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vestigechat2020-05-12 11:48 pm
vestigemods) wrote in vestigechat2020-05-12 11:48 pm
Entry tags:
inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.
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.
- 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! )
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:
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.
no subject
He's still feeling that humor when Mace shifts, when they reposition so that he can make eye contact with Mace as he puzzles it out. Except that's... not really how it goes at all, because as soon as his chin's tipped up and he sees the blue of Mace's eyes, he stutters. Mentally, that is - hasn't tried to answer yet, it's just his brain skipping a beat because of the way Mace is looking at him.
Because they track down to his lips and back again.
And, strangely, because there's just an inexplicable knee-jerk fondness at the sight of him. An attraction, and while in general attraction is a sexual thing by nature and he does feel that, it isn't the type of attraction he's particularly focused on right now. It's specifically this face, this recognizable face, these familiar features that seem to light up a part of his chest to instinctively say oh, I know him, that one's mine! Like- fucking bizarre and stupid as it sounds- Ian's excited to see him. Even though they've been sitting together this entire goddamn time. Even though they've been together for nearly a week without a single real break. He's just really, really attracted.
All of that takes place during the pause inside the stutter in his mind, and then he's mostly back on track - though his voice is still a little soft when he answers. ]
It's not Benjamin.
[ Wry, amused. Maybe surprisingly unbothered an unconcerned when he corrects the answer. ]
I don't have a father. Never knew him. Take a drink.
no subject
But Ian’s gazing up at him with his voice gone slightly soft, and a look on his face that makes Mace want to forget their game entirely and just ... ]
Well, let the record show, you'd make a great Ian Benjamin.
[ Teasing, even as his eyes very obviously telegraph the kiss he’s not going for. Yet.
Take a drink, huh? This time, although it’s with the same reluctance as before, there’s an edge of something else as Mace gently draws his hand away. It wanders down, down Ian’s lap until Mace’s fingertips land in the region of his thighs. Stroke around and dip in between them, in a deliberate, searching grope until he says with a sudden mock-surprise, ]
Oh, you’re holding it. My mistake.
[ He means the bottle, of course, and Mace’s fingers find it immediately after the fact as he grins, brief and sharp. Except they’re not wrapping around the protruding neck of the bottle, but the body of it, interlocking with Ian’s own so that they’re both holding it together, just like they’re holding onto the hilt of the knife.
Still not looking away from Ian’s face, his eyes, he brings the bottle up and tips down a burning line of it down his throat, open-mouthed. And maybe his wires are crossing a little, because after barely a second of pondering: ]
I’ve been called flyboy. I’m in my thirties. I've always wanted to be a dad.
no subject
That's not in his mind either. It's all been slowly and subtly removed, washed out by the moment, by the good he's feeling. By the stutter-start in his chest as Mace deliberately implies a kiss he doesn't deliver yet. An incredulous, ridiculous roll of breathy laughter at the damn hand searching his thighs that transitions into a bitten lip when he lifts both of their hands to drink.
It's tempting to ignore the game mid-question. It's tempting to be the one to pop that bubble, to lean in and kiss the terrible tequila right back out of Mace's mouth. To lick it from his teeth, to find a way to make a cave floor comfortable enough for them both to grind into...
All of it calm, lulling, rich, right up until I'm in my thirties. Ian's gotta groan at that - it's that one isn't it? ]
Please don't tell me I'm going crazy over a twenty-five year old, I can't be a cradle robber. I've had too many students try to make it happen, I've made it so far without dipping into another age bracket.
no subject
And yet all he can think about is — the next time it’s Ian’s turn to take a shot, Mace might just share it with him instead. Carefully pour it into his pretty mouth and offer his own tongue as a chaser, make him forget everything for a while that way instead. Drunk on pleasure instead of cheap tequila, drunk on each other in the way his body is clearly starting to get very interested in.
But Ian gets the next one right and Mace surprises himself with a bark of laughter at the bait Ian so neatly avoided with that first choice, and at the way he words himself. Cradle robber, Jesus. ]
Twenty-nine, so you’re safe, professor.
[ Oh, but that’s not all Ian had said, had he? Mace cocks his head to the side, his eyes going half-lidded and contemplative as he considers Ian for a moment. Sets the bottle down gently next to them but keeps their hands linked together, adjusting the weight of him in his arms until he’s all but laid across Mace’s shoulder.
Lowers his face close until he can brush their lips together, back and forth. Building up the anticipation for a kiss like they’ve got all the time in the fucking world, and then — ]
So, I’m makin’ you crazy, huh?
[ The words might sound teasing but he says them low and serious, the hint of growl in his throat. ]
no subject
He can't even point that out, though, because he replays the words that just slipped out of his mouth about one second before Mace calls him on it. Tries to swallow it all down with a wry expression rather than tip his hand, give away just how self-aware he is about it all of a sudden.
It's true, but it's not usually the kind of thing he'd admit to himself, let alone out loud.
Fuck it, though, right? Look at where they are.
And anyway, maybe it's a little worth it just to see the way Mace reacts, the way he reorients them, the look in his eyes, the flutter of his eyelashes.
Lips barely brush, but it's his fucking tone that sends a sharp spike of heat down Ian's spine. If he hadn't already been a little turned on from this game, this dance, this teasing back-and-forth, he sure as hell would be now. ]
A little.
[ He hedges, a low and quiet murmur. Intimate in the way it's subdued, meant for only someone as close as Mace is to hear.. ]
Maybe, yeah.
no subject
Secretive. Evasive. Low enough only for one pair of ears to hear.
Mace's answer is to pull Ian into a kiss that deepens almost instantly, something a little rough right out of the gate. No tentative licks at the seam of his mouth, no teasing nips to the soft weight of Ian's lower lip. It's a kiss meant to convey something very specific. It's a kiss that says mine.
Maybe it's the tequila getting to him after all, or maybe it's all the pent-up adrenaline from when they'd narrowly avoided that fucking demon-thing at the tree. The emotion that had swept over him when Ian's hands had first wrapped around both of his around the hilt. All of it serving to chip away at his usual state of unruffled impassivity.
Like what Ian's doing to him right now, has been doing to him since that moment in the master bedroom when he'd first learned the taste of his mouth. Those furs in the corner could get up and become a live fucking werewolf, and Mace wouldn't stop what he's doing for a second.
When he finally pulls back, he's breathless and his eyes are narrowed with intensity as he takes in what Ian looks like. Their curled hands are folded together across Ian's stomach, Mace having unconsciously attempted to hold him by the waist. ]
It's mutual, in case you couldn't tell. Mr. Cradle Robber. [ His mouth twitches, remembering the way Ian had pursed his lips earlier. ] Anyway, I might've been cheating with that. Was supposed to turn thirty, on the return mission.
no subject
When he pulls back Ian's a little breathless, pupils dilated wide and black, undeniably still fixated on Mace's lips even as he talks.
What's mutual?
Oh, right.
He hums a soft sound under his breath, an absent and considering mm that's almost more a stalling tactic until his brain can start firing on all cylinders again. ]
Do me a favor and call it thirty. I'm gonna be thirty four in a- well, I don't know. I haven't been able to remember what season it was, what month it was before I got here. In, um- in September, however long that is from now.
[ But honestly, who cares about that right now. He's too occupied by the sight of Mace's neck, the line of muscle stretching across it, the impulse to lean in and wrap his lips around it.
Only realizes he followed through on it once he tastes skin.
Wait- hang on-
He pulls back a beat later, brow furrowed. ]
What do you mean was?
no subject
But now that he’s gotten his answer out — licked it into Ian’s mouth with a demanding tongue, parted those lips with his own and held them open, wanting Ian to lose himself in the kiss, to know how much Mace wants him — he's content to slide back into the lazy tenderness of before. Tilts his head back with a rumble of enjoyment in his chest, as Ian’s mouth latches onto a patch of skin at his throat, eyes briefly sliding shut at the sensation.
He’ll do you any favours you want, gorgeous. In fact, he's about to say exactly that, interspersed with another kiss for good measure, when Ian’s next words make it all the way to the forefront of his mind. And then Mace realizes what he's inadvertently just said. ]
For the record, you don’t look a day over twenty-seven.
[ Despite the truth of his words, he’s stalling and he knows it, and he’s pretty sure Ian can figure it out too. Same as he’s gonna figure it out if Mace tries to pull a fast one on him about this, and faced with the prospect of it ... Mace finds that the idea of lying to Ian about anything is repellant.
If he lied to Ian about this, he wouldn’t really deserve to touch him again. A pause as he nudges Ian's nose with his own, his eyes going from dark and intense to something softer. ]
There wasn’t a return journey. We, uh. We were real close to the Sun when the mission went pear-shaped, and ...
[ According to what Capa had said, time and space would become indistinguishable the closer they’d approached the Sun; would become unpredictable, enmeshing and tearing apart the fabric of reality. It’s entirely possible he somehow went through a wormhole, some sort of intra-dimensional travel, although that doesn't explain how he's alive.
There’s another possibility that does, but it's one that he's not even gonna bother to entertain; it doesn’t make one fucking iota of sense. His thoughts on religion are as nonexistent as his chess skills, but even if he were a goddamn zealot, there is no way he’d ever, ever buy the idea that somebody like Ian would be in Hell. ]
I didn't think I'd ever have this again. [ Gently, his fingers instinctively stroking the backs of Ian’s knuckles. Do you see what he means? About you making this worth it? ] And honestly, I've never ... had it this sweet.
no subject
He's not gonna say it, though, because he's not falling for the bait.
There wasn't a return journey. It takes him a second to unpack that. Takes him two seconds to set aside the dream, drifting through space, too realistic - to shake off the thought of their positions swapped, watching Mace drift away. Fuck.
He died? Or did they take him from before he died? Steal him from his ship like a guardian angel?
How in the fuck do they have the ability to do that?
Well, those doctors were dead things. That thing in the woods was a fucking demon. Magic, magic is starting to sound like a real alternative, or at least science and physics so fucking advanced it might as well be magic to them. Just like a fucking smart phone would've been magic in the dark ages.
Jesus.
He's still churning on the thought, when Mace starts stroking his knuckles, dragging him back to the present. That concern, that confusion, it's all still scrawled on his brow through it.
Touched, by that last bit. Frightened by it, too, but he's been moving past that at light speed compared to real life before this.
Softly, carefully: ]
Like, you're sweet on me, or like your relationships before Cassie were rough too?
no subject
Nudges at Ian's brow with the tip of his nose thoughtfully instead, trying to smooth out that furrow and buy himself a little more time. Then, slowly: ]
Military brat. We moved around a lot. [ A shrug that seems to outline all the stuff he isn’t really saying: there wasn’t any time to form a bond that would last, so he hadn’t tried. ]
Then news broke out about the Sun dying. After that, there was no point. Not that I didn't want to, but … finding somebody just to leave 'em didn't sit right with me. Cassie was one night and a Plan-B, not a relationship.
[ A wry smile as he speaks, because he knows it might sound a little hypocritical, considering the situation they're in and the likelihood of how it's gonna end. But that's not quite the same as leaving; if he had the choice, he wouldn't. If he has the choice, he won't. ]
I am sweet on you, though. In case it wasn’t already obvious, what with the …
[ Breakneck speed at which they’d gone from Let's Home Alone a bunch of zombie doctors to I’m gonna kiss you in the shower and hold you close at night and I’ll fucking walk barefoot in the woods until I find you again —
But Mace waggles his eyebrows here instead, going for flirtatious instead of any further maudlin. And Ian had said right at the beginning that he didn't have anybody, but that didn't necessarily rule out the past, so. ]
How about you? Any suitors I need to fight off with a bat? You know I'm good for it.
no subject
God, does he understand not trying to form bonds. He didn't have the excuse of a dying sun to keep him from it, though.
One night and a Plan-B, and fuck that hurts him for some reason he can't put a name to. Maybe it's I always wanted to be a dad. Are you a father? I'm not.
And following it, the sudden overwhelming surge that rises up in him like high tide threatening to fill his throat with salty sea water: he has to get Mace the fuck out of here so that he can finally have kids.
It's still in his breath, in his slow exhale after the question. He shakes his head, and that low raspy drawl slips out of him, quiet and honest. ]
Told you I'd have left already, back at the cabin. I'd have left anyone. I don't... get attached to people. There's no point. I'm done with...
[ Something he can't name, and he shakes his head instead of finding the right noun. ]
I haven't since... Not since my mom died, my first year of grad school. Just flings, after that. Nothing real.
[ So much for no more maudlin. ]
no subject
Not since my mom died.
Grad school, and the long road after that on the way to becoming a professor. No other family, nothing more than flings. I don't have anybody. Mace’s arms tighten around the man nestled in them, protective as though he can ward off the emptiness of all those years. And this time it’s not a nuzzle at Ian’s forehead but a kiss, something instinctive and comforting. ]
That’s a long time to be alone. I think I understand a little of why, but …
[ Think because at the end of the day, what he has is just a hunch behind Ian’s thought process, or emotional process. Whatever it is that keeps him from letting himself get attached. ]
You ever thought about giving somebody a chance?
[ The memory of what Ian had said to him back at the cabin, though. I’d have already left. The longer Mace thinks about it, and about the panic in Ian’s voice whenever they’d gotten separated …
Christ, if he gets Ian out of this fucking place, the way he absolutely intends to — the priority hasn’t changed, if the exit plan requires him as a component, so fucking be it, but it can’t be his first immediate option. He’ll have to exhaust everything else first, make sure Ian's not alone unless there's no other way. ]
Let them have a shot at giving you something real?
no subject
A choice made out of fear and old hurt and unresolved problems.
She smoked through the entire time. Even through the chemo, she just kept smoking. Didn't qualify for a transplant because no doctor would fucking bother, even if she had the insurance to cover it.
Ian, honey, what's the point in stopping now if it's already got me?
She didn't have to leave him, she just did it anyway.
It's hard to swallow for a second, and his tongue passes over his teeth behind his lips. Shakes his head in lieu of speaking for a minute. ]
Nah, I'm... I'm good, man. I don't need it, you know? I have enough... stuff in my life.
[ Which is... it's a knee-jerk answer, and it doesn't accurately reflect the present anymore, does it? He needs Mace like he needs fucking breathing.
But he's been telling himself that line over and over for years. He has work, he has a social life, he has coworkers and students and projects and other forms of fulfillment.
He doesn't have to need anybody. He doesn't want to need anybody.
And where that leaves them, where it leaves them if they get out of here? He can't even... start to unpack it. That might be clear in his sudden quiet, and in the way he stares deliberately outward toward the opposite cave wall.
I don't mean you-
Or maybe he does. Fuck, he doesn't know right now. ]
no subject
From the sound of it.
It'd make things less complicated if Ian’d said it differently than he had, said it with full confidence and without having to swallow and pause, in a way that would leave no room for doubt in Mace’s mind. After all, he wouldn’t have to make sure he himself gets out alive too, could focus on Ian and Ian alone.
But Mace isn’t so sure he believes him completely right now.
The silence that follows is heavier than it’s been thus far between them, and Mace’s eyes flicker down to Ian’s motionless head — not forehead anymore, because he’s studiously looking at the wall across from them, mercifully devoid of foreboding obituary headlines. He wonders if they're thinking about the same thing right now, of a what if scenario where they both make it out of here together.
And maybe it's the thought of that which has him asking abruptly: ]
Anybody ever try to fight you on that?
[ He realizes after the fact that it might come across as him trying to present himself as an option, which. Judging by the silence Ian's settled into after what he just said, it's probably not what he wants to hear. Not something reassuring, but something claustrophobic instead, and they're already in a cave.
Great. This isn't what he'd been aiming for with that kiss, had only wanted to take Ian out of his thoughts and out of their bleak reality for a few moments, not shove him deeper into it. With a quiet humour in his voice that he's not entirely feeling, Mace adds, ]
A student get too pushy? 'Cause, you know. I'll punch out a freshman if I have to, I don't give a fuck.
no subject
Picks up on the caveat, too, and that it's probably an attempt to mitigate the assertiveness the first question implies. He offers up a small consolation smile to ease the tension out, a little fond, maybe a touch sad. ]
I appreciate the offer. Your willingness to punk out a freshman is an extremely attractive quality. But no. I've never really given them the chance.
[ He ghosts, or he does that "taking the high road" thing where he acts like "the bigger person" and calmly but resolutely states that it's not gonna work out, and he has to go, and that's it. End of transaction.
He shifts, knees coming up, one hand breaking away from their little hold to scrub across his face - mouth, beard, both. ]
I didn't mean to make it... complicated. Honestly, I don't know what in the hell I'm doing, man. I don't know what... If we met anywhere else I'd have bolted, but we're not anywhere else. We're here. So. I don't know what that means, or if I even know how to do...
[ This. Whatever they're doing. ]
I just know we're doing it.
[ In a... nonsexual sense, but like, that too. ]
no subject
I know, it’s on all my hookup profiles. [ Let he who hasn’t wanted a smarmy undergrad to get his goddamn lights punched out cast the first stone. It’s what Jesus would’ve wanted, too.
Although he’s still a bit confused, same as he was when they’d first touched on the topic with Ian’s college infatuation dude. Never really given them the chance —
In Mace’s book of one-or-two-or-maybe-three night stands, that’s usually along the lines of the final morning after conversation where both parties decide that was great, let’s not do it again. But that’s both sides, coming to a joint agreement. This sounded like it was something else.
But. Ian’s scrubbing a hand across his face, knees folding up, and there’s a continuing uncertainty in his voice that Mace automatically wants to make go away somehow. They’ve got enough to be unsure about as it is; there’s probably a fuckin’ dead body here somewhere, and knowing their luck and this place, she might decide to become very much undead soon enough.
What they have isn't something Ian needs to doubt, or worry about. Evenly, with a faint, sad smile of his own aimed at the back of Ian's tousled hair: ]
And we’ll keep doing it until we can’t. As long as you want it … [ In the non-sexual sense, in the sexual sense, and everything in between. ] I’m good. And when that changes, you make sure I know. That’s your only job. Until then —
[ Outside, the fog goes from a dim murky grey to pitch black, as if the Sun’s been swallowed by the horizon. All the steadiness in Mace is replaced by a sudden stab of disquiet; the hand Ian had let go of had been the one around the bottle. They’re both holding onto the knife still, Mace's grip tightening on it and trying to tug Ian a little closer at the same time as he sets the tequila down with a loud clink.
His now free hand goes out to fumble for the box of matches he’d left at their side, fingers picking one out blindly. It’s stupid of him, but he doesn’t want to let go of Ian in the dark. Not without the weight of him back in his arms, or the sight of his face. ]
Ian, hold the matchbox, I’ll light one up.
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He wants to say I don't let anyone in and I never wanted to, I still don't want to, but I'm pretty sure you're already in and I want you to stay there even though that fucking terrifies me.
But he won't, and he can't, because the world reminds them rather abruptly that what they're worried about is fucking stupid.
They should've been building a fucking fire. They should've been sharpening some fucking stakes and setting them up at the mouth of the cave. They should've been doing literally anything other than sitting together talking about their fucking relationship and he hates himself for it.
For the wash of cold sliding through every bit of him.
He grips onto Mace too tightly, like they're reading one another's minds. Never again, please never let go again, please don't let them rip one of us away.
He passes his free hand along the back of Mace's clasped one, so he can feel where to put the matchbox.
He needn't have bothered; the blue glow starts up of its own volition in Ian's wrist. Radiating out from the veins, the bones, traveling up through his wrist and into his palm. illuminating the immediate area with dim light. ]
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And he pauses, because for a moment he thinks maybe Ian's making something. But a beat passes with nothing forthcoming, and then Mace gives an anxious side-glance to the rest of the cave before a tiny flame flickers to life. Small, yellow light, enough for Mace to be able to see Ian's face in a warm glow when he lifts it up close.
All the pensiveness, the vague sadness and the humour and that strange-cute divot in the middle of his brow when he'd been listening to Mace, all of it's gone. Wiped clean, replaced by fear. ]
It's okay. Ian. Hey.
[ Fuck, but it isn't, or it won't be for long anyway. Mace could wring his own goddamned neck for wasting this much time. For letting the warmth of Ian's body seep into his own until he was half-thinking with his heart and half-thinking with his dick, instead of getting off his fucking ass and pre-emptively protecting that body.
For not telling him of what he'd seen on the wall behind them until now. ]
It'll be okay. But there's something I gotta. [ An amendment, as he shuffles forward a little, still gripping Ian's hand like a lifeline. The other hand sweeps the match around in a half-circle around them, with him not as worried about it going out, now that he knows Ian can summon up his blue light like a flashlight.
That worry comes roaring back cold and hard when he sees the far end of the cave.
The rucksack is gone.
The furs are torn open.
The lamp is shattered, upside down.
Do you know how he killed Mary?
The match burns out and Mace quickly goes to light up another one, cursing under his breath at how he fumbles one-handed. They're gonna need another slow-burning plate, they're gonna need another knife if Ian can manage it, but if he can't, that's fine. Mace just needs to get him behind him and not let go. ]
I think somebody was murdered here. It was written the wall behind us, I.
[ In the darkness in front of them, from the wall they'd been staring at not one minute ago, something gives a very low, very sibilant hiss. ]
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It's a kind of body horror he can't describe, that maybe Mace won't understand. Having this thing that's part of him, that he knows intrinsically, that he has always controlled suddenly be different is like-- it's like if colors switched in your eyes, and everything red was now green. You can still see, it's just wrong and that sudden change, that wrongness, it's scary.
I think someone was murdered here, it was written on the wall--
Why the fuck are they still here then--
Shhhh-
Ian's body moves faster than his mind. His knees were already up, it takes absolutely no thought for them to start skidding against the rock with enough force to drive him backwards, half-stumbling, half dragging Mace with the clutching grip they've got on each other's hands. It fills the cave with papery scuffing sounds, and it's punctuated by the sharp, staggering gasps that suddenly replace his breathing - that pre-hyperventilation sound. It's knee-jerk, it's pure flight, pure fear, instant distancing. Blue light illuminates them like a goddamn beacon, like bioluminescent fish in the deep, dark parts of the ocean where the sun can't reach.
He can't make it stop.
It isn't strong enough for him to see what's in the distant dark. ]
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The only thing that keeps Mace from getting even briefly lost in the sudden, ugly flood of fear in his veins is the sound of Ian’s breathing, ratcheting up from normal to something staccato and loud and gasping, a precursor to what sounds like some kind of an attack. He sounds terrified. Fuck. And Mace can’t even —
Mace firmly shakes the hold they’ve got on each other, a bracing rattle of fingers, his eyes still straining to see ahead of them despite how badly he wants to look at Ian again, help him, calm him down. Quietly: ]
Stay with me. I need you.
[ Okay. Okay, fuck. Think, Mace. They’ve got the knife. He has the matches, pocketed them right before that goddamn hiss that made the hair at the back of his neck stand up — he readjusts his grip on Ian, making up his mind. His peripheral vision able to tell him by the blue glow that Ian’s still right next to him, breathing fast and hard. Thank fuck for the tether.
Another hiss, slow and wet and dragging, echoes from the dark.
Mace grits his teeth, and starts moving slowly ahead with the match held aloft. The light passes over the bottle of tequila only a few feet away, which might probably come in real fucking handy very soon. Another step as he senses something up ahead, purely through instinct.
Stops when he’s about far as he can go without disentangling their grip, still with some give to the tether. Then the yellow halo of the match just about manages to shed light on what's in front of them, and Mace’s stomach turns to lead when he sees it.
It’s female. Long, straggling hair obscuring its face, head bent at a slight angle, arms rictus straight at the sides with fingers straining back unnaturally, the palms facing the floor, and the feet —
The feet.
They’re pointing backward.
Mace’s brain, for a handful of horrible seconds, stops processing what he’s seeing. Bony, bloodless heels facing him. Feet can’t be pointing backward. It shouldn’t be able to fucking stand if that were the case, wouldn’t be able to balance properly, Jesus Christ — ]
Ian. [ Barely above a breath, as he stumbles back to Ian’s side in the dark as quickly as he can without tripping over his own damn feet, letting the flame go out. It’s better that way. Positions himself so that he’s blocking the light of Ian's arm with his torso, standing right in front of him. ]
Gotta turn that thing off.
[ Again, a hiss. Drawn-out and watery and a lot closer this time, as Mace realizes with growing dread what that fucking sound is. It's fucking breathing. ]
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But mentally. Okay. Stay checked in. God, fuck, a big animal part of his mind doesn't want to. It'd be easier to succumb to the mindless instinct that his brain pulses with, the kind that deer get when they spot a hunter. He's not terribly far off from being one himself.
He can't. He can't.
Just a minute ago he was thinking, we gotta get Mace out so he can be a father.
Tries to use that to ground himself. Efficacy yet to be determined. A good stress test comes immediately, when that firelight match illuminates the thing sharing their cave.
Oh, god.
Oh, god.
His throat clicks shut, it has to, because otherwise he'd whine out a distressed what's she gonna do? Because they all do something, don't they? There's never one that just stands politely in the corner and minds their own fucking business. Lets them leave. It's never that.
But he's got enough composure not to do that, even if he's straining their grip with how hard he's peeling himself back up against that wall again.
Mace is in his space. Ian presses his forearms into his own chest to try and mute it, to softly whisper: ]
I c-
[ A false start, he has to swallow and try again. ]
I can't, I'm not doing it. I'm not- I think it's her.
[ Softly, with no explanation toward how he came to the conclusion.
He just...
The thing in the woods. The flickering of his glow that came from nowhere. The knowledge that the threat wasn't over as a result of it. This place... these things... they gotta be doing something to his body. The adrenaline, the fear, maybe - he doesn't know, but he can't fucking stop it. ]
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Chance of what?
Another rattling, damp intake of air, too close for comfort, too soon for it to make any sense because there’s no fucking footsteps, and Mace’s thoughts flash back to the way those fingers had been curled back, the rotting nails giving way to sharp, blackened bone.
If it. No, if she curled them forward instead — ]
All right, easy.
[ Breathed out gently, knowing what it must be taking for Ian to control his fear, is eyes trying to use the slight blue glow still in the air around them to track any movement in the dark in front of them. Ian’s not doing it, I think it's her, and somehow this godforsaken place must’ve managed to hijack his superpowers, use it for its own evil fucking purposes.
The methodical part of Mace’s brain wants devote time to figuring out why, and the more primitive, knee-jerk part of him is instantly furious, even through the rising fear, that they’re doing something so invasive to his person, which, what the fuck brain —
But they don’t have time. They have.
The knife, in the hand that Ian’s got a death grip around and Mace already knows there’s no way he’s gonna let go, and the bottle of tequila that’s too fucking far away for him to be able to grasp it and stuff it with cloth.
Ssssssssss —
Click.
That wasn’t. Her. That was …
Mace swallows and presses Ian back into the wall with something that’s almost a backward thrust at this point, and —
Click. ]
Ian, it's not a wall. [ A sudden, realizing whisper, because a lightbulb’s going off in his head that’s telling him, what if it’s not just a wall, what if it’s a fucking door. If Ian can feel along the stonework, find something that triggers it into opening —
The vague snatches of a plan are beginning to formulate in Mace’s mind, and he slowly moves forward again, this time with purpose, ears cocked and eyes peeled, albeit to very little effect. Doesn’t need to light up a match because he knows almost exactly where that tequila bottle is now, and it won’t be a molotov cocktail but it’ll be something.
His fingers close around the neck of it.
And that’s when he realizes he can't hear anymore hissing. ]
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Maybe it's just him. Maybe this place is changing him, maybe he's changing himself to suit it. All of the duress, the constant fear, the constant panic, the desperation for something, anything... Maybe this is the anything. Adapting like Darwinism. Lighting up to warn him against predators.
Luring them in might just be an accidental side-effect.
Although, sometimes in nature bright things mean danger. Snakes. Spiders. Bees. Things that are vibrant and colorful are typically venomous. Poisonous.
Maybe that should be reassuring.
It's not a wall what? He's- pretty fucking sure it's a wall, they were against it, they were looking at it, right?
Fuck it, he's going on nothing but trust. Mace is a fucking genius, if he's saying it with so much confidence then it's probably true. He reels his glowing arm away from his chest, turning so that they're nearly back to back. Shining his light on the reflective surface behind him while Mace dips for the tequila bottle.
They wouldn't have seen it in flickering firelight, centered in the middle of the room and casting strange shadows. They wouldn't have seen it in daylight, probably, with the way it streams from the mouth of the cave.
The only fucking way it's possible to have seen it is with this bright blue, this direct shine that lights up the perfect, straight edge - a seam that's almost-flush but not quite. Not natural, maybe man-made.
A sudden, frantic groping until he finds a groove that feels like a fucking hand print. ]
Fuck- I think I found it, I think-
[ He presses down. ]
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Now he’s well and truly blind. She could be anywhere. Sure as fuck isn’t gone; there’s still that alien, hunted distress prickling along his skin, the sensation of being watched in the dark. He picks up the tequila with fingers that are suddenly cold, his other hand in Ian’s grip starting to feel strangely clammy, his eyes darting around them in the heartbeat it takes for him to draw back to where Ian is.
Their backs touch. Mace wedges the bottle between his legs, fumbling for the matches as dread pools down his spine, lighting up a match. Nothing around them, nothing at the mouth of the cave, where the fuck —
I found it, Ian says, and the relief that lances through Mace is as short-lived as it is powerful, his reply dying on his tongue as the click of Ian’s hand is followed by a
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP SNAP SNAP.
It’s not the slow, grating sound of stone against stone as the wall gives way easily, becoming an opening. It's the sound of bones breaking, shattering, dead fingers turning into claws.
And it's coming from the ceiling.
Mace’s blood turns to ice, realizing in a single, terrifying second that he’s been outmaneuvered, knowing before he fully finishes looking up that she’d been hanging inches away from Ian, in the dark. In the rounded corner between the wall and the ceiling, just above their heads, crouched over them like a fucking spider — ]
Motherfuck!
[ Blindly, he smashes the tequila bottle into her head, yanking Ian back with his other hand at the same time. Alcohol drenches dark, matted hair, and this time, there’s no more hissing; this time there’s an ear-splitting, empty wailing that fills the cave as she starts crawling down the wall in jerky, hideous movements. On the floor, moving toward them.
Right before his match goes out, he catches a glimpse of her face, and there's no masking the terror that enters his voice. ]
Jesus, go, go —
[ Practically shoving Ian through the opening in the wall, clambering in after him backwards, their feet landing on what feels like stone steps as the wall groans and slides shut, plunging them into darkness. ]
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All the same, when he does spot her in the dim light, the way her body contorts, the way her limbs seem to go cracking and over in ways that the ligaments should not move like double-jointed splinters, it's--
Like looking into something empty. It's like looking into a void. It's like peering through darkness down a long hall with nothing in your peripherals and nothing behind you and nothing to look at but that. Rooted to the spot. Uncomprehending. Just flat out not fucking able to wrap his mind around the fact that she's reality.
And then Mace snaps him out of it, and his free hand skids on rock as they go stumbling over uneven path, as stone slides shut behind them and the ground dips firmly downward in sharp, curving grade. He misses a step and one of his knees buckles, nearly dragging them both down, down, down- but he hits level ground, there is no more falling, there is only the sound of muffled breathing in the dark. No transference. Utterly insulated.
Just the two of them, and their scuffing friction against rock.
Not even a fucking hint of light. Sheer absolute unpenetrated darkness.
He reels Mace in by the hand like some desperate creature, grabbing onto what he can feel in the darkness - shirt, shoulder, side, tugging him in until they're pressed together chest to chest and clinging on like somehow it'll defend either of them. ]
Sh-sh-
[ Not shushing noises, but the start of the word she that never rounds out. Almost more of a z sound, teeth bared too hard to hit the proper s. ]
Her face, her fucking face- she's not here, she's gone? Is she gone?
[ He doesn't fucking know. He's not glowing. There is no hissing, no clicking no movement but theirs.
Silence. ]
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