inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

[vestigemods]

VESTIGE TEST DRIVE MEME

WHAT IS THIS?

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

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

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

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

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

PROMPT 1 ► just your ordinary cabin in the woods

⬛ARRIVAL + GENERAL PROMPT

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

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

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

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

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

⬛MONSTER HORROR.

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

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

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




---




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


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

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

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

PROMPT 3 ► congratulations, you fucked up

⬛SURVIVAL HORROR.

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

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

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

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

⬛PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR.

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

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

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

(Yes. The answer is definitely yes.)

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

---

This is easier to break down without narrative, so!

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

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

THE LOOP ► a note on replayability

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

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

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

CODE BY TESSISAMESS (patreon)

Comments

[hydraulics]

[ A wavering beat, and then Ian's eyes are coming back into focus from wherever it was he'd gone in his head just now. Or. Whatever they'd been seeing that wasn't in the here and now.

His other hand covers the one gently framing his face, and the warmth of it pulls a slow, deep exhale out of Mace. Something relieved and relaxing, taking the tension out of him as his heartbeat starts to slow down properly, now that he knows Ian's with him. ]

Yeah?

[ Mace can see the way Ian's eyes are flickering across his face, looking for something that he's not sure he's able to find there; tries to school his expression into something reassuring nonetheless. Knows it might not be a success, considering the wetness drying on his cheeks. So much for being Ian's rock. ]

I think we both did. But fuck if I can remember what.

[ Quietly, with something that's intended as humour but only comes out as a rasp. He wets his lips and offers a wan quirk of his lips at Ian, stroking from his damp cheekbone to the side of his temple, and then back again. ]

Been that way since I was a teen. Can't remember dreams for shit.

[wittingly]

[ If he could read minds, he'd point out in an instant that crying wouldn't make him any less of a rock - especially after a dream like that. Hell, he might be a little offended if there weren't waterworks on his behalf.

Except.

Mace doesn't remember what the crying's for. Or, well, that's assuming he even had the same dream at all - could be totally unrelated, could be his own hellish nightmare. Could be that they're both just having the worst fucking dreams individually.

His hand slides gently away from the back of Mace's, and it's followed by a small shake of his head. Lowered eyes. ]

Yeah, you're better off, trust me.

[ Tonight at least. Wishes he shared the affliction. ]

Doesn't matter. Just a fucking nightmare.

[ Which isn't exactly a shock, considering their last two days.

Outside, grey pre-dawn light makes its way through the slits in the dresser slats they've nailed up. The door's still boarded shut, too.

He changes the subject, though his voice sounds tentative. ]

I guess it worked.

[ The boards. They're still in the same room and it's nearly sunrise. That at least brings a little relief. Enough that he drops Mace's wrist as well so he can slowly palm-scoot himself back down onto the mattress.

He's not a morning person. He's not a wake up quickly person. He's a twenty more minutes two snooze buttons, sleep in on the weekends and drag out the process person.

He likes the comfort of dreaminess at the cusp of waking up. He likes lazy intimacy, morning sex.

This wasn't exactly his ideal start to the day. He'd like to at least pretend, go through the motions of a slow rise - at least until he's really over it all. Melt into the mattress for a little bit. ]

[hydraulics]

[ It’s plain as day that Ian remembers the nightmare he’d had — the nightmare that both of them might’ve had together, and that doesn’t seem far-fetched at all considering where they are. If the hallucinogens they’re being pumped full of through the vents are enough to make their realities twist until they’re seeing fucked up shit in the waking world, it’s entirely possible they’re being shown similar dreams as well.

It’s also plain to see that he’s not going to be telling Mace any of it; it’s in the way his gaze lowers, in the subtle shake of his head, back and forth. His voice. Doesn't matter.

The warmth of his hand disappears from Mace’s wrist and in the next second, Ian’s directing their conversation to a different direction. Mace takes in his expression, and then takes his cue from him. At least for the time being. ]

It really did, huh.

[ Musingly, as Ian lowers himself back down into the mattress, Mace automatically sliding his right hand underneath his back to help ease him down, mindful of the still-healing wound going down his chest.

He's not gonna be able to forget the look of mingled horror and incomprehension in Ian’s face in a hurry. But Ian’s right; they made it through the night, and that means nailing the doors and window down gave them some semblance of safety.

Which is an encouraging thought, and Mace wipes the back of his bruised hand across his face, getting rid of the last of the moisture there, before leaning over Ian’s face for a careful, lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. Something casual but intimate, in the sort of way that usually comes with weeks of knowing somebody else, instead of the intense double-time bonding they’ve been through.

It’s their first morning after. Mace isn’t exactly a stickler for sentimentality, but he feels something unhappy smoulder in his chest at the thought of being unable to provide Ian something better than a godawful nightmare. They should be having their round two right about now. Something slow and hot to tug Ian sweetly out of sleep, instead of this.

Well, he can feed him, at the very least. ]

Take it easy for a bit, lemme get you something.

[ They’ve still got the little burner and plate that Ian had made the before, the matches ready, and Mace sets about heating up breakfast. Until they can venture back to the kitchen, it looks like it’ll have to be soup again, chicken this time — but they’ve got bread, too, and cheese. And powdered coffee.

Once he's done, he makes a spread of it on makeshift tray from the previous night, and brings it over. Naked, because he hadn't bothered to put the towel back on, but hopefully that's a plus in Ian's book. Softly, in case he's dozed off again: ]

Breakfast.

[wittingly]

[ It's those small things like that, like the hand slipping under his back without even a second thought on Mace's part, the kiss to the corner of his mouth. Those are the kinds of things that are breaking his heart. They're instinctive, they're touching, they're the kind of caring Ian's not used to having in the slightest.

Take it easy to Ian apparently means laying on his side, curling gently as much as his stomach will allow, and watching Mace through his eyelashes while he goes about prepping. Can't put his finger on when it is he started drifting again, only that he'd been lulled back into the start of sleep by the time it's over.

His eyes flicker open and his head lifts up a little like a groundhog peering out of its hole. ]

Hey, is that coffee?

[ Raspy with sleep, priorities clear. Coffee comes before all. Coffee comes before people. He wants coffee more than air, please. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Dozed off seems to be about right — but Ian perks up at the scent of coffee like some small, sleepy creature nosing out of its nest. In his pile of blankets and the soft folds of the robe still around him, he really looks like one, and it’s cute as ...

Fuck. When was the last time he thought somebody was cute? ]

Just the three-in-one powdered stuff, but it smells like the real deal.

[ —and Mace ends up having to hide his grin into his soup at the sight. He’s drinking it straight out of the can he’d heated it in, making it do double-duty as both his morning mug of something hot, and his breakfast, because he's a godless heretic who has no strong feelings about coffee one way or the other.

Looks like Ian's got a taste for it, though, and Mace is glad he had the presence of mind to nab it, seeing the way Ian likes it. Their fingers brush together as Mace hands over the steaming little cup, careful to make sure Ian's got a good grip on it before letting go and taking a seat next to the tray between them. Pauses and then reaches over to pick up the towel he’d left earlier, placing it in his lap not out of any sense of modesty, but practicality. ]

Grabbed a box of it; it’s all yours.

[wittingly]

[ Two weeks ago he'd have scoffed at three in one like the coffee snob he is. Well, if you can call an avid Starbucks fan a snob, really, but still. Now, after two or three? Three? Days of hell, he'll take literally anything resembling it.

In stark contrast to Mace, his soup goes ignored in favor of wrapping both hands around his coffee and sitting up against the headboard to drink it.

He realizes in hindsight Mace was nude, and let it be a testament to just how deep the need runs. Nudity second, coffee first right now. It's either wake up, sex or it's wake up, no sex, coffee, maybe sex. The first twenty minutes decide that.

Now that it's in his hands and on his lips, his eyes sweep over Mace's torso appreciatively.

If Mace remembered his dreams, Ian might say something along the lines of, hey, you look like a guy who shot me out of an airlock one time. Somehow make it flirty. Downplay how the back of his mind's still uncomfortable over the whole dream.

Instead, maybe it's time to get serious. ]

We can't stay here.

[ He says finally, gently solemn. ]

We can't just keep going to sleep and waking up here hoping nothing happens. At some point, we need to pack and try to make it past the fog.

[hydraulics]

[ That appreciative once-over gets another grin out of Mace, more open this time — but it fades away with Ian’s next words, taking in the implications of leaving. Ian’s right, of course. Staying here isn’t feasible, despite whatever must be awaiting them out in the fog; he vaguely remembers the compromise he’d asked of Ian two days ago, to stay here until he'd healed somewhat.

In that time, he’d also nearly fucking strangled him.

What were the chances of that happening again? They’d been allowed a day’s reprieve — enough time for them to feel safe together, but long enough to also ensure that they were emotionally compromised in a far worse way than before. Maybe that had been the point; he doesn’t think their captors were banking on the two of them fucking, exactly, but … developing a deeper bond meant a possible psychological weakness to exploit.

It had been one thing to come to lucidity with his hands around Ian’s throat when their interactions had been more or less platonic. And if he were to do it now? Knowing the taste of Ian's mouth, the sounds he made when he came, how it felt to hold him in his arms?

Guilt is a bitter tang in his mouth as his eyes drop to Ian’s throat, briefly. Again that surge of protectiveness that he can't identify as being wholly organic, this time shot through with a strange pain. Then he’s nodding, downing the rest of his soup in two more gulps. ]

No time like the present. We can get packing after breakfast, start making tracks by noon.

[ And something of what he's feeling shows up in his face as he looks back up at Ian, a bit like he's been thwapped on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. ]

How's your wound?

[wittingly]

[ Amused as he is by the look, there's still a gentle firmness to his tone. ]

Fine.

[ Really, he means it. His throat doesn't scratch up his words anymore, hasn't since the swelling went down the day before. There's bruising, the flesh is a little tender, and swallowing anything thicker than soul might suck, but... throat's fine.

Stomach is... manageable. It's gross looking, a pink and flesh toned marbling pattern raised and flaking in places. There's nothing sexy about healing burns, and he can feel pieces crack or distort the skin around it when he bends forward or twists too far. It sucks, but it's a level of pain he can tolerate if he has to push it too far. Climbing, running, he could manage.

He'll want to keep it covered, keep air and dirt as far away as possible so the scabs don't get infected, but that's... more surface level. Less risky than that deep gut-wound possibility. So fucking glad he cauterized, now that the pain's a memory.

He opens his mouth again to speak, but before he can manage anything there's an extremely polite knock at the bedroom door.

He freezes like a deer in the goddamn headlights. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Of course. As soon as they expressed an intent to get the hell out of dodge, along came a fucking spider.

Almost a hundred percent chance that whoever had come knocking was one of their former medical acquaintances; it was too polite, too unassuming. And if they're still listening in on the two of them in here ...

It gives Mace an idea, the sudden spike in adrenaline tempered by it. He sees the way Ian's frozen up, and making firm eye contact, shakes his head once. Left to right, slowly. Puts a finger to his lips and then nods over toward the window, an unspoken direction: get over there, getting to his own feet simultaneously. Knots the towel around his waist and then keeps on talking as if nothing's amiss, because that's the idea — play dumb to get a few more minutes of time. ]

That's a relief. [ He means this, though. Thank god Ian had healed up somewhat; thank god, too, that they hadn't their little visitor when they were both unaware and asleep, no planning time and fresh out of a nightmare. ] Maybe we can stay a little longer.

[ Spoken as he picks up the hammer, the screwdriver, and the book of matches. Hands off the screwdriver to Ian, heading for the window with the hammer ready to start prying apart the nails as quick as he can. Priority is getting Ian out through the window first.

If, that is, the space outside was devoid of zombies. ]

[wittingly]

[ Slowly, numbly, Ian shifts himself off the bed. Edges around toward the window - somewhere off left of the frame proper, in case something punches through the goddamn wood and snatches him by the throat like a horror movie.

His heart rate spikes. Breathing goes a little short. All from a fucking knock.

His mind's eye can see the vacuum of space, a receding door getting smaller, four doctors over top of him cutting him open while the rest of him cracks like glass. Fuck, shit, fuck, now is not the time. Keep it together.

Mace no sooner pries out the first nail than a polite knock comes from the window right before him. Ian jerks, startled and jumpy, to peel away from it with his hands tightening around the handle of that screwdriver.

There is no banging. The door does not suddenly burst open the way it had that first day. No rattling on the hinges, no creaking to indicate they're somehow pushing the nails through.

Just the knock, and then the quiet. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Well, fuck. But in a way, Mace should've seen it coming; if he had to close in on somebody, he'd do it the same way. Trammelled in on both sides.

Out of the corner of his eye as he continues to pry out the next nail, this time with a growing scowl on his face due to the realization that there is one of those fuckers on the other side, he catches a glimpse of the way Ian startles. It's more than just out of surprise, of course it is; it's dread and panic and the memory of the last time they'd heard these knocks, and what had happened afterward.

Mace pauses, taking a step back and to the side, so he's closer to Ian. Doesn't look his way just yet because he's thinking hard of what's the best way to do this. Either way it'll be bloody; his job is keeping Ian out of the mess as best as he can.

Through the door means being trapped in with no exit. Window's the lesser of the two evils, because at least that way, they have somewhere to fight their way toward. ]

Ian, I need you to make a small bottle of tequila. Can you do that?

[ In an undertone, stepping up close so he can say it right into his ear; low and steady, almost calming, his free hand going out to grip Ian's shoulder bracingly. ]

[wittingly]

[ He thinks - and it isn't a great leap to make, frankly - that he might have some deep issues developing. Post traumatic stress disorder, something involuntarily seizing control of his bodily responses despite his mind's frantic effort to stay calm. Stay in that level place of rational decision-making. It's beyond choice, though, beyond control, the way his breathing's picking up and the panic's flaring bright and the way it's making him lightheaded.

Fuck, fuck. Deliberate breathing. Concentrate on your breath. Slow inhale, slow exhale, do not pass out, do not throw up.

Mace's body blocking out the room is a welcome, grounding thing. Familiar smell, trusted shape, easy low voice that pulls him out of his head for a second.

Small bottle of- ]

Are you gonna fuckin' molotov them?

[ He breathes, incredulous.

Well, why the fuck not, right?

Palm up. Dim blue glow. Slower this time than before, because the glass has to come first and then the liquid sifts between the glass's molecular structure --

More than one component is time consuming, but he manages it. Twisty cap and everything. ]

[hydraulics]

Good man.

[ That is precisely what he had in mind, and Mace's fingers squeeze down in appreciation this time, adding a reassuring little shake at the end as he searches Ian's expression intently, before he moves back to the window.

He wishes there were more time on hand for him to stay with Ian for a second, to firmly lift him out of the mental quicksand his body's fear response is pulling him into, but out of everything else, it's time they're strapped most for. Time that's gonna make the difference when he pulls down the plank and lobs a burning bottle at whatever the fuck is on the other side.

Hopefully a task to concentrate on, something palpable and immediate, work that he can do with his hands and push the focus of his mind toward, will help ground Ian in the present.

Last thing to do is tear a scrap of cloth from the sheets to douse into the tequila, and there's just two nails left to pull when Mace turns back to the corner Ian's in, holding up the plank on either side. ]

Done?

[ Mouthed out, with a hand out to tell Ian to stay where he is. Fuck, even worse than the knocks is the expectant, looming silence that's now on either side of them, at the door and window both. ]

[wittingly]

[ He nods, mostly because he doesn't trust himself to speak. It helped a little, kept him from getting blurry around the edges of his vision. Kept his hands steady while he worked, dousing the thing and plucking up his pack of matches. He fists them tightly, and though there's a set to his shoulders it's pretty clear he's out of his depth.

He has never, in any daydream, ever thought he'd have to fucking molotov something. He's ready to pass them over the second Mace makes it clear he'll be doing the chucking instead of Ian.

Convinced himself he's gonna fuck up and drop the matches somehow in the moment of truth or something equally as devastating.

But he's ready.

They're ready.

On three, a nod, a silent countdown, and--

There's nothing on the other side of the window. Not a goddamn thing but open space and trees and undisturbed mud. ]

[hydraulics]

[ The foggy emptiness that greets them outside stumps Mace for about as long as it takes for him to scan the area as thoroughly as he can without sticking his head out the window. Nothing. Not even right underneath the sill.

So, trying to psych them out, then. Or a diversion from the main threat, which might still be behind the door. Lull them into a false sense of security.

Leaves two options, and he lifts the plank back up to the window, holding it in place with the hammer as he leans toward Ian and says, softly: ]

Can go either way with this. We hammer up the window again, face the door next, second verse same as the first — [ Meaning, they square up with their molotov cocktail at the ready for whatever's behind the door. If there's anything behind the door. ]

Or we exit right now. Out the window.

[ There's a third option, but it's not one that Mace even tries suggesting — splitting up. One person outside, one on the inside. There's no way he can leave Ian on his own, not like this. Not unless there was something that forced his hand to do so. ]

[wittingly]

[ He cannot for the life of him understand what the game is here. What the strategy is. The door, the window? There's nothing going on behind them, the dresser is still in place, it's still nailed shut. There are no signs of life outside, no indication that there's ever been. Is it meant to convince them to open the door? Is it meant to get their anxiety up? Remind them that the aren't safe?

He doesn't fucking know, and the more he tries to assign logic to it the more circular his thoughts become. Looping, unresolved spirals.

He'd shoot down any plan to separate them with absolutely no shame and no quarter. He can't do it. He won't. Not again, not after the last time - nothing to do with the hands on his throat, everything to do with that misery he felt hearing Mace's voice on the other side of the door pleading for help.

And his own selfish fear.

His hand glows blue. Fabric knits itself slowly together while he answers: ]

Window. Grab anything we have left and let's go.

[ Any remaining food. A simple, unimpressive bag finishes forming after he wraps his hands around the strap. It's not sturdy, not strong, it's a cross-body affair with a deep pocket and nothing else. Big enough that he can tug the quilt off the bed and shove into it, and still have some room left.

He can do bags. Blankets are harder. Easier to take it, and they'll probably be thankful for it later. ]

I can make clothes. Basics.

[ Since he's in a fucking robe and Mace is in a towel. Should've grabbed clothes from the laundry after all, but no time to think about that now. ]

You want them now or after we clear the treeline?

[ He can't prioritize. His sense of urgency is whacked out. His adrenaline, his stress, they're saying get the fuck out now. Scramble over the broken glass and bolt. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Window it is. Mace thinks he wouldn’t have minded the other option either, because the part of him that’s been getting steadily pissed off at whatever game was being played at their expense might’ve liked a little blood at this point — but no, the risk to Ian that way would’ve been too high.

That is, if there was anything behind them at all, and not just another arm of this MD-funded psych op. It was entirely possible that the cabin would be empty, which might give them something of an edge, what with the actual pants out there in the laundry, and more supplies to grab in the kitchen.

But. Window, and more importantly, the rising panic he can see in Ian's face, in the set of his shoulders and jaw, even as he magics together an impressive-looking bag out of thin fucking air. Not that he blames him, hell no. It's just ... ]

Treeline. Ian, hey. Look at me for a sec.

[ He crosses the distance between them in two strides, not reaching for his shoulder this time around, but his face. Cupping it in his hands, holding his gaze with a sudden intensity. His eyes lower to Ian's mouth and it's probably obvious that what he wants to do is kiss him, one last time under this goddamn roof.

Instead of that, though. ]

I am so glad you're a wizard.

[ Fervently, with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It's not wholly a joke.

And then he's off toward the bed, toward their supplies, to finish up so they can leave. Yanks off a pillow-case and starts stuffing it full of whatever essentials he can grab from their stash. A split second's pause and then he's grabbing the little box of Nescafé three-in-one, too.

Then it's back to the window, and he spreads the other pillowcase as a sort of protective layer over the broken, jagged edge of the glass before turning to Ian. ]

Toss the bag first, then you, then the supplies. I'll bring up the rear.

[wittingly]

[ It's like he can read Ian like a book. Like he's somehow incorporated the science of what makes him tick into his aerospace engineering degree. The if, then of Ian Fowler. If he's having a panic attack, then gently grab him by the face and snap him back into the moment. Give his mind a fighting edge over his body, the advantage he needs to take back control over himself.

He'll eventually get there. Through sheer exposure alone, through experience, he'll become desensitized to this fear. Probably. Maybe. It's just gonna take more than three days, is all.

His lips twitch up at wizard.

God damn it, James.

They're ready to go. He's ready to go, and never see this fucking cabin again. The bag goes out, five or six feet to the grass below. Ian's next, easy enough because this isn't the kind of physical he struggles with. Doesn't take much core strength to pull himself up into the window ledge and then transition himself over without lingering too long on glass.

He drops easily, gracefully down. Plucks up his bag again, slings it over his shoulder.

Feels anxiety clench at him almost immediately, leftover from the last time they weren't in the same room together. ]

Hey, c'mon, please. Now. No last minute grabs, just come on.

[ Seriously, he's got that creeping fear that something's going to keep Mace in and seal him out, or the goddamn earth will swallow the building up whole and leave him behind alone.

It's fostering codependency. He's gonna start struggling to be outside of arm's reach before you know it. He's not proud of it. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Mace had been prepared to give Ian any sort of boost he might’ve needed, including lifting him up and bodily lowering him out of the window if required, but turns out Ian’s got this covered.

Even before Ian hoists himself up after the tossed bag, though, Mace can see it in his face — how ready he is to get out of this place once and for all. The panic had receded a few moments before, when he’d held Ian’s face in his hands, seen the little quirk of his lips in response. But he can sense that it’s starting to lap at the shores again, and it comes as no surprise to hear Ian’s voice from outside, telling him to hurry up. ]

Not grabbing nothing, I’ll be right out. Step back, I’m gonna throw the hammer.

[ In hindsight, maybe not the best idea to announce his intentions in a voice that strong or that carrying, but there’s something in him that wants to reassure Ian before anything else, do something about the anxiety in his voice that seems to go beyond just negative association with the cabin itself.

Like he's spooked.

He ties a knot in the supplies case and then tosses it out of the window, the hammer inside — nothing else in there that he needs to be particularly careful with — and then gets ready to swing himself over the ledge.

Barely gets a hand on the sill when something grabs him by the fucking ankle and wrenches him backward.

It's with such force that he hits the ground with a deep, echoing thud, his face exploding with pain as it slams into the hardwood cheek first. Completely winded for a horrible second. The sheer shock of it keeps him from uttering a single sound, not even a curse making it past his lips. Fuck. Fuck, what the fuck grabbed —

Something starts dragging him back, and Mace half-gasps, half-snarls, reaching forward blindly to grab the only thing he can — a shard of window glass in the corner, turning around with every intent to slash —

— the … bedsheet. Wrapped motionlessly around his ankles as if he'd accidentally pulled it with him, and fucking son of a bitch, Mace knows the sheet hadn’t been there before. It hadn't. But then, how the —

His breathing picks up and goes unsteady as he stares behind himself uncomprehendingly, and then he’s scrambling back onto his feet and swinging out onto the grass below without even looking to see where he lands. Miraculously, the towel's still around his waist.

When he gets to his feet, his face is paler than before, with the exception of a shiner clearly popping up under one eye. ]

[wittingly]

[ There's a shout on his lips the second Mace disappears from view. It doesn't make it much farther than that. By the time Mace is upright again looking out the window, Ian is gone. It's too fast, it's almost instantaneous, there before he fell and not there after, not even in the distance. There's nobody, no footsteps, no blue masks, no doctors in the trees.

Nothing but a scattered trail of supplies leading toward the woods, random haphazard distances between things dropped like a hole cut into a bag of grain, dragged out for yards and leaving seeds to mark the way. His bag. A can. Instant coffee. A screwdriver. A rumpled blanket. His robe.



He's pulled back with that same sucking force as he'd been ripped from the airlock. It's exactly the same feeling, with the air ripped from his lungs and the devastating certainty he's going to die. The cabin rushes away from him - or so it looks like from his perspective - followed by trees shooting by on either side. Branches whipping against his bare back, snapping thorns and twigs and leaves until he's deep, dark, who knows how far away from everything.

(From Mace.)

It lasts until his back slams into a tree, then abruptly stops to allow him to crumple to the ground gasping ineffectually. The wind knocked out of him. Black spotting his vision.

When he finally pulls down a wheezing gulp of air, when he finally recovers and stands, he's surrounded by fog, fucking naked, alone. ]

[hydraulics]

[ It’s not just coffee that Mace doesn’t feel much of anything about. No drugs, no smoking; even drinking was for the social aspect of it, because anything that altered his experience of reality was unnecessary.

So, going through a psychedelic trip — because that’s what this has to be, he thinks numbly, looking around to find that Ian’s gone, that his bag is gone, that even the fucking cabin is gone when he turns around — this is his first time, and he realizes he has to orient himself without any prior understanding of what’s possible, what isn’t. If there'd been hallucinogens seeping into the room while they slept ...

There could’ve been somebody in the room with them the whole time, and they wouldn’t have known. Could’ve been the reason why Ian was so much more on edge than Mace had been, even with his past trauma taken into account; his other senses picking up on something that he couldn’t see, some predator in the dark, watching him. Watching them.

Entirely possible that the cabin is exactly where it was, and he just can’t see it.

He and Ian could end up walking right by each other and not know it.

Mace pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and focuses on absolutely nothing for exactly thirty seconds. When he opens his eyes again, the catastrophizing he’d been inching towards is gone, and he’s staring at the trail of scattered supplies leading into the woods with a calculating expression.

All right, what does he know? Ian can: make water, can make a weapon. Make matches, can knit together something basic to wear, anything made up of simple components. What is it that Ian can’t do? Protect himself. What’s Mace’s remaining function, because without food and water and any physical protection from the elements, he has about seventy-two hours before he loses all efficiency?

Provide backup, protect Ian indirectly. Which means no aimless wandering and calling out Ian’s name, giving away either of their positions and thereby putting Ian in danger. His toes dig into the soil underneath, almost literally grounding himself, and then Mace is moving forward because that's the only thing left to do.

The trail up ahead is as good a lead as he's got — starts with his hammer, which he picks up — and he follows it into the woods, into the fog. ]

[wittingly]

[ It's cold. He doesn't remember what season it was, he realizes suddenly. It's like grasping at water, it slips through his fingers even though he thinks for a second he's got a hold on it. He doesn't remember if it was winter or summer, but he knows right now that cold is seeping into him like those middle days of fall.

It isn't dangerous yet. It isn't frigid. It is enough for him to disregard all thought, all panic, and focus instead on glowing himself clothes. One set of briefs. One plain white shirt. One extremely simple pair of jeans - it takes longer, denim is hard for him and he never could figure out why. One flannel shirt, the only one he can make, one he's made over and over again identically since he was seventeen and really into Kurt Cobain. Socks.

Shoes take the longest. They're surprisingly fucking complicated, he's learned exactly one pair and it involved practically doing goddamn surgery to get it right. There are layers you don't even think about. A mix of four or five different kinds of material.

He settles down on a tree root to do it, dipped beneath a layer of fog that floats up densely at chest height when standing. Keeps his back to the bark, with his eyes snapping up every few seconds to search the minimal distance he can see. For once, his glowing forearm isn't reassuring - it feels like a beacon, like he's raising a red flag despite the fact that no eyes - animal or human - would be able to make it out from ten feet away.

It wasn't animal or human that dragged him out here. Ripped his robe off in the process.

Do they know what he can do? Surely they must. Do they know it was pointless, that he can make the things he needs to survive? Maybe, maybe that's why they ripped him away from Mace. To make them both more vulnerable while alone. To punish them for plotting an escape.

Ian gets no protection while he's wounded, nobody who knows how to actually fight rather than his panicked under-trained "stab them if you can reach them" approach.

Mace gets no resources. No water, no food, no tools, no shelter - nothing, save what he can pick up scattered on the earth or harvest from the trees.

What's the fucking point, though? It could obviously kill them, whatever's doing this. The only rational explanation is simple and incredibly unfair.

Someone just wants to watch them suffer. New and unique ways of it, considering present circumstances.

His high-tops are barely tied when he hears the first cracking branch break off of a tree some ten yards away. His head snaps up, his throat catches, and there's a long, long debate over whether or not that could be Mace. Whether he should go toward or run away from the sound. Frozen again, because apparently he always freezes now.

(And cracks apart.)

The second breaking branch is what decides it for him - closer, close enough that he can make out over the fog the way the entire god damn tree is spasming back and forth like something great and terrible is swaying it.

He bolts in the direction he was dragged, barely mindful enough not to go tripping over tree roots. ]

[hydraulics]

[ The only silver lining to this mushroom cloud is that it’s not fucking snowing. Or raining. The chill that hangs in the air is damp and clinging, and Mace knows by nightfall he’s gonna be feeling it for real, especially in his extremities and his chest — but it’s not the kind of cold that can really bother him anymore. Not after the coolant tank, although he finds he has a new, special hatred of it precisely because of that.

Right now, though, there’s something more immediate on his mind. Keeping track of time is one of the most futile things he could attempt to do, but from what he can tell, it’s been well over a goddamn hour, and nothing. Not even the rustle of leaves, or the sound of small animals — there's a heavy stillness lying over the entire forest that’s setting his teeth on edge.

All around him, the grey malevolence of the fog remains the same, a perpetual near-dusk.

What Mace is keeping track of, however, is his step count. For one thing, it’s telling him how far he’s travelled — about a mile and a half, going by his usual brisk pace. For another, it tells him that the distance between each scattered thing he finds is irregular. Random. Ian's robe, which he’d slipped on. The quilt, which he’d rolled up into a ball and left by a tree stump, in case they could retrace their steps. A sad, crumpled packet of instant coffee that he’d pocketed into the robe immediately, without letting himself think about why.

No pattern. Not intentionally dropped. Pulled out of Ian’s grasp, maybe, when he’d been dragged —

Fuck, he doesn’t want to think about that. Can’t think about that. The one thing keeping him going, the one thing he has, is the hope that Ian’s out there, alive. He’s gotta hold onto that and not let go.

If something had happened to Ian — he’d know. He knows he’d know, because whatever the fuck was doing this to them would waste no time rubbing it in his fucking face, making it clear to him that he had absolutely nothing to keep fighting for.

Less than five hundred steps later, he hears something go off in the distance, a crack like a gunshot, and freezes mid-step.

It’s not a gun. There’s something in the trees, and it’s moving — it’s moving fast, and by the sound of it, it’s headed right in his direction.

Mace has barely enough time to make a judgment call of what he should do before he’s cursing and grabbing onto one of the low-hanging branches of the tree next to him, a great, sleepy beast of an ash tree. He swings himself up to the second branch and then goes still as he listens hard. For anything.

What he hears instead, is.

Is.

His blood runs cold, and then an angry heat suffuses him, chest to throat to face, knowing whose voice it is that he's hearing. That these fuckers are making him hear, because there's no way. No, this is a fucking distraction, or a trap. Like when they'd made him see a surgeon instead of Ian, trying to get him to attack — to kill. Or just a way to derail him so that he loses his focus and misses Ian passing right under his goddamn nose —

Mace's face hardens and his hand goes white-knuckled around the hilt of the hammer, the other tightening around a branch so hard that it creaks, wood cutting into his bruised palm. ]

[wittingly]

[ He can feel breath on his neck. He can feel something breathing down it, sweet and teasing and sharp and threatening - it's not a phantom sensation, his hair moves beneath the weight of it, strands fly forward and into his mouth. The fear in him is beyond anything that can be described in any way other than primal. It's that bone-deep built-in survival mechanism, that thing in humans that just knows things and those things save their lives. It's what drives children to nightlights. It's what renders people speechless and immobile before predators and deadly snakes.

He knows that if he turns around and sees it, it will fucking kill him. Really, really, he knows. Not even just turning, if he catches a peripheral glance, if he sees a fucking reflection, he knows it'll be the worst thing he's ever felt.

And he knows he's not going to outrun it. That it will follow him. He knows that it's that making voices ring through the trees around him that are familiar, sometimes Mace, sometimes his mother, sometimes threats and pleas and gentle encouragements. Sometimes just his name, a sharp and sudden sound like I found you, please look, it's me, I'm over here.

He is fifteen years old again. He's a fucking kid, dodging around trees like the time he saw someone's severed finger rolling across the stained and water-softened wood of a dilapidated house. Knew then that the rest of the body was nearby, he thinks, and that's why he bolted.

It's Mace that makes him stumble - not the phantom sound of him, not distant screaming or haunting voices. It's spotting him on a low-hanging branch, and the devastating fact that he doesn't know. That he's searching the fog, deliberately searching it.

He's gonna have to apologize later.

Momentum carries him forward, a fallen tree makes for a push-off point, and it's with that he grabs him by the ankle to yank him down off the tree. ]

Shut your eyes-

[ It claws its way out of his throat, and god hopefully Mace recognizes him this time because there's not a single second of pause before he's clamoring over Mace's body, whether or not it's injured, whether or not something's sprained or bleeding, it doesn't matter, whatever it takes to get him close enough that Ian can slap a hand over his eyes to keep him from seeing whatever it is that breaks through the treeline behind him. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Whatever’s coming his way, the speed’s picking up in a way that has Mace suddenly doubting that it’s Ian. The unease of that thought cuts through the anger swirling deep in his chest, through the echoing in ears from the voices he’s trying his damnedest to ignore, and it has him suddenly straining to see it through the fog.

The branches across from him start moving, and he knows it’s only a matter of minutes. Something shapeless wavers in the distance behind the trees, and —

And then a warm, human grip wraps around the foot that’s lowest on the branch, and Mace doesn’t even get the chance to yell before he’s being pulled down like a bunch of grapes.

Second time he’s been grabbed by the ankle in as many hours, but it’s not the yanking that hurts him this time — it’s his own damn self, the wood tearing into the flesh of one hand as it rips free of the branch through sheer momentum. The hammer’s still in the other, and he swings it out in a wild attempt to catch himself on something as he’s wrenched down.

Ends up cutting into the tree instead with the sharp end, and there’s a hideous, grating pressure on his shoulder as the hammer drags along the trunk on his way down, pulls it right out of its socket. And that’s what gets a sound out of him, finally; raw and agonized, muffled in his throat as a body clambers over him, his own struggling back and forth underneath the weight of it before he realizes that it's —

Jesus Christ.

It’s Ian. Except.

Shut your eyes, and the blind, animal terror in Ian’s voice somehow manages to pierce even the white-hot veil of pain clouding his head. Nothing like he’s ever heard out of him before; it’s a fear that calls to something instinctive and primeval in his hindbrain. Evolutionary memories of predators stalking the mouth of the cave, just beyond the firelight. The worst kind of danger.

It’s contagious; his eyes are squeezing shut even before Ian’s hand fully covers them, and Mace tenses up beneath him, gritting his mouth closed for good measure, every sense on red-alert despite the pain radiating out of his face, his hand, his shoulder.

Everything’s gone quiet. His heart thuds hard and quick in the silence, and he can feel Ian’s heartbeat pressed against his — can’t even fully feel the relief that comes from that sensation because whatever the fuck it was, it’d scared Ian bad enough for him to be reduced to this. Had it hurt him? ]

Ian? [ Tightly and through his teeth, without his lips even moving; low as he can get it without whispering, because whispers carry. ]