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]

[ He hasn't even thought about how little he's eaten since they've been here. Very little before they initiated operation Home Alone, and almost nothing after. A glass of milk, two shots of tequila, a wayward piece of cheese. Chugging water otherwise, enough to keep his stomach from feeling too empty to concentrate.

Not enough calories in, especially given the physical exertion and the injuries. He's fine now, but it might explain the lingering subtle shades of fatigue. He's chalking it up to stress instead. ]

ᴊɪᴍᴍʏ ʙᴜғғᴇᴛᴛ ᴍᴀɴ, ᴍᴀʀɢᴀʀɪᴛᴀᴠɪʟʟᴇ?
ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴏʀsᴇ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ɪs ғɪʀɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ғᴇᴀʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅʀᴇɴᴀʟɪɴᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴘʜᴇʀɪɴɢ ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴛᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴏʀsᴇ ᴛᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴅɪғғɪᴄᴜʟᴛ
ɪ'ᴍ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴡᴇ sᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ sɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴏɴᴇ-ʜᴀɴᴅ sɪɢɴ + ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ᴘʜʀᴀsᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛʜ ʙᴀsᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴘᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀsᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ
ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ, ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴏɴ ᴍᴏʀsᴇ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴀ sᴜʀɢᴇᴏɴ?

sᴛʀᴏᴋɪɴɢ ɪs sᴛɪʟʟ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ.

[ There's silence in these moments, long pauses around the scratching of pen, the quiet of the house. Temporary peace, which almost serves to make the pair of them look like fucking morons for all of their running, yelling, fighting, window breaking.

Was there ever even a goddamn thing anywhere near them? Was it all just the product of hallucinogens and a single locked door? ]

[hydraulics]

[ That first string of words might as well be German to Mace and he carefully draws a circle around them, followed by a big question mark off to the side. With little lines coming out of it, to emphasize how lost he is, and a pointed eyebrow raise.

But. The rest of it is very much a touche — he knows without a doubt that his brain wouldn't have been registering any morse code during that moment, and even if it had, he would've probably sneered it off and just squeezed down even ha—

A muscle twitches in his jaw and he shakes his head in a quick back and forth jerk. ]

POINT TAKEN. BUT WE'D KNOW TO LOOK OUT FOR IT NOW.
THOUGH COVERING BOTH BASES DOES GIVE US A HIGHER PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS.
WE CAN CHUCK UP DEUCES FOR A HAND-SIGN, HOW ABOUT THAT.

OR I COULD JUST TICKLE YOU.

[ The brief stretches of quiet, the peace around them — for some reason, it strikes Mace as false. Leaves him doubting, leaves him looking over his shoulder once or twice at the emptiness of the rest of the cabin behind them ... and hell, but maybe that's the point. Psychological warfare in between the bouts of hallucinations. Trip them up mentally so they don't even know what to expect, give them a false sense of security in the living room that had been a former nightmare before the floor drops away below them all over again. ]

I'm thinking we should take this to the bedroom. [ Almost under his breath, handing the pen back, and then a little louder: ]

After you eat something.

[wittingly]

[ Deuces, he says. That last line gets him squinting at Mace through narrowly slitted eyes, and it might be hard to tell if that's meant to be a warning or if he's trying to determine Mace's sincerity at the suggestion.

He'll have commentary on that later. In the meantime, he folds the paper in half and then half again. Moves to stand up (slow, careful) and slips it into his pocket.

There's a kitchen. It's beyond their power to make sure the food isn't spiked with more hallucinogenic properties, but they don't exactly have a lot of options. Heading out into the woods to live off the land is outside of his skill set.

He nods his head in a c'mon gesture, and ambles into the kitchen.

The first thing he goes for is the fridge. When he tugs it open, a familiar sight freezes him in his tracks for a second. Right after, he gropes around blindly behind him for Mace's arm, shirt sleeve, whatever he can grip and pull around to see what he's seeing.

Heart on a plate in the center of the fridge.

Beating.

Dimly, awed. ]

Do you see it?

[hydraulics]

[ Having a poker face comes naturally to Mace, even under the weight of a squinting look from an engineering teacher — a look that might mean anything from don’t even try it to do I look like Elmo to you, it’s hard to tell. Although the payoff if Ian is actually ticklish would be well worth the elbowed spleen and/or nose that Mace gets out of it.

Not now, though. Later on when he’s in less pain and, more importantly, less likely to be further injured by any monkey business, and his poker face flickers with concern when Ian makes to get up, folding the paper in on itself. At that little head tilt, Mace's hands hands go out slightly for a couple of seconds, both in unspoken protest and just in case Ian ends up stumbling on those first few steps toward the kitchen.

Following close behind, Mace pauses when they reach the fridge to do another area-check over his shoulder, his wariness intensified by the relative quiet they were in just now. Can't be that easy. ]

See what?

[ The thing about blind groping is that you never know where your hands'll end up. In this case, with the way he's half-turned to the kitchen entrance, it would've been the bottom hem of Mace's shirt — but because most of that is a torn mess still hanging off the jagged edges of the master bedroom's window, Ian's fingers end up nabbing Mace by his belt.

It catches his attention faster than his shirt would have, anyway, and he immediately leans over to look at whatever's got Ian sounding so quietly astonished.

It's a head. Dark-haired, familiar, turned away from them on a silver platter — but there's very little doubt in his mind whose it is, or is supposed to be anyway, and his stomach turns at the thought.

Mace tenses up all over, one hand landing protectively on Ian's shoulder, his voice going hard. ]

Yeah, taking that as a threat. I'll grab some shit from the pantry, we gotta go.

[wittingly]

[ He is not even remotely 2% bothered by snatching Mace by the belt and reeling him in. There are other circumstances where he'd be more interested in that than what he's looking at, but as it stands... This sort of takes precedent for his attention.

The heart's still beating, and once again Ian's overcome with this... urge, this impulse -- grab a knife, drive it through. Make it stop. Put it out of its misery. He thinks, irrationally, that somewhere out there is a person carved open but still alive, desperate to have all of it just stop.

He slams the fridge closed. Nods, and if he... seems to hover a little too close to Mace as they move, well, frankly it's because they're building sort of an association here. A dynamic. Hard not to think of someone as your protector when they've taken every available opportunity to protect - even though Ian's adamantly never allowed himself one before.

He guards himself. He doesn't trust his safety or his body or his vulnerability to another person.

Tell that to the way the front of his left shoulder's almost constantly brushing the back of Mace's right.

Supplies are gathered. Canned soup, canned meat, canned vegetables, canned fruit. Crackers. It's gonna be a hell of a lot of sodium, but it's a decent enough array of nutrients aside from that. He can make water. He can make- well, not fire in the traditional sense, but he can make a chafing dish. Utensils. Dishes.

They retreat, once again, into the bedroom. The dresser gets pushed back in front, but as soon as it's there Ian takes out the bottom drawer. The window's still broken. He can take apart the drawer and they can board it up. Got a screwdriver already, the hammer's just as easy. It might sooth mace to see him sit down on the bed for this part. ]

I think we gotta start thinking about trying the woods again.

[ He murmurs, wedging the screwdriver in. Smacking it with a hammer once or twice, then wiggling back and forth to pry the front away from the sides and bottom. ]

This isn't sustainable. Cameras, mics, maybe hidden speakers for audio replication. Whatever the fuck they're pumping into the air to make us see shit, or...

[ Actually manipulating, somehow. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Fuck, this can't be easy on Ian. Setting aside the physical torment he's been put through, and at least half of it at Mace's hands, the strain this must be putting on his psyche ...

No wonder he can't immediately look away from what's in the fridge, no wonder he slams the fuckin' door shut, and Mace's hand tightens sympathetically on his shoulder. For whatever godawful reason, this place has Ian squarely in its eyeless sights; once might've been a random hit, twice a lot more suspicious, but the third time is flat-out enough for Mace to want to make dead certain that he doesn't leave Ian's side for the duration of this goddamn nightmare.

So if he's a little too much in Ian's orbit even while they gather supplies, all the way back to the bedroom, well. He can't really help it. Keeps a discreet eye on him with more concern than for his body alone, watching his hands for any tremor, his face for any signs of distress.

There's none that he can see, though he still breathes easier once they're inside the bedroom and the dresser's shoved against the entrance. Which, of course, is when Ian pulls out a drawer and promptly starts taking it apart. It doesn't take more than a couple seconds for Mace to realize why he's doing it, but still. Take it easy, buddy.

At least he's sitting down for it, and Mace takes a seat next to him with a vaguely exasperated exhale — but what Ian says next has him pausing mid-way. On the one hand, Ian's right. It's absolutely not sustainable, and they have no damn way of knowing what the next day's gonna look like here, at the mercy of these evil motherfuckers.

But in the woods, surrounded by all that fog and the way it muffled sound as well as sight, they'll be at the mercy of everything else.

When the bottom panel of the drawer is all the way off, Mace snatches up the hammer up before Ian can get any ideas, and holds his other hand out for nails so he can go board up the window. It's his fuck-up, after all, and it's only right that he fixes it. ]

Outside could be potentially worse. Although if we stay here much longer, we're definitely fish in a barrel for these pieces of shit. Fuckin' cowards.

[ Spoken in between hammering in nails at the window, that last part grunted out with no small amount of ire, because it's not lost on him that they're targeting the teacher over the (ostensible) soldier. It reminds him of the horrible sight that had awaited them in the fridge, though, and there's a pause as he mulls over how Ian must be feeling.

With a pensive, sober look over his bare shoulder, ]

What about a compromise? We stick it out here until you heal up a bit more. Take shifts to keep watch at night, so they can't get the drop on us like that again.

[wittingly]

[ Ian does huff softly when Mace takes his hammer - yeah, he'd been absolutely right, Ian had every intention of nailing the damn thing up himself. There isn't much he's been able to do to contribute aside from summoning up things that are only useful about half the time.

All the same, he places his palm down on Mace's directly, skin on skin, fingers to wrist.

Muffled glow that doesn't feel warm or cold, but rather a little electric. Ionized particles. Ozone. Static cling. The light weight of nails slowly press down, and there are six when he takes his hand away. ]

They broke into the bedroom without waking either of us up.

[ He points out mildly, using the screwdriver to detach the four remaining panels of the drawer. While they're at it, they can board the door shut too. No telling if it'll make a difference, but... ]

I'm not that hard of a sleeper. Betting you're not, either. Not hard enough to sleep through a damn dresser sliding across a hardwood floor. It means they've gotta be pumping the room full of something, right?

[ Not that it matters. Mace is right, he's in no real condition to start a days-long trek into nowhere, he couldn't climb a tree well enough right now to save his life - which might be a literal concern. Their single play is Mace's idea right now.

Four panels taken apart, he saves one for himself on the bed to use as a tray.

Blue glow, this time it's there longer. Bright and burning away for minutes, because what he's making is complicated. It has chemical components. A specific structure. Ethanol gel in a shaped canister. A book of matches. ]

[hydraulics]

[ That’s true, neither of them are light sleepers — definitely not enough to miss the sounds of a damn dresser being dragged across wood, no matter how badly they’d had the figurative shit kicked out of them the day before. ]

Dunno about that, I slept pretty soundly next to you.

[ Murmured with more humour than he’s feeling on the inside right now, but if Ian’s able to put on a brave face after seeing himself served up on a literal silver platter, the least Mace can do is keep true to their brand, so to speak. Besides, there was something to be said for gallows humour to keep a guy sane.

Finishing up the window panel, Mace sets the hammer down and cracks his knuckles as he gets to his feet, grabbing one of the few perishable items they’d snagged (a clementine) before heading back to where Ian’s currently — huh. Making hand sanitizer, with a book of matches already next to him on the bed. Watching the blue glow as he seats himself on Ian’s other side, Mace thinks he can still feel the tingle of it on his own grazed palms.

Or maybe that’s the phantom sensation of Ian’s palms resting on them, surprisingly warm for a guy who’d just been knocked down with a fresh surgery wound on his chest. ]

You know, Da Vinci had a weird fuckin’ sleep pattern. He’d take twenty minute naps every four hours. Not saying we do that, but … maybe a modified version of it. A full REM cycle every three hours? Or maybe two, and then we swap throughout the night.

[ Said with ulterior motives, because Mace intends to let Ian sleep through his shifts; it’ll delay his healing, for one thing, if he stays up. For another, Mace’s protective nerve is well and truly raw at this point and he’ll probably deal better with staying awake.

Without really thinking about it, he starts peeling the fruit in small, methodical movements, and only offers it to Ian when it’s fully unpeeled. Another habit from his days of dutifully cutting off bread crusts. ]

[wittingly]

[ Strangely enough, for all of their flirting and their back and forth, something about that trips him up. Makes his glow falter for a second, has him peering up through his lashes at Mace's back. Maybe it's because that implies something a little more than sex, doesn't it? A little more than the implications of the rest of it. Tips toward a little bit more.

Plays a note in his chest, one single ivory piano key.

But it's nothing, and there's no way in hell he can even entertain the notion considering their fucking reality right now.

He lowers his eyes back toward the task at hand. Strikes a match, tips it into the opening of the can. Immediately it flares to life, a small blue cleanly-burning fire. After that comes a low metal stand, simple in construction - just four legs attached to a circle. On top of that, an extremely simple metal bowl.

He pops the top off of two soup cans. Dumps them in. Throws in the vegetables for good measure.

Only when that's done does he settle back against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder, eyeing the peeled fruit Mace offers.

He looks amused, a touch fond, and he says: ]

Split it.

[ He'll eat half if you'll eat half. He holds his hand out for it. Split the sleep with him too, while you're at it, but something tells him it won't end up being even.

Slept pretty soundly next to-- ]

You never told me her name. That girl you're in love with.

[hydraulics]

[ By the time Ian's done with the stand, Mace thinks he's got a pretty good idea where he's heading with all this, and the amusement comes easier to him now. It's in his eyes as he watches Ian go about adding soup to the newly-born metal bowl, softened at the edges with fondness.

But Mace is a simple guy and as far as he's concerned, all of these emotions narrow down to just the one — affection, simple and clean like rain on fresh leaves.

Whether it's an intense result of the crucible they're in, or just that instinctive, magnetic liking he's felt a few rare times in his life, it doesn't matter. It's there, and he doesn't need to examine it to make sure, and because he's as fixed in his ways as the stars in the sky, it's gonna stay there.

Split it.

Done with a faint smile and an eyebrow raise, although it's on the tip of Mace's tongue to ask his friendly neighbourhood Batman if he plans to do this fifty-fifty business with everything else; and if so, is he aware that Mace isn't the one with the horrible injury here?

But then Ian's saying something else, something more, and — ]

Was. [ Another one, and Mace's smile twists into something a little sadder. He can count the amount of people who've seen that expression on one hand, and still have a finger left over to give their kidnappers the only form of greeting they deserve.

But he hasn't forgotten how Ian's been laid bare to him here, a forced vulnerability that went beyond the physical, and there's some part of him that wants to even that playing field. Out of respect, and out of that same uncomplicated fondness that's taken firm root in his chest, and maybe just the plain human desire to share something with somebody.

Somebody who's made him feel more like a person than he's felt since he stepped foot in the Icarus II. ]

And it wasn't, you know, mutual. If anything, it was ... more the opposite.

[ Hard to admit loving somebody who'd said the kind of things Cassie had to him, and it's only after this incredible display of dignity that Mace realizes he hasn't even answered Ian's question. ]

Cassie.

[wittingly]

[ They sit side by side, shoulders pressed into one another, each of them holding half of a citrus fruit. Ian's working on separating a segment of it when Mace answers; was. Damn. His lips press together into something sympathetic, brow pinched up a little to leave a small divot.

He doesn't say anything at first, just studies Mace's expression while he chews on pulp and sugar - the first thing he's eaten in so long, his stomach wakes up immediately. Roars to life, slumber disturbed, demanding more.

It's second priority to paying attention. ]

She didn't like you?

[ It's a combination of subdued and incredulous - he's a steady calm by nature, when not under duress. They're easing into a sense of safety now and so it's back, that level reserve that usually underlines any other emotion he wants to express.

Such as, for example, utter disbelief that anyone could opposite of love this guy. Jesus, have they met him? Ian's not sure he's met a better fucking person in his entire life. No one braver, no one more emotionally strong when the world's on fire. No one who combos smart and funny and good looking on top of those other things. ]

She hit her head a lot as a kid, or was it more of a visual impairment?

[hydraulics]

[ The smile fades but the sadness lingers, hearing the quiet incredulity in Ian’s voice, the way he phrases himself. Mace allows himself a full thirty seconds to feel the warmth from those words, and then shakes his head.

For the first time, he's something other than unapologetically himself. A hollow moment, thinking what it would be like to pretend to be somebody different, feel that warmth a little longer. Somebody with rounder, blurrier edges, somebody who wouldn’t be willing to take a scalpel to his teammate’s wrist if it came down to it.

Can’t, though. Can't pretend. Everything else aside, it’s not fair to Ian. It’s especially unfair to him, given what he'd said the night before. Mace doesn't belong anywhere near a pedestal. ]

The mission we were on, it went sour near the end. There were a couple times when I had to make a choice between a crew member and — Earth. Chose Earth, rubbed her the wrong way. Not just the choice, but that I didn’t hesitate. I guess she figured that meant that I didn’t regret it.

[ What the hell was the point of showing your regret? It didn’t bring anybody back. It didn’t change what had to be done. At the same time, he understands now that Cassie had considered him heartless for it, and doesn’t blame her; it’s not like he tried to dissuade her of the notion. He just wishes he’d known it before the launch, back when they’d been training together.

Being the hated half of a hate-fuck only worked if you knew what was going on beforehand. ]

Thing is, I grew up on military bases, and … [ Slower now, weighing his words in a way he hadn’t before. ] It’s a lot of bastards out there who only understand one language. I had to become fluent.

[ It's the reason he hadn’t graduated out of the air force’s ROTC; a cadet willing to cut up an officer wasn’t exactly pilot material, even if the officer was a piece of shit. ]

So there you have it, full disclosure. Not Prince Charming. His bodyguard, maybe.

[ A hint of a grin as he finally looks up into those eyes, lifting his eyebrows up and down as if to say, that means you’re the prince — one last flirtation before Ian disengages from him entirely. Belatedly, he pops the clementine into his mouth and barely tastes it, focused on the shoulder pressed up against his own and counting down to when it would pull away. ]

And I'm still fine taking the rug. [ If you want. ]

[wittingly]

[ He listens raptly, brow knit and a small frown tugging one corner of his mouth down. A choice between a crew member and earth - god, what the hell kind of mission was Mace even on? The kind of stakes it must have been, Ian can't even fucking imagine it.

A few seconds of contemplative quiet follow it, but his shoulder doesn't peel away.

She figured that meant I didn't regret it, and here he is lamenting it now with his boots on the ground, well after the mission ended. It's clear as day that he does.

Ian slides his hand over until he finds Mace's wrist. Fingers curl gently around it, softly squeeze. ]

A crew member or seven billion lives.

[ He points out, slow and breathing as much awe into the last two words as he can, like he's trying to impress the point. ]

If you let yourself fall too far down the hole trying to make that choice, you might not make the right one. Takes a lot of strength. Just because you have it doesn't mean you don't feel. It's just that some of us are good at deciding to feel later.

[ Like Ian, who carries his upset home with him rather than ever flashing it to anyone - until you're getting a wound cauterized shut because zombie doctors sliced you asshole to elbows and you remember two weeks ago you were smoking weed in a Subaru outside of a Starbucks with your TA. ]

And... for what it's worth, a body guard protects one person. A prince protects a country.

[ The many over the few. Seven billion over one. ]

[hydraulics]

[ He's not sure what he's expecting to see in Ian's eyes when he looks up, but it isn't anything good. Hadn't he just said that he'd been all but responsible for the deaths of his crew members, and without hesitation at that?

But then there's a careful hand curling around his wrist, and Ian's voice in his ear, different than he's heard him sound this entire time. No condemnation. No resentment. Just something steady and quietly wondering, pointing out strength where others had seen nothing but something rigid and unforgiving.

And Mace can't remember the last time somebody laid a hand on him like this — asking nothing and wanting nothing, just a touch meant to reassure, to let him know that he's not alone.

Maybe he's not gonna have to take the rug after all. ]

You're giving me credit that I don't — [ Deserve, he'd been about to say, but that's a hair too maudlin, too close to casting himself as some tragic hero, and it's wrong. It's the opposite of what he'd intended with all of this in the first place: a way to brief Ian on his past so he knew who, exactly, he was stuck here with. A caveat emptor, buyer beware. ]

Ian. You get why I'm telling you this, right? I don't want you think I'm anything better than I am.

[ In other words, there's no best possible version of Mace — but it feels like it would be too presumptuous to say something like that, for all that they've been toeing a very particular line this entire time, Ian the first to put his foot across it with the gentle fingers around Mace's wrist.

It's just that some of us are good at deciding to feel later.

Without really thinking about it, he shifts his hand until Ian's fingers are brushing his palm instead, curling his own around them loosely. The same part of him that had prioritized the mission over everything else, is the same part of him that's determined to protect Ian in the here and now.

Not good and bad, or right and wrong. Just you, and the job that's in front of you. ]

What you see is what you get. [ Soft but intent, still searching the dark, warm gaze next to him. ] If you want it.

[wittingly]

[ He's not sure, exactly, when this started pivoting in the opposite direction he'd intended to steer them. Tell me about that girl you're in love with, because bringing attention back to her might guide it away from him. From acknowledging that twang of something in his chest at sleeping together. Meant to drum up a sort of distance in Mace, and wound up touching on something that hurt.

And then his fingers wound around wrist without even thinking about it. A mixed goddamn signal, he knows, if his last signal'd even managed to broadcast. He's pretty sure it didn't. It's just - he knows of himself that he's mixing signals.

But it's comfort, right? Comforting someone that you're with through something like this whether you want to be or not. If it stopped there, that'd be fine. It could be nothing, and it could fall away and just be another one of those moments that crops up between them but doesn't mean anything.

Except that a palm slides against his, shifting this from comfort to intimacy.

The direct eye contact that follows it strips off anything disingenuous before it has the ability to manifest. Leaves him instead a little wide-eyed and open, surprised, the obvious look of somebody searching for the answer to that old question: does that mean what I think it means?

(If you want it.)

As in--

Want it how, as in wanting it- him- as a partner in all of this?

Or want it in the way that... people ask that of each other when they're literally holding hands?

He ping-pongs back and forth in his own mind, convincing himself one way and then another, context clues and common sense versus denial and fear of getting too close, what he's reading versus what he thinks he's reading, and--

You know what, man, this is the part where he just asks. ]

Is this like a first kiss moment, or am I really bad at reading signs after prolonged stress?

[hydraulics]

[ Generally speaking, Mace has all the subtlety of a hammer, and the only signals he’s tuned in to receiving are those of the radio sort — large, broad bands, nothing subtle about them. And with radio waves, the lower the frequency goes, the wider the wavelength becomes, spanning thousands of miles. So while he's never been particularly good at nuance, the signals he’s receiving from Ian are pitched low in just the right way, the right amount, an undercurrent that cuts through all the interference around them.

In space, all waves move at the speed of light.

The surprise that plays across Ian's face, the uncertainty in its wake, all of it narrows down to the single, open question in his eyes, and Ian doesn’t need to voice it for Mace to hear it.

But voice it he does, and Mace doesn’t miss the way it’s cloaked in humour still, Ian patching in an exit door just in case, just in case. Rooted in what, Mace still isn’t entirely sure; the doubt doesn’t seem to be because of him, but it makes him want to reassure Ian all the same — same as it makes him want to tease Ian about it a little. A strange mixture of playful and tender that he didn’t think he’d ever get to feel again with anyone else.

The corner of his mouth dips, small and secret, an inside joke that he’s about to let Ian in on. ]

That bad at reading signs, huh? [ A murmur of a drawl, shifting so that he’s facing Ian instead of remaining pressed shoulder to shoulder. Doesn’t let go of his hand, though. ]

You sure you’re a teacher?

[ And Mace reaches out with his free hand, fingers framing the side of Ian's face, the heel of his palm brushing the hinge of Ian's jaw, before leaning in slow and sweet for a kiss. It’s chaste but insistent, gentle but thorough, almost like he’s trying to say something with it.

Maybe the same thing Ian tried to say to him with his fingers around Mace’s wrist just now.

The same thing he’d tried to say the night before, when he had Ian under the molten touch of a knife.

The only thing anybody wants to hear when they're stranded and lost and alone, no matter where they are. I’m here. ]

[wittingly]

[ It's not that Ian doesn't do this - kissing, sex, physical intimacy. He does, he has, and with decent regularity. It's easy to when you're charming, sociable. When you attend university functions or you meet people in bars and you hit it off, it becomes a wanna go back to my place? Sometimes it's even after a second or a third meeting, they've developed some rapport, a couple of inside jokes. A few repeat customers, but never more than three times.

And never anyone he feels for, not anymore, not since his twenties. Not since grad school. It's a limit he enforces both consciously and subconsciously.

All the same, something in his stomach dips down low and fast like driving too fast over the right kind of hill. His heart rate picks up, hammering out hard beats - before that palm even coasts along his jaw.

Doesn't really matter what his mind has to say on the topic when his mind goes blank the second Mace starts leaning in. Slow motion, stable trajectory, enough time for Ian's eyes to flutter almost all the way closed. Enough time for him to meet the right angle, to lean in magnetically those last two inches.

They touch down, and a different kind of heat spreads out across his chest. Ink in water. The hand in Mace's flexes, then tightens - no hidden message in that one, it's not intentional, it just is.

He leans in more, kisses back slow, feels static on his skin. Nudges in with the tip of his nose, and works to softly part Mace's lips by coaxing them with his own, something warmer, something open-mouthed. ]

[hydraulics]

[ It’s Ian who closes those last couple of inches between them, and somehow that feels as good as though he’d met him halfway. Both of them in this together, same as they’d been from the moment they’d first locked eyes in the basement.

The hand in his own tightens, a subtle, involuntary movement that Mace responds to with his thumb slowly stroking along the side of Ian’s fingers. The kiss deepens, and a deep golden pulse goes off in the center of his chest to know it’s Ian doing it — his lips parting against Mace’s own, working them open in turn.

The taste of citrus, the lingering scent of ozone from a few minutes past, somehow still clinging to their skin. If you want it, Mace had said, a question laid out in front of Ian on the proverbial table, and he’s got the answer now, cupped in his palm as Ian kisses back. He does, he does, he does.

A low, rough sound in the back of Mace’s throat and then he’s shifting over, leaning in further, putting gentle pressure into the kiss until he’s got Ian carefully pressed up against the headboard. The angle is slightly awkward — he’s got his weight balanced on his knees, one hand still holding onto Ian’s, the other sliding from the side of his face to card into the fine black strands at the back of his head, cradling it from the wood behind them.

But it makes the haze inside him begin to heat up, go from comfortable intimacy to an affection that’s edged with hunger, and Mace traces the tip of his tongue at the slightly parted seam of Ian’s mouth, slow and deliberate, before dipping in just a little. Draws back, repeating the motion teasingly, the message clear. More. Come on, show him.

At the same time, he doesn’t intend to rush this, despite the fact they’re all but taken hostage in some demon cabin in the middle of nowhere. In a way, that’s just all the more reason to take their time. Who knows when they’ll get another —

Mace's hand twitches, and he interlocks their fingers together, his eyes opening slightly to watch as they kiss. ]

[wittingly]

[ Something about being pressed back against the headboard sends heat rolling through him like the tide - not a tsunami so much as gently lapping waves, southward bound and slow, steady, sweet. Always been a fan of fingers in his hair, too, and it pulls a soft audible exhale from his nose in a quick rush.

This is easy, when he doesn't have to think about it. This is easy when it renders his brain completely blank, and there's just tongue gently slipping into his mouth, something he can lightly chase. Something he can follow back a little challengingly, but that challenge is quickly abandoned in favor of the pursuit of knowledge. The taste of teeth. The curl of tongue. How do you kiss? I'll map it out.

His free hand finds its way to the broad stretch of Mace's shoulder, grabbing on, pulling absently in, in, in.

His eyes stay closed, but his brow furrows like someone intensely concentrating.

His body's overdue for an endorphin rush. All this adrenaline, all this fear, no real dopamine. It floods him now faster and easier than it should. He leans into it - tries to, anyway, as much as his sore stomach will let him.

God, it feels good to feel good. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Under normal circumstances, James Mace kisses the way he does everything else — strong and blunt, with a single-minded focus.

Right now is different. The focus is still there, but it’s a lot less blunt, strength tempered with finesse and gentleness. There’s a tugging hand at his shoulder and Mace goes willingly, using his toes to balance himself so that he doesn’t tip forward and push his weight onto Ian entirely, as much as he wants to. Enjoys the brief spark of challenge in the way Ian licks into his mouth before it turns into curiosity instead, half-lidded eyes watching the way Ian’s expression shifts into concentration.

Uh-uh, he hums into the kiss, noticing the way Ian attempts to push himself up a little, aware of the strain it’ll be putting on his stomach. Right now is all about feeling good, right now they’re both gonna put pain and fear and every last horrible feeling out of their minds, and it’s enough to make Mace break the kiss to murmur, ]

Stay where I put you, huh?

[ Doesn’t intentionally mean it in anything but the literal sense, but it comes out deep and teasing all the same, and when he resumes the kiss, Mace can’t help but adding more force. Just a little, just enough so that when his tongue slides in this time, it stays — touching every soft, hot inch of Ian’s mouth, lingering over sensitive spots.

Brings teeth to the party, too, tilting his head so he can graze the edge of them against Ian’s bottom lip. In Ian’s hair, his fingers rub against his scalp, rhythmic and encouraging, having noticed that he likes the touch. Wanting to see what else he likes. ]

[wittingly]

[ Yeah, alright, this is definitely doing something for him - can't even complain this time about Mace worrying too much for his stomach. Kind of okay with it when it means getting pushed back against the headboard like this, half-pinned and getting his mouth taken apart.

It earns Mace a set of fingers fisting into his shirt, and their clasped hands broken apart so he can slip it up underneath the hemline to curl the wide spread of his hand around Mace's side - skin on skin, feeling out the body hovering over him.

He's tactile, as it turns out. Can't seem to leave his fingers in one place. Maybe that shouldn't be a surprise considering what it is they do for a living, what their trade is. Constant work with your hands, constant touching. It's no different in the bedroom, and his go wandering from sides down to hips, to the waistband of his jeans, down and over and around to grip tight on the outer edges of his thighs.

His brain might remember his stomach but his dick doesn't care so much, and he's thinking lap didn't get split open, lap is fine, so the pull is thoughtless and wanting and gentle but pointed.

If he's gonna stay where he's put can he at least put you somewhere?

You're gonna have to excuse him, he's had like half an orange in two days, he's not firing on all cylinders. ]

[hydraulics]

[ For all that Mace's shoulders are broad, corded with a decent amount of muscle, his waist is trim in proportion. So the hand that slips free of his own and slides up beneath his undershirt instead, it spans a fair amount of skin as it curves over his side. The callouses graze, draw a little shiver out of him on the way down.

The other goes tight at his shoulder before trailing down his other side, both of them coming together at his thighs to grip and flex and pull, an unspoken demand that Mace complies to with a low, long sound pressed against Ian's tongue.

Put him wherever you want, teacher. Just watch the merchandise, and Mace ain't talking about himself here.

His knees go on either side of Ian's waist, shifting up and back a little so that he doesn't cause any damage to the angry, charred-red line going down his chest. But Mace isn't any less tactile, and his desire to touch is rising in tandem with the heat simmering low in his gut.

The fingers in Ian's hair tighten just so, and Mace breaks their kiss to briefly press a series of kisses along the line of Ian's jaw, slightly damp and nipping, trailing down his neck. His other hand goes to the waistband of Ian's pants, fingers flicking the button there, purposefully pressing his palm against the clothed dick beneath it. ]

I usually ... do dinner first.

[ Distracted, in between sucking kisses to the side of Ian's throat. ]

[wittingly]

[ He settles straddling Ian's thighs, and that's good- that's great, although he doesn't slot up quite as close as Ian was aiming for. Any protest he might have had, any ideas to drag him forward, they're promptly tossed out the window when the pressure of a hand drags over his jeans. He's hard, that's not even a question, it's impossible to miss the solid heat of him even through denim.

It earns a low, throaty noise that's too quiet and not deep enough to be like rumbling thunder - maybe some offshoot of it, a vibrating rasp. His fingers dig into the meat of Mace's thighs, flexing tight, dragging him an inch forward mindlessly.

Lips at his throat - his head tips back. Neck's always been sensitive, Mace is two for two figuring out what it is that drives him. Doesn't even bother him that it's striking up some muted pain from the injury that hasn't yet bruised properly, the good outweighs the bad. ]

You, ah-

[ He manages hoarsely, hands tracking back up again toward narrow waist, under tank top, gripping muscle. Palming stomach. Slipping back to touch shoulder blades. Fuck, man, you're doing pretty good under there aren't you? ]

You did, yesterday- and, like- almost-

[ You know, almost tonight too, it's just at the foot of the bed forgotten in favor of the button on his jeans popping open. ]

Jesus, I really just wanna-

[ Be able to flip them over and settle between legs, move around more than this, drag him in flush against his chest, but the fucking burns. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Ian’s voice goes to gravel as those fingers tighten on his thighs, and the sound and feel of it has Mace’s hips rocking forward of their own accord, wanting closeness, wanting more — before he remembers the reason why he can’t do that, and reels himself back. The denial has his eyes fluttering open again as Ian tips his throat back further, wetting his lips like a wolf licking at his chops.

Distracted as he is by both his hard-on and the way Ian’s hands are dragging along his back, gripping at his waist, the touch at his stomach making the muscles underneath jump because he’s maybe a little ticklish himself — at first he doesn’t understand the faint almost-bruising so close to his eye line. Haven’t his lips been a few inches lower down? Sucking and nipping near the base of Ian’s throat, and not at his —

The next sound out of Mace is quiet and pained, memory striking him like a cold whip.

And then he surges forward with renewed heat, pain turning into something determined. His mouth covers Ian’s again, kissing him a little harder, in a way that might come across as needy this time. Not that he isn’t, mind; he’s already stiff between his own legs, and frankly, he’s been thinking about something like this in the back of his mind for a while now.

But the desire fuelling his touches right now, it isn’t for himself. His hand stops toying with Ian’s fly and pops it open instead, dragging the zipper down slow and steady. Building the anticipation as much as he can before sliding inside to roughly palm Ian’s hard, hot length, through the fabric of his shorts.

I really just wanna — ]

Tell me.

[ Half-request, half-demand, sitting back a ways so he can look Ian in the face. Whatever it is that Ian likes, Mace wants to give it to him. They can figure out a way to do it that won't put undue pressure on his burns. ]

You want my hand, huh? Or do you want something else? I'll make you feel so good.

[ His voice lowers to a growl on the last word, and he might almost sound like he's still being teasing if it wasn't for the way he swallows right after, his gaze dropping to the reddened imprints around Ian's throat. ]

[wittingly]

[ He's apparently incredibly susceptible to hearing his partner talk, that much makes itself apparent when Mace says so good and Ian's cock jolts hard beneath the confines of his boxers. Twitches under his hand in time with a thready exhale.

Tell me.

You wanna know?

With no small amount of frustration, somehow delivered in a way that's at least half calm along with it: ]

I want me and you laid out on this fucking bed forgetting which way's up, I want you on top of me without--

[ Tugging his stomach the wrong way and killing his own erection on accident through the searing pain he gets when he twists a little too far. He wants moving hips and someone grabbing someone else's wrists and pinning them down and rolling his core for the friction of it.

It replays again in his mind unprompted; I'll make you feel so good. A sharp javelin of heat, want, lust straight through his pelvis. ]

God- fuck, okay. Anything- literally anything you do is gonna drive me out of my fucking mind.