'd like to help any way possible.

but if he isn't, then it means he's more than likely just tired of whatever's going on with this cabin nonsense. after going through a loop (or two or three) himself, perhaps sizhui will be right there beside him on the sofa next time.]

ii.b

[deferences]

[much to naminé's luck, the room she picks just so happens to have someone else in it and that someone might actually be able to offer some aid. sizhui's attention is immediately on her, the hand not already on his sword reaching toward the hilt, fingers circling in a vice-like grip on the handle— though he comes to a dead stop once he realizes she's... just a girl? holding the door shut against something that's attempting to break in.]

Ah, [then he bridges what little distance is between them, reaches out the hand he was about to unsheathe his sword with and firmly splays it across the door, helping her hold it shut.] Are you alright, miss? Is something after you?

[hydraulics]

[ Absurdly, it occurs to Mace that all of this would be easier if Ian were different. If he were selfish, maybe, and afraid — someone like Harvey, who’d put his own safety above others, who’d take the quick way out every single time, while his teammates worked and died around him. Somebody like that would listen to Mace’s directions without question, without worrying over what happens to him.

Moreover, if that were the case, they wouldn’t have this connection between them either. Mace knows the science of it, that the trauma they’re undergoing together is forming an attachment that would normally take exponentially longer to foster, and that might’ve held true even if Ian were just a civilian focused on his own survival.

But situational bonding aside, Ian’s not Harvey. Ian is deadpan humour and easy-going flirting over cheap tequila, an engineering teacher who chooses cauterization over stitches, who decides to fight zombie doctors head-on instead of letting Mace face them alone. Batman jokes after being cut open, old movie references in a dark basement.

And that’s the biggest reason all of this is so, so hard, because Mace just flat-out likes the guy, and his attachment now is not just circumstantial, or on an intellectual scale, but on a sheer emotional level that means he’s fucking compromised. Ian’s wellbeing is suddenly important to him in a way that has Mace unwilling to risk having him hurt, trying to get this damn knob off.

Or staying out in that hallway alone, open to any threat in this murder cabin — and uncharacteristic frustration bleeds into Mace's voice as he says: ]

Not in your condition. You just went through a goddamn surgery, put down whatever the hell it is you’re making and get somewhere safe.

[ Yeah, he sees that blue, and instead of the usual intrigue, all Mace feels now is indignant concern. He doesn’t know how Ian’s magic works, if what he’s doing is gonna drain him in a way he can’t afford right now, leave him more defenseless by dulling his agility or strength.

Whatever decision they make right now has to be predicated on the assumption that the rest of the cabin is no longer safe, that there’s an invisible countdown before the rug gets pulled out from under them all over again. ]

If you get hurt doing this, or one of those fuckers gets the drop on — look. I’m gonna break my way out through the window, and break my way back in from the living room, okay? I can handle that. [ A pause, and then: ] I can’t handle the other shit.

[wittingly]

[ Dimly, distantly, somewhere from a source he can't pinpoint comes a sudden, loud cracking sound. It's like limbs from dead trees compromised during a storm, thick heavy things giving in and snapping, groaning, falling. His breath stutters, head shoots up, wide-eyed. The front door is still closed.

It could've come from outside.

It could've come from the basement.

The fact that he has no way of knowing is shaking his courage. If it's the basement, he won't have enough time to get the knob off. Fuck, if it's from outside and they bust the door down he's just as fucked. Shit, shit. ]

Okay, okay- Watch your feet-

[ Urgently, another blue glow that feels like it takes too many precious seconds. There's a 1/4th inch gap under the door, just high enough that he can push through one long razor blade like the kind you'd slip into a retractable box cutter.

It's all he can thing to do right now, all that will fit. ]

Don't come in the front- come around, come around to the master bedroom, I can break that window-

[ Quickly, around heaving breaths as he hauls himself to his feet. Hand pressing against stomach, forearm bracing against wall to push himself off. ]

Don't fucking die!

[ Snapped out, snarled really, an unchallengable order.

He's a coward. He knows it. He knows the right thing to do would be to stay, to get the knob or the hinges off. To summon up a hammer and start bashing the doorknob until they could snap it completely off and pull out the thick medal column that embeds itself into the door frame.

But god, fucking, god almighty, he remembers getting picked up and held down and cut into, and he just can't.

He staggers gracelessly down the hall. ]

[hydraulics]

[ A noise like a gunshot goes off and Mace’s attention is momentarily diverted by it — his upper half whips around, staring out the window again, thinking maybe it’s one of the tree branches in the distance.

The mask is gone.

In the few frantic seconds it takes for him to make sure his eyes aren’t tricking him, Ian’s slipping a long, thin blade under the slight crack beneath the door and Mace quickly leans down to pick it up, nodding with a new sense of urgency and fucking relief that Ian’s listening to good sense, glad to have a weapon on him again.

And then last part of that sentence hits him properly, and Mace’s head is snapping back up. No, he can’t come in through the master bedroom because — ]

Ian, I —

[ Don’t fucking die comes the order, barked out like things are the other way around and Ian's the soldier here, and he can hear the sliding thump-stop-thump of Ian rising to his feet again before moving down the hall. ]

Shit.

[ Hissed out from between his teeth as he strips the sheet off the bed and begins to wrap it around one fist. The reason he’d said he’d break back in through the front was the security of the master bedroom — they can’t have that window broken, because if Mace could use that as an entrance point, so could anyone else.

His only hope is that Ian waits for him to get there first before trying to break that window on his own, and it’s with that thought in mind that Mace revs up and throws a punch right at the top corner of the window, where the glass is weakest. It shatters apart on the second hit, and Mace keeps smashing into it until there’s a large enough breakage for him to clamber through.

The hem of his shirt snags on a jagged edge and the fabric tears on his way out, sending him to the grass face-first. When he gets to his feet, it’s in time to see that the mask isn't the only thing that's pulled a disappearing act. The headless corpses of the doctors that he'd dragged out into the woods yesterday had left a trail of blood and indent in the soil.

Neither of which is visible any more. Aw, fuck. ]

[wittingly]

[ He's thinking immediacy. He's thinking of how fucking hard it'll be to break down a thick wooden cabin door. He's thinking about the sound of Mace trying to kick it in over and over and over again, but Ian not knowing whether it's him or it's a fucking killer.

He's thinking if he shoves the dresser in front of the door he won't be able to move it again fast enough if something happens.

They can nail shit up over the window. Fuck the window.

Mace's glass breaks before he even makes it to his door. He uses his hand around the raised trim to swing himself in, shoes squeaking on hardwood. Slams it shut behind him loud enough to probably alert anything in the building where he is, but fuck it. They're gonna know anyway, aren't they? At least if they're heading in toward him they're probably not heading out toward Mace.

Push the dresser in front of the door.

What if, what if, what if. Fuck it, compromise. He presses his back against it, grits his teeth, grounds his heels and scoots until it overlaps only six inches. Enough to deter more than just the lock, not so much that he'll hate himself for it.

Blue glow.

Glass cutter. Simple, easy, and if he takes the window out in one piece they can put it back and seal it. He can do basic sealants. Glued his fucking fingers together too many fucking times to get that one down, but it paid off in the end. Never bothered to learn how to make the solvent to remove it, but nobody's perfect.

Something drifts through the house, new sounds. Something that makes him freeze midway through dragging the glass cutter down the side of the pane.

It's a steady, rhythmic beeping. A single tone, a polite mbeep that's universally recognized as a heart rate monitor.

A second later, the horrifying thought: they beep in time with heart rhythm. What- who the fuck do they have it connected to?

The thought no sooner crosses his mind before he hears it - a groggy, slurred, clearly drugged out raw tone. Desperate but sedated.

Ian... Ian, fuck- Ian-

There's no fucking way. There's no fucking way they got him so fast. Fuck. Fuck. He's split in two. Split clean down the middle. Half of him logical - how, how could they have, unless they stuck him the second he fell out the window and dragged him around directly to the fucking table.

The other half's calling that half a fucking coward. Spineless. He'd go get you and you fucking know it.

Snarled out into absolutely nothing: ]

FUCK!

[ Fine, fine, fuck, fine, he has to-

Back to the dresser, grunting through a push. ]

[hydraulics]

[ There’s no two ways about it. If the tracks are gone, if he and Ian have been moved around and pulled apart, if something grabbed that goddamn mask off the tree after leaving it to taunt Mace through the window —

Whoever the fuck it is, they’re out here right now, and the right thing to do would be to hunt them down while Ian’s still inside the relative safety of his room. He’s got the cutter as a weapon, he’s got time on his side with how quick he’d been able to smash that window —

Ian’s voice, angry and desperate, telling him not to die. Ian, waiting for him to come to the master bedroom, ready to break open the damn window and probably would do it if Mace took too long to get there. ]

Fuck.

[ No, his priority is to do what he’d said he would. Screw the logistics, the tactical advantage of it, because he’d said I’ll find my way to you, and he’d meant it. Which means no detour to the living room window to bust through, just a straight line to where he surmises the master bedroom is.

The fog presses in on him as he moves along the perimeter of the cabin, billowing up softly and menacingly through the woods. It’s thickening somehow, and a new foreboding starts to trickle into his thoughts: what if he can’t find his way? If he doesn’t get back — if this goes tits up on him, that would leave Ian permanently alone and injured, a sitting duck for whatever the hell was after them.

Just as he thinks his visibility’s about to be fucked for good, his hand lands on what is unmistakably a window sill, and Mace can’t help the relieved oath that comes out of him. ]

Jesus Chr—No!

[ It morphs into a hoarse yell, his blood running cold. Through the misted glass in front of him, he can see Ian, being held down by all four of those sons of bitches, spread eagle on the bed, and they have that fucking hospital mask on his face—

No. He doesn’t bother wrapping anything around his hand this time, feeling absolutely nothing but black terror and fury as the glass gives way under his fist. Pulls himself through the moment he can get his head in, looking up with frantic eyes to see —

Nothing. The bed’s empty, there's no doctors, where did — ]

Ian?

[wittingly]

[ He pushes despite the way his stomach is burning, but it's getting the fucking lock open that takes longer because his hand won't stop shaking. Because he's scared, because he doesn't want to, because what the fuck is he even going to do when he goes out there and sees them holding Mace down and cutting into him and he's got no fucking weapon and he can barely fucking move and there's gonna be more than one of them and no backup, no protector this time, just him and he can't not because FUCK, because he fucking let himself give a shit again--

He yanks the door open, fingers gripped tight around the screwdriver he made earlier. It's long, longer than the knife long enough to go through eye socket and into the meat of a brain and maybe that'll be enough.

He stumbles down the hallway like it's twisting, like gravity's propelling everything left, with a hand flat and one knee dipping down - not from injury, but from nerves.

To the living room.

To an gourney that's empty except for one thing, one moving thing, one thing he thinks must be a small animal attached with electrodes to the beeping monitor.

Everything... slows... down.

There are no surgeons. There is an entire hellish Georges Mathieu painting of blood on and around the gourney, splattering up the walls. No Mace.

Just a single still-beating human heart that his feet propel him toward of their own accord. As if in a daze. As if entranced by this disbelief, a need to see it up close with his own two eyes to know if it's--

Like he might know if it's...

He stands at the edge of it where the surgeon probably stood, holding a screw driver instead of a scalpel, watching it beat.

Shocked to a blank mind. Dead unaware of his surroundings.

Healthy, strong. Alive.

Dumbly, something in him thinks, does that mean he's still alive, wherever they took the rest of him?

Suffering and carved out?

Should he- should he- put it out- ]

[hydraulics]

[ Ian's not there. Just the empty bedroom in front of him, peaceful and bloodless — hell, even half of the bed is covered in dust, undisturbed as though he'd never lain down next to Ian the night before which makes no fucking sense.

None of this does.

His heartbeat slowing down from where it had ratcheted up to a racehorse's pace, Mace pulls his head back and then breaks the rest of the window with the heel of his shoe this time, crawling through one-handed because the other's cut and bleeding.

Off to the side, the bedroom door is wide open, and the dresser — ]

God, no.

[ Not terrified this time, not a shout so much as it is a growl, but still laced with dread, because this meant Ian had fucking gotten in to safety, going so far as to block the entrance ... and then had promptly thrown himself right back out.

Out of the frying pan, onto the counter top, and then into the fire? What the hell?

... Unless. He hadn't gone willingly, he'd been taken, but there's no signs of a struggle even all the way out into the empty hallway that Mace can see now. He shifts the cutter to his free, uninjured hand and resists the urge to call out into the hallway, keeping his footfalls light, his back to the wall.

Nothing stirs. Mace makes it all the way down the hall, past the second bedroom, through the kitchen, and when he rounds that last corner into the living room it's like he's in a different fucking house altogether.

There's blood everywhere. The sofas are fucking gone, and in the center of the room is — ]

Ian.

[ A faint, disbelieving murmur. It's the scene from the bedroom all over again except this time, there's no bed. Only a gurney, splattered with blood, and Ian isn't held down by anything except straps at his sternum and at his hips. His arms are cut up and so are his legs, and his is middle open and exposed and laid vulnerable to the

motherfucking

white-coat

raising a scalpel right above it. Right above the seared wound going down his chest, clearly intending to slice it right back open. ]

Son of a bitch.

[ The snarl is out before Mace can think twice, his body flooding with rage and adrenaline; he drops the fucking cutter and just lunges bodily at the doctor, twisting on the way down so that they hit the ground instead of the gurney, his hands going for a raw-skinned throat. ]

[wittingly]

[ This place is a roller coaster. The emotional whiplash happens so fast, so frequently, so intensely that he doesn't know for sure that his fucking brain chemistry can even keep up with it. From fear to shock to relief in the span of a second, shoulders dropping, posture crumpling into something that's almost devastated with how goddamn glad he is to see Mace.

Running.

At him.

Oh, fuck. ]

Hey, heyheyhey--

[ He doesn't even have time to hold the screwdriver up like he's at gunpoint. He's just there one second and slamming into the floor the next with a bitten off grunt, Mace's weight on top of him thrusting down onto his lungs to cut off what would have been a long, low groan of pain. His fucking stomach.

This.

This is why he fucking cauterized. Good fucking call, Fowler. Paid off, didn't it? Otherwise he'd be eviscerated on the floor right now, or under the threat of it.

They go rolling. Mace lands on top of him, and right away there's a crushing at his windpipe. A sudden pressure, and the extremely precarious fact that landing knocked all the wind out of him. No oxygen in his lungs to tide him over. His eyes go wide, bugged out, searching Mace's face.

His mind works quickly. It always has. He knows a few things within a split second:
There is no recognition here.
Ian is not Ian to him right now.
He can't speak so there's no use trying to gasp out a thing, no wasting precious seconds on it.
He isn't strong enough to pry Mace's hands off of his throat, despite the fact that his left hand does curl around one taut wrist on instinct.
Based on his heart rate, he's going to burn through his 02 in twenty seconds optimistically, his vision will go black, and he will pass out. At the one minute mark brain cells will become damaged, but survival is still likely. At three minutes he will have brain damage. After that, close enough to dead that the semantics don't matter.

His options:
Hands up overhead; looks like corpse pose, fainting doctor going limp, hands may not release, choke until certain.
Frantic tapping - universal tap out move. Why in the everloving fuck would he respond to it? Ian wouldn't.
Morse code - requires a kind of congnition that isn't surface level, may require multiple rounds for pattern recognition.
Significant gesture, he may have one.
Soft, confusing contradictory touch.

Fuck it, when in doubt compromise.

His hands peel away from Mace's wrists. His right one yanks his shirt up as high as it will go, wounds on display - or maybe not if he can't see them, but maybe he can see the display. The significance of it. Pat pat, man, come on, you're the one who cauterized this, you got up close and personal--

And then the only fucking thing he can think to do, so stupid but it's all he's got- deliberate, slow passage of fingers up and down Mace's forearm. Soothing, nonthreatening, gentle. Feather-light, save on the upstroke when he drags the pad of thumb up with it so it isn't just fucking creepy.

It is so, so goddamn difficult to focus on it and keep steady, especially when eight-bit clouds start to creep into his peripheral vision. The precursor to blacking out, an ominous warning that he's running out. ]

[hydraulics]

[ His fingers close around the throat beneath them, and Mace knows objectively that he’s got seconds to get this shit done. Strangulation alone didn’t kill these fuckers, so it was going to take a lot more than a blood-choke to render this threat obsolete. Any moment now, he could expect a scalpel or a syringe to stab him in his now-bared stomach, the tatters of his shirt barely hanging off him.

But subjectively, the only thing registering in his head right now is an unadulterated anger that’s overriding his usual pragmatism. It’s not red-hot. It’s not panicked, rushed, distorted. It’s the sort of concentrated, cold fury he’s felt only a handful of times in his life, preceded by drawn weapons, ending with blood on his hands and a clear conscience.

Where did James Mace learn to knife-fight? They don’t teach that at ROTC.

Probably helps that his hands are already bloody right now, or at least one of them is — rivulets running down his busted knuckles, sliding over the wrist that the doctor is gripping, for once showing something other than that fucked up tranquility that was their trademark.

Good. It’s scared. It’s struggling. It’s —

… raising its coat up and patting the skinned flesh of its — ]

The fuck are you doing.

[ A vicious hiss, his eyes narrowing in furious confusion, still locked on its stitched sockets. Thinks at first that it’s some mocking attempt at distraction, because even though he can’t see precisely where it’s patting itself, it’s obvious that it's the same spot they’d cut Ian open.

But the confusion only grows, steep and fast, when the thing’s other hand comes up

and

strokes along the skin of his inner forearm, soft and slow and so utterly strange that even through the rage, it gives Mace pause. It's not the touch of a monster. There's nothing about it that adds up in any way, not even mockery. Too light to be a distraction. Too deliberate to be an accident. He blinks hard, his vision swimming for a brief second before clearing.

The stitches disappear. Melt into long lashes, dipping lower and lower as the eyes of the man underneath him go out-of-focus. And realization is a slow, heavy wash of acid as Mace sees exactly who it is that he’s been attacking, who he's been trying to kill.

Ian.

He’s fucking hurting—

A horrible sound rips out of Mace and he wrenches his hands back like they’ve just been scalded with liquid nitrogen. They might as well have been for all the use he gets out of them in the next few seconds, his gaze widening and aghast as he stares at the long-limbed, prone body of the person he's been trying to protect this whole time. The person he did this to instead. And then he's scrambling forward, uncoordinated and urgent. ]

Ian — no, no, no, Jesus fucking —

[ One hand cups the side of his face, the other raising his hitched shirt higher as Mace, agitated, tries to see what further damaged he's caused. ]

[wittingly]

[ Light disappears down to only a narrow pinprick, blurry sensory input from pupils but without the brain computing power required to translate images from what they take in. He can feel his pulse in his neck, in his head, in his chest - too hard, thumping pressure, uncomfortable. He's floating somewhere, though, in a way. Sort of just floating above it, and in a kind, whimsical way he thinks: this is better than getting slit open. Apparently that's where he is in terms of reality now, weighing and assessing potential deaths and being a little appreciative that this one may be painless. Also, selfishly, a little glad that it's by Mace's hand rather than those bastards.

And then the pressure's off and his body sucks down air on instinct, overfilling his lungs, head tipping back, chest rising off the ground an inch or so in his fervor to make even more room for it. From the pressure, from the swelling, from the dryness, that sharp inhale scrapes through his throat. Sends him into a coughing fit, which grapples for dominance with his lungs demanding priority.

Thank fucking god.

The world floods back into his vision, and while he catches a glimpse of Mace's face the coughing has him sort of peeling off to the side, eyes forced closed in the peak of a cough and fluttering back open right after. ]

Not--

[ A sucking, straining sound. ]

How I like to be--

[ Throat closes up because he's trying to stop the coughing. Thickly: ]

Choked.

[ The coughing dies off, he slumps to the flat of his back again to pant out: ]

Safe word.

[ Slowly, slowly, his chest steadies out. Calms down. There's no blood spatter on the ceiling anymore, he notices. Fuck. ]

[lookslikeacinnamonroll]

[ Okay, he was expecting some sort of reaction. But silent sputtering really wasn't it. ]

You don't? [ Wen Ning doesn't know what sort of life Klaus has led. Maybe he's just lucky enough not to run into any evil spirits or anything like that. ] That's probably for the best.

[ He looks around the quaint little room they're standing in, trying to piece together some sort of explanation of how they got here. ]

Do you... know where we are?

[lookslikeacinnamonroll]

Wen Ning lets himself be grabbed, dropping the sheathed Suibian to clatter to the ground. He keeps his gaze level, letting Jiang Wanyin's rage wash over him like a wave of water.

...A tidal wave of water, but a wave nonetheless.

"I know. I know it's not enough. But your brother isn't dead. Not anymore. Don't you remember?"

Because Jiang Wanyin should know Wei Wuxian has returned. He was there, at the Burial Mounds, with the rest of the clans. He may not believe Wei Wuxian is innocent, and Wen Ning wouldn't begrudge him his reservations in that regard, but he should at least know he isn't dead.

[lookslikeacinnamonroll]

[ As Lan Sizhui calls out, Wen Ning whips his head around. When did he get here? Unfortunately, the beast also decides to look at Lan Sizhui-- and not only look, but charge towards him.

That won't do.

Wen Ning takes a flying leap, kicking the beast in the side of the head to knock it off course. The creature rolls to the side, shaking its head as if to clear it, and Wen Ning lands beside Sizhui.

He isn't too confused as to why he's here. After all, they had been together, sitting on the docks at Lotus Pier, before Wen Ning awoke in this strange cabin. It makes sense if he was taken, that Sizhui was too.

He doesn't have time to say anything to Sizhui, though, before the dragon creature is scrambling back to its feet and coming in for another charge. ]

Stand back!

[ Wen Ning pushes Sizhui back and steps forward to meet the creature head on. ]