[ Mace catches a flicker of something in Ian’s eyes before resoluteness covers it, something that might’ve been a protest, and he’d been prepared to have to argue the fact that it makes a lot more sense for him to be the one to welcome their captors, that it was best for Ian to be their ground control operations.
But it doesn’t come; instead, Ian goes down the stairs, just like they practiced, and Mace waits patiently for his signal. It takes a little while, but soon enough he hears him yell, and to Mace’s ears it sounds only clear and determined. It helps readiness flood his own system, gets him impossibly more alert. I’m not gonna hesitate, Ian had said, in more or less the same tone.
It’s showtime.
Except for a long, excruciating minute, absolutely nothing happens. He can hear his own breathing loud in his ears, hears Ian’s voice from the foot of the basement stairs calling out a tentative follow-up, and he’s just about to reply with a negative when something goes crunch outside the front door and every hair on Mace’s body stands up.
Like a bell tolling in a church tower comes the knock knock knock. Three sharp, ringing taps that somehow seem to echo throughout the entire cabin from the front door, which shouldn’t be possible. This isn’t a thin, cardboard-walled apartment in fuckin’ downtown Detroit, this is thick logs forming a structure that’s well-insulated by carpets and furniture, with a basement made out of bricks.
A horrible feeling of dread starts forming in the pit of Mace’s stomach, something he doesn’t recognize and — not recognizing it — actively hates. Knocks shouldn’t be able to elicit this. They aren’t really two kids stuck at home, braving an invasion from grown men three times their size, they are the grown men in this equation.
Get it together, Mace, he thinks angrily, and is just about to take the strides needed to cover the distance between himself and the door when it suddenly wrenches open, and —
What the — ]
Son of a bitch.
[ It’s not quite a yell but it’s loud and shocked, and despite Mace’s best efforts, the dread he’d been starting to feel filters into his voice. Shit. Not good, he can’t show fear, he can’t let Ian catch the fear in his voice, and with that thought in the forefront of his mind, he starts fucking swinging like this is the major leagues and his last name is Robinson.
There’s a sickening sound of meat meeting nailed wood, which checks out, because the white-coats — four of them right out the gate, two at his twelve o’clock, one at his three, fuck where did the third one go, fuck — might be human-shaped but they sure as hell look raw and red under their masks. Eyes stitched shut, and it doesn’t matter how hard he hits them, it’s like they don’t even fucking feel it.
No screams of pain. No change in their energy, something relentless and placid in a way that’s completely terrifying. The only sound is Mace cursing as he knocks one right into the pile of firewood in the corner and starts doing his best to bash the asshole's head in. ]
no subject
But it doesn’t come; instead, Ian goes down the stairs, just like they practiced, and Mace waits patiently for his signal. It takes a little while, but soon enough he hears him yell, and to Mace’s ears it sounds only clear and determined. It helps readiness flood his own system, gets him impossibly more alert. I’m not gonna hesitate, Ian had said, in more or less the same tone.
It’s showtime.
Except for a long, excruciating minute, absolutely nothing happens. He can hear his own breathing loud in his ears, hears Ian’s voice from the foot of the basement stairs calling out a tentative follow-up, and he’s just about to reply with a negative when something goes crunch outside the front door and every hair on Mace’s body stands up.
Like a bell tolling in a church tower comes the knock knock knock. Three sharp, ringing taps that somehow seem to echo throughout the entire cabin from the front door, which shouldn’t be possible. This isn’t a thin, cardboard-walled apartment in fuckin’ downtown Detroit, this is thick logs forming a structure that’s well-insulated by carpets and furniture, with a basement made out of bricks.
A horrible feeling of dread starts forming in the pit of Mace’s stomach, something he doesn’t recognize and — not recognizing it — actively hates. Knocks shouldn’t be able to elicit this. They aren’t really two kids stuck at home, braving an invasion from grown men three times their size, they are the grown men in this equation.
Get it together, Mace, he thinks angrily, and is just about to take the strides needed to cover the distance between himself and the door when it suddenly wrenches open, and —
What the — ]
Son of a bitch.
[ It’s not quite a yell but it’s loud and shocked, and despite Mace’s best efforts, the dread he’d been starting to feel filters into his voice. Shit. Not good, he can’t show fear, he can’t let Ian catch the fear in his voice, and with that thought in the forefront of his mind, he starts fucking swinging like this is the major leagues and his last name is Robinson.
There’s a sickening sound of meat meeting nailed wood, which checks out, because the white-coats — four of them right out the gate, two at his twelve o’clock, one at his three, fuck where did the third one go, fuck — might be human-shaped but they sure as hell look raw and red under their masks. Eyes stitched shut, and it doesn’t matter how hard he hits them, it’s like they don’t even fucking feel it.
No screams of pain. No change in their energy, something relentless and placid in a way that’s completely terrifying. The only sound is Mace cursing as he knocks one right into the pile of firewood in the corner and starts doing his best to bash the asshole's head in. ]