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

[wittingly]

[ I'll be back alright, and that's the first real resistance Ian seems to put up. It's a blurry and mumbled, no, no- because the last time he said that Ian wound up getting his fucking stomach flapped open. On top of that, if he's gonna die here on this goddamn table he doesn't wanna do it alone.

He loses track of time. Might've slipped into something sleep-like at the two minute mark, or maybe he's just hallucinating; blood-loss drifting. Hard to say now that the adrenaline's wearing off, the exhaustion's kicking in, fear's being replaced by a dense feeling of numbness.

Absurdly, he thinks about those videos of the kids who get their wisdom teeth cut out. Their asshole parents video them on the ride home while they say dumb shit, while they drift in and out of drug-induced haze, nonsensical and dramatic. He's thinking about looking like that, like it even compares to being slit open from chest to belly button by whatever the fuck those things had been.

One hand moves to drag itself along the surface of the table, right up until he can press the heel of his hand against his eyes. ]

Look- man- everything I say from ten minutes ago until, like, tomorrow is... a mulligan, okay?

[ Accidentally smearing blood along his own eyebrows, his own forehead. He speaks slow and low and deliberate, effort to the words like he's drunk but he's trying his best to pass as sober. ]

God I hope this scar looks hot and not gross later. I also... really hope there's a fucking later. Fuck cabins. Fuck doctors. Imagine going to a hospital after that.

[porndealer]

[No promises. Now look here, do you see how this boy is dressed? No it's not for a cosplay convention, Klaus. It takes him a second to realize he's being laughed at and he'll look at Klaus with a bit of an angry pout, snapping his fan shut.]

I don't see what's so funny, this thing must be dangerous if you don't want it to run away!

[But Huaisang moves over to where Klaus, still clearly annoyed.]

And you let me put my hand inside it, what if it did something to me?!

[hydraulics]

[ Drowsy, pained, looking completely out of it because the poor guy’s going into fucking shock right now — but Ian’s gaze still has some level of consciousness to it, and the pupils are dilated evenly, following movement properly right before one shaky hand comes up to press against an eye.

Thank fuck again. No concussion, nothing that indicates he’s not all there, his words coherent even if they are slow and soft, and Mace draws back with another quiet breath out of his nose, allowing himself to feel a small bit of hope. Ease off the building concern in his chest just a tad, because if it gets too heavy it’ll start to get the best of him, and neither of them can afford that.

But there’s an exhaustion there that’s still a big cause for worry. He’s holding it together incredibly well for a guy who nearly got operated on while awake, and then bled out this much, no medicine to alleviate the pain and a paralytic fucking up his system. Mace can’t help wondering what the hell they're gonna do if Ian passes out right now without anything in his stomach to hold him down, give him energy and warmth from the inside.

No, he’s gotta keep Ian awake a little longer and get him something to eat, and Mace reaches out to place a careful hand on the shoulder closest to him, squeezing down bracingly as he kneels down on the floor next to the table. ]

All scars are hot. [ It’s meant as levity but it comes out matter-of-fact, Mace settling down on the floor with his legs stretching out in front of him, leaning against the table leg.

Ian’s right, though. God. Fuck hospitals, fuck doctors, and fuck the scalpels they rode in on. ]

Besides, this one’s gonna be pretty badass. You could probably get a date out of it.

[ The levity comes easier this time, trying to reassure Ian that there will be a later, and Mace tilts his head back until he’s staring straight up. It’s only a few inches away from Ian’s forehead at the edge of the table, and he blinks back the tiredness from his own eyes, thinking not yet, over and over again. Still the corpses to get rid of. Still the front door to seal and bar. Still gotta keep his partner awake, the partner he'd told you're gonna be fine, only for the guy to get his abdomen carved up like a turkey. ]

I'll wingman you. Not too many teachers out there who can say they fuckin’ stabbed a demon doctor to death.

[ And there's an audible note of approval in his voice now, even as he feels a creeping sense of guilt and upset rise up within him, like the fog outside the cabin. Maybe he can get a mulligan too. A pause, and then he adds, ]

Though I'm sorry you had to.

[lookslikeacinnamonroll]

[ Wen Ning sidles up to the open fridge, peering inside with wide eyes. ]

It's cold—! [ Will the wonders never cease?? Ah, but he was here for a reason. And that reason is food. There seems to be plenty of food inside the cold box, arranged neatly on little shelves. Wen Ning reaches in and grabs the first thing his eyes land on: what appears to be a small sweet bread with dark purple fruit baked into it. Blueberries, if he's not mistaken. The cylindrical bottom of it is wrapped in paper, but the rounded top is open for him to pick off a piece and pop it into his mouth. ]

Mm! That's good!

[ That buzzing is getting louder, though. And Wen Ning is starting to think maybe it isn't just in his head. ]

Ah... Wei-gongzi... Do you hear that?

[wittingly]

[ If he'd been intent to close his eyes, that intention wavers with the hand on his shoulder. They go at least back up to half-lidded, cracked so he can see Mace's shape on the floor, where he winds up close to the place Ian's head rests atop the wooden surface.

They're both exhausted. He knows this; he can feel it in every bit of himself and he can see it on Mace even despite the fact that he's got a pounding in his head and cotton in his ears. He's always been the type of drunk to remain cognizant right up until he physically couldn't anymore, done enough recreational drugs to know how to cling to the realest shade of awareness when otherwise compromised.

He knows they both need to rest. He knows it's gonna be hard to get off this table, but he also knows he doesn't want to feel so fucking exposed. The door's off. They're in an open room. If four more of those things come in they're just dead, flat out - Ian because he's useless, Mace because Mace won't leave Ian to be useless.

Fuck, but he just wants to sleep. ]

Already got a date.

[ He answers, matter of fact. Muted and dry. ]

We're doing tequila. Rather die of alcohol poisoning anyway.

[ Than this. Rather than giving them the satisfaction. Rather than dying in fear and pain.

How many times do you gotta put out if someone saves your life? A little more than paying for dinner and drinks the first time, no doubt.

But he's thinking again - really and properly, mind drifting back to the actual status of their situation. The practicality of it. Survival, at least in the short term. He swallows thickly, spit tacky, throat feeling dry. ]

I-

[ A false start, voice just air, so he tries again and manages to force actual vocalization into it. ]

I need to help you... put the door on. Reinforce it. Think we should hole up in a fucking bedroom behind another door for a few hours. I can't do that if... this is just gonna split open and start bleeding again.

[ And even if it's not working to put the doors up, if they have to run or to fight again with his wound just being the way it is he won't make it ten more minutes.

Lowly, tiredly: ]

Stitch or cauterize.

[ The only two real solutions they have. ]

[mannerless]

( to be entirely fair, huaisang has never once been in danger from him. or around him, honestly - there are few people left in the world that wei wuxian would go out on a limb to protect, but nie huaisang has only ever been a friend to him. he called him as such, always wei-xiong, even after the others started to turn their backs.

but then again, why would that stop huaisang from learning to fear him? his own brother denounced wei wuxian. hell, both of their brothers did. so it actually comes as more of a relief than expected, when the man doesn't tense under wei ying's companionable arm.

then they've both turned their attention to the fridge, as has huaisang's stomach apparently, and he steps back to let the man examine the contraption in question. ) I hear it's called a 'fridge'. ( and, decisively, he leans in to start collecting various foodstuffs into the crook of one arm. ) Come on, we're trying all of it. ( all of it! )

fog!

[mannerless]

( wei wuxian knows a disorienting fog when he sees it. (sees it, feels it on his skin, breathes it in, tries to think through it...) and he knows that such a fog is never natural, always induced by someone or something with malicious intent.

but he also knows that it surrounds the cabin he awoke in - for the second time, after narrowly surviving the first - and a disorienting fog is surely a much kinder thing to brave than whatever waits for him should he linger in that cabin. huaisang and wen ning are here somewhere (if a-ning is still alive, after what they went through before), and though he hasn't seen them yet this second time, he can't help but feel it's his job to find them some way away from this cabin full of decadent food and violent iron beasts.

some half-hour later, he finds himself sprinting through fog in pursuit of his shijie's desperate pleas. at some point along the line, it failed to quite click that this fog is meant to disorient and bewilder - his shijie is in danger, and so his brain has shut off almost entirely. every so often he finds himself twisting the wrong way, taking a detour in search of a quicker path, and at once a different voice barks from deeper in the woods to find her, what do you think you're doing, i knew you abandoned your sect but now you'll even stand by and let a-li suffer?! and everything about this makes no logistical sense but he can't even consider that right now as he plunges through the trees.

little does he realize someone else is out here searching for the very same person. he's sure to find out soon enough as his foot catches on an unseen root and he pitches headlong to his hands and knees some fifteen feet in front of where jiang cheng himself is running. the movement in the corner of his eye catches wei ying's attention and he looks up sharply, choking out a sharper breath. jiang cheng's presence only solidifies the reality of everything he's been telling him since wei wuxian entered the fog, so before the man even has a chance to speak, he half-desperately urges - ) She's this way, ( and hauls himself back to his feet to take off through the woods again. he knows they've had their differences, and he damn sure knows he must have incurred some quantity of rage in walking away from shijie as she called to him in yiling, but maybe they can set that aside for a couple of minutes to save her. )

[sybaritic]

[ Eliot observes all of these ....occurrences...with the surprise of a person still surprised he can be surprised, meaning his mouth runs further ahead of his brain than usual. He holds up a forefinger with the air that the points he is about to make have approximately the same importance as curing cancer, which, who knows, he may actually think. ]

Oookay, for one: this is imported Lorian silk, woven by the asses of silkworms I have personally spoken to, and for two--it's an ascot. Honestly, you look like someone who should know her neckwear.

[ .............. what a compliment? Anyway, she actually is bleeding, so okay, he's about to give her his neck thing anyway when he remembers, right, he can do magic. ]

Besides, makeshift bandages are so pedestrian...unless you're in a World War Two drama. Then they're kind of sexy. [ he goes dreamy eyed a second, perhaps imagining two nurses and three handsome soldiers tending to his wounds. ] I've got something sooo much better.

[ please note, eliot does come from a world where revealing magic to non-magicians gets, at best, one's memory erased, and at next best exiled forever, but in fillory it's just so normalized he's sort of gotten out of the habit, and while this is most definitely not fillory, it's even more definitely not upstate new york. meaning it's probably some other bullshit plane of existence and he's too annoyed to exercise any kind of caution whatsoever; naturally this is quite a change from his usually prudent self.

he gestures, elaborately. ]

Permission to penetrate your personal bubble?

[ since for all he currently knows, despite how she appears to know his name and also that his father is just so imminently punchable, she is a total strangerette, and that kind of permission is good to get, so a person doesn't get stabbed.

narrative assumes blithely she's going to do this, and also stare at him like he's an insane person for asking, so eliot finds the least offensive plot of dirt possible and hunkers down on his knees next to her. he rubs his gIANT HANDS together like he's trying to warm them up, brow creased in concentration; while sure, his brain is big enough to have socked away a few basic healing spells, he definitely flunked this class. this doesn't stop him from trying, despite how trying might result in opening a fucking artery or something.

he presses his palms flat, each set of fingertips pressing and then pushing away from each other until it looks like he's made a bridge tunnel, then lines forefinger and thumb straight up, the rest of his fingers still crooked horizontally. the movement, recognizable or not, brings with it the sensory impression of a plunger pushing down in a syringe; when he turns his hands so they're perpendicular to his body, his forefingers trace the line of the cut, where luckily for them it does not open an artery, but instead seals the skin to just a faint pink line. a better healer wouldn't even leave a scar, but please, eliot's skills are in drinking making and occasionally slicing a person in half. ]

Et voila.

[ he's basically the coolest, he knows. ]

[hedoniste]

( it's not that it's not cool.

it's extremely cool, and she didn't even need his ascot (fuck you, eliot, she knows it in french), and now she isn't bleeding. those are all extremely positive things that don't explain why she's just jerked her knee into the other so hard that the collision makes a sound or why she's looking at him like he's grown a second head and maybe the second head called her a cunt because otherwise the expression of bewildered betrayal just doesn't make any goddamned sense. she'd already been looking at him suspiciously, and by all reasonable logic from where he's sitting she should be less suspicious now that her leg is fine. not more.

but if eliot could do magic then she'd know about it. she would know. and magic isn't even real—or not magic that looks like that—she is almost sure. but he would have told her; they are alike, he doesn't have secret things she doesn't have, she is the secret thing he has. he doesn't even look like he's in pain.

he's crouched low enough that she can easily reach him, so she follows her first impulse to take his face in her hands and push him this way and that, like she's trying to figure something out, like the light will hit him just so and this will make sense— )

This is another trick, ( in a tone that suggests she is building towards her own violent outburst at whatever and whyever they're trapped here, her voice like a fist hitting a window— ) you aren't my brother.

[hydraulics]

[ He closes his eyes for a second, a faint smile snaking onto his face at that. Doesn’t show up in his voice, though, Mace keeping to their brand of dry and quiet as he agrees, ]

I’ll do shots off your scar. Third base.

[ Or maybe that’s the stitches he’s gonna have to put into Ian — he can handle that, but cauterizing, that’s a little above his pay grade. The smile fades at the thought of it, and at how weak and goddamn drained Ian’s voice sounds — sapped of all energy, like it’s taking everything out of him just to verbalize.

And the guy wants to get up and reinforce doors. ]

You need to do exactly one thing and that’s — [ Fucking live, but that’s a stone’s throw away from the implication that he might not, and hell no. Mace isn’t putting that shit into the Universe. Not that he’s superstitious on any level at all, but some things are better left unthought as well as unsaid. ]

Stay put, and maybe get something in you before you pass out, if you really feel like doing me a solid.

[ There’s enough food in the kitchen that they’ll be good for that, he can unplug the damn fridge and take it with them to whichever room they decide to barricade themselves in. Mace shifts up and forward, craning his head around to try and get eyes on Ian so he can stress the importance of what he's saying, his voice going firm and losing all traces of fatigue. ]

I mean it. You just got sliced open like Thanksgiving dinner, your body's in shock and it needs to heal. It can’t do that if you start running around on fumes, even after stitches or —

[ Cauterizing might need to be on the table after all, if Ian can’t muster up the energy to manifest a needle and surgical thread. They already have everything on hand for that, as much as the thought of it bothers Mace. ]

We'll hole up in one of the bedrooms, but if you so much as try to stand up, I’m gonna tie you right back down.

[ Whatever’s needed to be done, he can do it on his own. That’s the least he can do after Ian almost got killed on his watch. ]

[wittingly]

[ His stomach hurts. Rather, the gaping wound over his stomach hurts. It's a radiating pain that doesn't dwindle or die, just pulses new hurt every heartbeat. Breathing out sucks. Breathing in sucks ten times worse. It isn't going away any time soon, and they might not have time to wait for that.

He pulls a face at Thanksgiving, can't help but see himself tressed like a fucking turkey. He'll grant that shock is a real and literal risk, though. Thinks that's the word he was looking for when he realized he wasn't shivering. He's gonna need sugar to stave that off. Gonna need food to restore red blood cells. Gonna need sleep to get through whatever's happening to his body right now. All of that's what he needs, what he wants is to get the fuck out of here. Barring that, he wants to slap iron walls up to keep anything else from getting in. He wants to lay down in a bed.

Compare both 'want' and 'need' to what he can actually do for himself, though... He tops off at laying on this fucking table. Realistically speaking, it'd take almost more than he can pull off to roll onto his back. It'd probably split him open to use his core and try to stand on his own.

Jesus fuck, he's even more useless than he was at the start.

A long, frustrated breath escapes him.

Stow it away. Keep a level head. ]

Thank you.

[ He manages finally, cracking his eyes back open to shoot Mace an earnest, steady look. ]

I'm pretty sure you saved my fucking life, like, six times in the last hour. You could've booked it. You still could, so. Thanks.

[compendiem]

[ There's only the briefest of pauses before Minato reaches out to take the backpack, holding it by the strap with one hand and with the other, he runs his fingers over the fabric, like he expects it to feel like warm skin or something creepy like that.

But then he just turns to the cupboards to fill up the bag, heavy things like water bottles at the bottom and topped with dried meat and fruit and nuts. He finds two Twinkies and throws them inside too, because snack cakes are good for hundreds of years. ]

...How does it work? Do you need to eat more to replenish ...whatever goes into making things?

[ Maybe he should not be feeding Ian Twinkies, in case they need him to conjure more things later. ]

[compendiem]

[ He can only offer a shrug, never having done this sort of summoning before, and he doubts he can draw forth the urn ghost the same way he summons his own gods and demons into the world. The photos are the most plausible part of any potential summoning, though, with the rest of the factors a coin toss between blood and chalk and candles and incantations.

...Minato stoops over and picks up a crayon from the ground, which will have to substitute for blood. ]

Maybe? I'll give drawing the circle a try, upstairs.

[hydraulics]

[ And of course, Ian’s thanking him. Earnest and sincere like it’s not Mace’s fuck-up that’s landed him with a life-threatening injury.

Mace catches that look, holds it for a few lingering seconds, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to say something more cavalier like let’s see how you feel tomorrow morning, pal because the pain’s probably gonna be worse then. But … ]

I couldn't have done half this shit without you. And don’t thank a fish for swimming.

[ Simple and unvarnished, as though describing the colour of the sky. What he means by that is, this is what I’ve trained for. That booking it wasn’t an option he was inherently capable of, let alone actually doing it. Even if Ian hadn’t been somebody he’d taken to almost immediately, solid ground forming between them right from the get-go, it would’ve been on Mace to do his damn job.

And he hadn’t even done that right, the proof of it a long, jagged gash down Ian’s stomach.

The longer he mulls over it, the more he can feel himself start to stray toward something a little too close to catastrophizing for comfort — or at least, what counts for catastrophizing to James Mace — and he knows there’s only one way to stall that. Focus on what he can do, prioritize it, and then get it cracking like a bad back.

The thought brings him a fresh burst of energy, channeling his simmering agitation and worry into fuel. First things first — dress his palms with the remaining cotton and fabric like a boxing wrap. Second, get Ian to relative safety in one of the bedrooms, which he belatedly realizes he ought to have done at the onset. Fucking hell. ]

I’m gonna lift you up, okay? Don’t strain anything, don’t push yourself. On the count of, one, two —

[ It can’t be a fireman’s carry and Ian’s in no condition to get to his feet and stay that way even half-supported by Mace, so he takes the simplest route forward and carefully slides an arm underneath the very top of Ian’s torso, across his back. The other goes under the dip of his knees and locks into place.

A grunted out three, and then Mace is lifting him up, blankets and all. The pillows, though, those he leaves behind to pick up later. He’s lucky Ian’s a fit guy. ]

[wittingly]

[ Yeah, don't think he missed that artful dodge, Mace. Complete and utter refusal to accept gratitude. It's allowed now, but once he's got his right mind back under control he's gonna circle back to it. He's not so much the type to allow sleeping dogs to lie, not when it matters. He'll take any excuse to have a heart to heart (provided it's about someone else's heart, not his own).

Rain check on that for if he survives the night.

Though he knew leaving the table was an eventuality and, by extension, Mace at least partially carrying him would be a requirement, he didn't picture it like this. He's braced for his arm going over a broad set of shoulders, braced to try and put weight on his feet and help drag himself down the hall in a grueling struggle toward the bed.

He wasn't prepped for bridal style.

First comes the pain. It's inevitable, there's no easy way around it, and the second Mace moves him in a way that his stomach contracts it's ripping out of his throat. Glassy gravel, low tones that shoot up to high and taper back down again to round out the sound - then stop abruptly as he clamps down on his throat and manages to control himself.

Well, except for one last involuntary unh near-sob that breaks right after. His left arm hangs mostly useless, still fucked up from the scalpel it took earlier. The right grips onto the fabric at the back of Mace's shirt, fingers furling and rumpling it up right above his shoulder blades.

When it passes enough that he can speak in a manner he thinks will be mostly level, he pants out (breathless, stuttering): ]

J-ey-eysus Christ, prince charming, you should- 'f- should've kept your armor on for that fucking fight.

[ Never mind the fact that princes don't have armor, knights do. Don't expect perfection from his stoner-drawled wit right now, not when it's a legitimate triumph that he didn't piss himself and the guy carrying him at the same time.

When pain reaches a certain point, it can become nausea. As if he didn't have an issue with vertigo already, the movement slaps on another layer. He can feel the precarious tackiness starting at the back of his throat, the lump, the thickness.

Fuck this is pathetic. This is so fucking pathetic. The closest he's ever felt to this level of shit is the week after his mother died.

In a rushed, single-breathed warning: ]

This is not my proudest moment and I'm really trying to save face here because you're fucking killing it right now with the rugged hero thing you're pulling off, swear to god it's almost emasculating if I had a problem with that kind of thing which I definitely don't but if you don't put me down I'm gonna fucking puke straight down your back and if I lose my intestines I at least wanna keep my fucking dignity--

[hydraulics]

[ Mace had been expecting the vocalization of pain out of Ian — there was no way it wasn’t gonna hurt like a bitch, even to be lifted up like this — but it surprises him exactly how much he hates hearing it. It’s not even that it’s a reminder of how badly he’d fucked up, that instead of having Ian pull the trigger, he ought to have had him barricaded in a bedroom from the first moment. That all this blood and torture had been entirely preventable.

It just fucking sucks, the sounds hitting him somewhere between the ribs as they go down the hall, the sensation of a hand fisting in his shirt in quiet agony. Especially that last one, almost like a sob — and Mace presses both lips into a hard, straight line, wanting to say something sympathetic and knowing it wouldn’t do any good. What’s the point of saying it’s okay when it really, really isn’t?

Except.

Even in the midst of all this, somehow Ian manages to say the funniest thing possible. Or, well. Maybe funny’s not the right word, but what he’s saying evokes the same warmth in Mace’s chest, and he doesn’t break into a bark of laughter but it’s a very near thing, his drawn lips twitching. Apparently stoner-wit is exactly up his alley.

He’s glad of it in the next moment, though, when Ian’s words go jumbled and rushed, pouring out in a stream that he doesn’t pause even to take a breath. The would-be laugh dies even in the face of being called a rugged hero because Christ, this poor guy. ]

All right, buddy, hang on, almost there —

[ There’s no alarm in Mace’s voice because frankly, he’s not actually worried about upchuck down his shirt in the least. This particular shirt is pretty much fucked anyway, he’ll have to burn it after this. But vomiting is one of the last things Ian’s body needs right now, the horrible pressure of it on his insides — the strain it would put on his wound to heave and spit, Jesus, no. ]

Here we go, easy, champ.

[ All the compassion Mace hadn’t been able to voice earlier comes out now in his tone, low and almost soothing as he lays Ian down on the bed, alert for any signs of imminent puking. Finding none — yet — he exhales in relief, arranging the blankets around him properly, something fond in his expression that he doesn’t realize is there.

The last time he’d tucked someone in, it had been his youngest sister. ]

For the record. You’re not losing anything, okay? Not your intestines, not your dignity, hopefully not your lunch. Definitely not your masculinity. [ Can’t take away something intrinsic from somebody else. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense, and Mace is nothing if not sensible — and, moreover, absolutely uncomplicated in how he views the world. ]

You can make things outta thin air, man. I don’t think you get how fuckin’ insane that is.

[wittingly]

[ His eyes squeeze firmly shut the instant he's on the bed, wading through the fact that his equilibrium seems to be playing out in the pattern of that infinity symbol everyone's getting tattooed on these days. He read somewhere that if you curl your tongue into a circle and breathe in through it, it helps alleviate the feeling of being about to barf. Something about the cool air being pulled in before it gets too body-temperature, sort of like a straw. He can't attest for certain whether or not that helps or if it's just fucking time, but the feeling gradually eases off enough that he chances opening his eyes. ]

I have a pretty good idea--

[ He grunts, a counter but not an argument. Yeah, he's very self-aware, knows it's crazy, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

It's easier to slump back like this, a relief not to have the pressure on his wound anymore now that the bleeding's mostly stemmed. Nice to have something soft at his back instead of hard. That rippling relief sinks into just about every piece of his posture, visible from across the room even though he slings his right arm over his eyes like a mask to block out the light.

A slow exhale or two, and then he sounds more like himself than he has since getting his chest carved open. ]

Do you bench press that white horse you rode in on or is it just, like, crossfit?

[ It's honestly all the more impressive considering Ian's not exactly particularly slender himself. He's in the same trade, he's got the same sort of expectations in terms of physicality - ramming tools into place, working with your shoulders, hauling and lifting and tightening his way into some decent musculature on his frame. He wasn't a scrawny thing to carry, for sure.

It's a hypothetical question. That's probably enough hilarious commentary to help soothe his insecure ego for right now, maybe time to touch om serious business again.

He doesn't bother lifting his arm off his face when he speaks. ]

What do you need to reinforce the doors? I can probably still... you know.

[ Left arm up an inch. Blue tinted glow for all of two seconds before he lays it back down. The laziest display of all time. ]

[channellings]

[oh, don't worry, he's been looking ever since he revealed himself (and not in the same way he's done to jiang cheng). seeing how upset he gets is enough to make klaus lift his hands in surrender, though.]

No, it's not— Listen, [he sighs, shakes his head, unable to keep from smiling unfortunately, so he cups a hand around his face instead.

he presses, hard, waits until he's certain he isn't grinning anymore then reaches the hand out to where the cord is tucked neatly behind the fridge. his first two fingers hook it, pulling some of the length out to show.] This? Is not a chain and it won't hurt you, oh my God.

Besides! [after releasing the cord again,] Even if it did, I could heal whatever it is.

[channellings]

[thank god for small favors, klaus doesn't need that sort of encouragement whatsoever.

in spite of himself, klaus bridges the distance between them, the hand he already has lifted stretching out— then he hesitates, curls his fingers and lowers the arm back his side rather than reaching to touch wen ning's neck. as badly as he wants to, they don't know each other and he has no idea how he might react. getting his ass kicked right off the bat wouldn't be good, after all.]

Always? Huh. [it's true, he's never heard of the ghost general, and even if he had, it wouldn't sate his curiosity any.] Do they hurt?

[channellings]

Someone he doesn't know, thankfully, or else he'd be even more embarrassed— or maybe not knowing him is more flustering? Who knows at this point!

Aside from the fact he's being shown this guy's teeth, Klaus can't help thinking he's rather attractive, which is all the more amusing when he makes him speechless and all he's done is drop his coat to the floor. The poor bastard has no idea what he's in for, but he's about to find out.

Bless whoever, Jiang Cheng's outburst has him pausing, fingertips curled underneath the hem of the mesh shirt he's wearing, his eyebrows lifting with surprise. “You told me to show myself,” he states simply, head ever-so-slightly tilted. “What's it look like I'm doing?” Then the shirt goes up and off, dropped into the pile that's his coat on the floor, head shaking to toss his hair back over his shoulders, his lips curved in a mirthful smirk.

“Smile, sweetheart, it's the second-best thing you can do with your mouth.”

[hydraulics]

The horse.

[ Almost expressionless, but for the faint hint of humour at Ian apparently sticking to his prince charming guns even under extreme duress and also nausea. Which seems to have passed, thankfully, and Mace gives him another keen eying before deeming it safe to draw back and stretch the kinks out of his back, taking a few deep breaths. ]

NASA’s physical training, too.

[ Said as though it's an afterthought; that and ROTC, the combination of both leaving him with the best physicality of anybody on-board the Icarus II. Harvey might've been taller, but pound for pound, Mace had been their heavy-lifter. The mission had done a number on him over eighteen months of space travel, but somehow, he’d been brought here in the body he’d first stepped into the spacecraft with.

The leftover adrenaline in his veins and the knowledge of the danger they were in, lighting the proverbial fire under his ass? Entirely superfluous, of course. ]

Don’t worry about the doors, the hammer and screwdriver are still downstairs, and so are the bolts we pulled loose. And enough furniture that I can barricade as needed. But. I’ll need you to — surgical thread, and a needle. If you can.

[ Otherwise, it’ll have to be one of the clean knives the kitchen, heated over the stove — aw shit, he’d left the goddamn stove on. Mace’s face goes a little tense and he adds quickly, ]

Hold onto that thought while I go get rid of those hideous fucks. I’ll come back before I start with the doors, huh?

[ A few moments to clear the rest of the room — make sure nobody’s hiding anywhere, including the bathroom off to the side — and then Mace heads off to the kitchen as fast as his feet’ll take him, bee-lining to the stove to turn it off. Then over to the front door to close it and latch it shut, before doing a perimeter check of the rest of the cabin.

Next comes collecting some fucking heads. Mace might be an aerospace engineer, but even if he’d been just a high school grad, he would’ve noticed that nothing but severe cranial trauma had even slowed these monstrous assholes down. He doesn’t wanna take any chances just throwing them out into the fog, so into the fireplace they go, including the mashed bits he ends up having to scrape into a plate.

God. Disgusting. He won’t be able to get the smell out of his nostrils for days, he knows.

When he finally re-emerges into the master bedroom almost two hours later, it’s with some soup, a glass of milk and a hunk of cheese on a tray in his now-unbandaged hands, and despite his best intentions at remaining stoic in front of the civilian, a yawn muffling his words: ]

You still awake?

[wittingly]

[ This time, there's no frightened protest at I'll come back. It's not because he's suddenly comfortable in their summer get-away home, it's not that he suddenly trusts anything about this fucking place. It's that the stress chemicals have more or less vacated the premises, he's in the least amount of pain he's had since getting slit open so far, the blankets are warm and the fatigue is real. He offers up only a lazy mhmm grumble of assent from the back of a gritty throat.

He's asleep by the time Mace turns the stove off, probably.

He makes it through an entire sleep cycle black-out dead to the world. Exhausted past the point of even dreaming, which is a fucking blessing considering what those dreams would probably consist of.

He didn't make the needle or the thread. That's probably for the best too, considering he'd have passed out with them in proximity and wound up giving himself the fourth fucking impalement of the night.

He's at the top of sleep cycle number two when Mace comes back, the lightest part of the whole ordeal, close to the surface enough that the sudden voice jars him back to wakefulness with a soft gasp.

He's normally a heavy sleeper. He normally fights waking up for longer and with more passion than your standard man ought to. It's a product of their environment that the switch flips so effectively right off the bat, with his arm lifting up off his eyes and his shoulders curling off the bed an inch or two. Probably clear that his knee-jerk reaction would've been to sit up, except inch 2 is exactly his limit before his torso flares up pissed off.

He lowers himself back down with a muted sound in the back of his throat. ]

Yeah.

[ He croaks, a transparent lie to both of them. ]

Constant vigilance. I am the night. Been Batman'ing the hell out of this room, don't even worry about it.

[ Toneless, rusty, and with a dry swallow somewhere in there. Some water might be amazing, some water might be the best idea anyone's ever had. ]

[porndealer]

[Huaisang is happy to let Minato lead the way, taking the torch with him as he follows, tucking his fan into his belt. Since he met someone who seems friendly, Huaisang actually had hope that whoever made the noise above them would be in the same situation as they were. Here some how with no idea why.

Another person to add to the group, but as Minato steps out of the basement and Huaisang hovers still in the doorway, they've clearly found um. More than one person. A group of them actually.]

... girls?

[Where had they even come from? Were they going to dance? Many questions, never any answers it seemed. Huaisang watches, transfixed as in unison the girls turn in place on the tips of their toes. Everything he may have expected was dashed as their faces shown in the dim glow of the torch and the fireplace he'd started before going down stairs.]

YAAH!

[The shout leaves him as he stumbles back in fright, the gaping holes in their faces with circles of teeth almost sending him down the basement stairs. Thankfully he manages to catch himself on the door frame, but not without losing the torch, it tumbles down the stairs instead, landing at the bottom.]

Th-They're-! Demons?!

[They're not human that's for sure, good observation skills, Huaisang. He does have the thought of mind to try to go get the torch before the cabin is set ablaze, but the strange dancing demon girl things are getting closer and he panics, instead rushing behind Minato to go along the wall to get to the door the hopefully leads outside.]

Nonono, I don't want to die- [He yanks at the door, fussing with the handle, but no matter what he does it won't open. Huaisang let's out a discouraged wail, banging on the door as if that will some how make it open.]

[porndealer]

[Huaisang follows, closely, but not too closely. Letting the big scary fierce corpse deter whatever could be upstairs, whether friend or foe, is something he's happy to let Wen Ning do. They get no reply to Wen Ning's inquiry for Wuxian, but there apparently is something there.]

Huh?

[He'll peer around Wen Ning, brows knitting at the sight of two young looking girls. They're dressed strangely and facing away from them and not moving at all.]

Um... hello? Did you wake up here too?

[Huaisang stays behind Ning as he's comfortable where he is behind him, but still calls out to the girls, maybe they'll have some answers? Or perhaps they're just like them. Not having a single clue what's going on. The silence goes on for another beat... then two, just when he goes to speak up again their arms raise, elegantly and at the same time. When they raise up onto their toes he wonders if this is some sort of dance? Maybe?]

gwenaëlle vauquelin | original / the stand. cw: pandemic apocalypse.

[hedoniste]

ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪs ᴀ ꜰʟᴀᴛ ᴄɪʀᴄʟᴇ.

( this ain't gwenaëlle's first rodeo.

no, by the third time she's woken up in the cabin, she's well and truly sure that either she has gone insane, or everything else around her has done and the difference is maybe semantics. if she's slept at all in the interim, it hasn't been restful; she doesn't feel like she's rested. she feels keyed up from the moment her eyes open in that room, on that bed, expectant, angry. she smashes her way out a window (but she knocks all the glass out, this time, anticipates the way she has to scramble because she's small), she circles the fog, she stands outside the cabin and apathetically watches it burn.

for a while.

it occurs to her to wonder whether there are people in there, but it seems unlikely anything she could do now would help them, and probably they will just wake up again like she keeps on doing. or not? maybe it's actually just her. or maybe they aren't real, that is still on the table. what is a construct and what isn't? what is the point. )

Putain, ( she mutters to the cabin, and uses the flame to light her cigarette.

she sits down in the grass, facing the cabin, and waits. )

ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ ᴍᴇ.

( so i am hot garbage at writing open prompts, but enthusiastic to roleplay, so hmu if you have something else in mind. reachable @ keanuleaves or lilpantsunicorn#8828 on disco! )