vestigechat | inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

Entry tags:

!tdm

inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

				
				VESTIGE TEST DRIVE MEME

WHAT IS THIS?

Vestige

The Box

invite-only

horror jamjar

Good Quality Suffering™️

ongoing

no official start date

literally nothing but this TDM

all powers intact

items

Intro + Friending

EDIT 5/20:

DISCORD SERVER

 PROMPT 1 ► just your ordinary cabin in the woods 

⬛ARRIVAL + GENERAL PROMPT

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

⬛MONSTER HORROR.

packed

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! )

 PROMPT 3 ► congratulations, you fucked up

⬛SURVIVAL HORROR.

easy

smoke

here

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

⬛PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR.

try

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.

 THE LOOP ► a note on replayability

left unbothered

sunrise

burnt

fall unconscious

reawaken in a perfectly undamaged cabin

CODE BY TESSISAMESS (patreon)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ A defensiveness flares up in him on instinct, that want to deny there's anything wrong with him or the choice he's made. To pretend like it's a totally reasonable choice, a healthy decision in any capacity. It's not bad because he's choosing it, right? It's not like he can't, it's not like there's something wrong with him preventing it, it's a choice. It can't be bad if it's a choice.

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. ]

[ Ah, so that’s where he’d fucked up that first time, back in the cabin. Psycho-analyzing him out loud, incorrectly feeling out the things in between the lines that Ian wasn’t saying — you do want a hypothetical somebody — because from the sound of it, it’s not just that Ian doesn’t need anybody, he doesn’t even want them.

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.

[ The question does take him aback, has him flickering his eyes over and up again to parse out Mace's intention. Why, are you gonna try? The little furrow in his brow doesn't give away much about how he feels about the idea, probably. An inscrutable little divot, a wrinkle.

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. ]

[ He glances down just in time to catch that little smile in the growing darkness of the cave, and returns it with a wink of his own; the humour's easier this time, more honest. ]

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.

[ He wants, more than anything, to find the right words to say that are both honest and reassuring. He wants to make promises he doesn't think he can keep, and he wants to believe them himself. It's an almost overwhelming urge all of a sudden to make Mace feel like he really... like this is more than just about surviving. More than just about here.

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. ]

[ The relief that goes through him at the feeling of Ian's hand tightening around his own is only comparable to the one he feels when a familiar blue filters softly from Ian's other wrist, even before Mace can strike the match to the side of the box.

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. ]

[ What's really fucking him up initially, what's fucking him up too much to feel comforted by Mace's voice, too much to notice the disruption to the furs is-- he's not doing that. He's not making it. He's not lighting himself up, it's just happening like it's beyond his control. The same way his heart rate is beyond his control. He's staring down at his hand with lips parted and staggering uncertainty gripping at him.

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. ]

[ One minute they’re both raised up on their knees, trying to get a better look at the rest of the cave with whatever light they can muster (or so Mace thinks) — the next, Ian’s all but hauling him back, until they’re hitting the wall with their backs flat against it, unable to physically go any further. Scuttling backward like some strange fleshy crab.

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. ]

[ Stay with me, and it takes Ian some real work to unpack that he means mentally rather than physically. He'd have laughed at that last one, if he could, because there isn't a force on fucking earth that could convince him to let go of his own free will right now. Nothing, not even if Mace asked him to, he doesn't think he could convince his fingers to unfurl.

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. ]

Edited 2020-06-17 01:37 (UTC)

[ I’m not doing it, Ian says, his voice so faint and shaken that just hearing it would be enough for Mace to know what state he’s in, even without the way his panicked breathing had been on the verge of hyperventilation. The distress is rolling off of him in waves and it has Mace inching into him with his whole body, unconscious and protective. Probably pressing him a little too hard into the wall behind the both of them, straightening his back and widening the stance of his shoulders, despite the way his hindbrain instincts are telling him to hunch them forward instead, reduce surface area and chance of —

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. ]

[ He doesn't even think - he doesn't even know if it's necessarily this place hijacking him. It might be, it might be her using it to locate him in the dark, but he's starting to think...

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. ]

Edited 2020-06-17 07:35 (UTC)

[ Only in the ensuing silence, punctuated faintly by the sound of Ian’s breathing, does Mace understand how he’d been relying on the godawful hissing as much as he’d hated it. Letting him know where that fucking thing was, allowing him to orient himself to where it was coming from so he could unconsciously meld his body in between the sound and Ian. Keep track.

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. ]

[ It is so, so fucking good that he can't see her. That, in his excitement, he didn't piece together right away the fact that she was over him. It's also good Mace is here, because he would not have reacted in time. She'd have dropped on him and probably snapped his fucking neck or worse, except that Mace yanks him back on sheer fucking instinct it seems.

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. ]

[ The darkness they’re in now is unlike anything Mace has seen before.

There’s nothing. There’s nothing, not even the faintest hint of light; Ian’s wrist had gone dark the moment the wall had slammed into place behind them. It's like being in the deepest part of the ocean, subsumed under the weight of black water, and for an interminable moment, the only sound is the blood in his ears.

He can feel Ian’s hand haul him in, finds that his own hand is already fisting into the back of Ian’s shirt even as their heartbeats hammer against together, needing human contact, needing Ian the way a drowning man might need air. Like it’s the only thing that matters.

Then the sound of Ian’s voice tremors and breaks the silence, short, staccato syllables forming the same question that Mace’s entire body is asking, every hair standing on end — and Mace swallows convulsively, unable to answer him for a moment. Not out of fear. Out of the bewildering sense of despair creeping in on him at the realization of what he’s just done to them. Where he’s pulled them into.

Christ, they could be anywhere. With anything, although at least not … ]

She’s gone.

[ Huskily, his hand going from Ian’s shirt to the back of his head, feeling gently along his scalp to make sure he hadn’t been grazed with any of the shards of glass — hadn’t hit his head anywhere in the ensuing scuffle when Mace had pushed him into a goddamn hole without even looking to see where they were headed. A miracle Ian had only tripped down one step, that Mace hadn’t fucking gotten him hurt further.

This, he thinks, is how Trey must have felt. That moment in the Icarus when the alarms had blared and they’d discovered that the shield hadn’t aligned with the rest of the ship’s trajectory.

Well, at least he knows the answer to the riddle scrawled on the cave wall, now. Her face, her fucking face —

Mary had gotten the life choked out of her until her eyes bulged out of her skull, red and wet, hands splayed at her sides, fingers scratching uselessly against stone until the nails tore open and the bone began to peek out.

And then he’d ripped the jaw clean off her head. Whoever the fuck “he” was. Or maybe something else had done that. Eaten away at the corpse, because the tongue had been gone, too, and her nose. Explained the breathing, the damp, rattling hisses; they’d got an eyeful straight down her horrible, empty throat.

Something twinges in his head at the thought — the feeling one might get when they’re forgetting a thing and can’t figure out what it is, like he's missing something here — but Mace pushes it away. Too distracted by the worry and guilt starting to gnaw at him, now that the icy flood of fear’s begun to recede.

Draws back from where his face has been pressed tight into Ian’s neck, his hand clumsily moving from the back of Ian’s head to his face, feeling out for any injury. ]

Are you — she get you anywhere? I get you anywhere? Fuck, I —

[ A blind, frantic kiss in the dark, almost missing Ian's mouth entirely. The need to be close twisting in his gut like a dying flower. ]

I fucked up, Ian.

No, no she- she didn't-

[ Get a hand on him, thanks to Mace. Always, always thanks to Mace, every single fucking time, the only thing keeping him alive. Reeling him in and protecting him without having the mutual relief of Ian being able to protect him back, god damn it.

But it's okay. It's okay, they're alive, he found the door, there's feet of rock between them and her. No way she can get through it. And with those broken, malformed hands... she shouldn't be able to open it. Ian's not even sure if she'd have the intelligence to open it, she seemed... feral.

Lips hit his cheek, he course-corrects for them quickly, dutifully, so he can press into it with just as much urgency. It's not open mouthed, it's not lustful, not the careful licking into teeth or the quiet statement of other kisses. It's lips on lips and nose smashing a little against nose, eyes closed out of sheer fucking relief despite the redundancy in the dark. Hovering at that peak, still, unmoving for long seconds before he peels back finally.

There's a careful exhale beside Mace's ear, shaky, some of the adrenaline tentatively leaving. He pulls back slow, and he focuses- god, he's almost afraid to, afraid of what will happen, afraid it won't work- focuses on his arm.

It lights up, this time pulling together atoms above it, working apparently to create another box of matches. No issues that he can see - but he's not watching it closely, he's too busy getting a furtive look around their space as much as his gentle glow will allow. ]

Fucked up- fucked up how?

[ And then a flashback to I think someone was murdered here. ]

Hey- yeah, if there's something written on a fucking wall that says someone was fucking murdered maybe that's the first thing that comes up in conversation next time?

[ Probably the first, the only time Ian's ever been annoyed directly at Mace and not just... peripherally because of pain or something out of Mace's control. ]

What the fuck man?

Edited (forgive the inbox spam im sry) 2020-06-17 19:17 (UTC)

[ He can still smell the lingering scent of sandalwood in Ian’s hair as he draws back from the kiss, and the shower that they’d shared feels like a hundred years ago. Back when Mace had actually been doing his damn job and keeping Ian safe, not actively endangering him, and the reminder is an acrid taste at the back of his throat when he swallows, watching the blue opalescence of Ian’s arm wordlessly.

Fucked up how? Ian asks, glancing around them in the faint glow, and Mace doesn’t even know where to start. Although. Ian’s next words. Yeah, that’s … probably the right place. Frankly speaking, it’s a shocker that Ian’s not more pissed because Christ, what a goddamn shitshow, courtesy James Mace. Thank fuck Ian wasn't hurt, or worse.

God, she’d been so fucking close. Right at Ian’s face, while Mace crept forward for the tequila like a drunken octogenarian instead of rush-grabbing it, wasted seconds that they hadn’t had, seconds that might've cost them more than they could’ve afforded. All because —

Yeah, what, Mace? Because what? Because this is the first time you’ve had something, someone, like this? How’s that gonna sound? I was worried about how tired you were getting, I didn’t want to add more to it, that knife came out half-formed and when I saw your face all I wanted to do was take you away from here, even if it was just in my arms—

Nothing but excuses. Nothing but passing the buck, and nope. He hadn’t done it on the Icarus when he’d unnecessarily lost his temper with Capa, and he won't do it now, either. ]

I lost track. [ Almost the same words he’d said back then, sitting in Searle’s office, and the spirit of the follow-up is the same, too. ]

It won’t happen again. [ Well, maybe this next part’s a little different. ] Thinking with the wrong head, you know.

[ Not quite; the organ he'd been thinking with had been smack-dab in his chest, but he doesn’t have the right to get into his feelings right now, and he still owes Ian some kind of an explanation that comes with full accountability. Even if it that all boiled down to I was waiting for the right time, Ian was right; that time had been right at the start of the conversation.

It's also a bit of a tactical move. Ian's annoyed; Mace making a dick reference might annoy him further. The more room there is in him to be pissed, the less room there is for fear. Less fear means, ostensibly, heightened chances of survival because fear dulls the senses. And also just because Mace plain doesn't like hearing Ian afraid, or in pain, or upset; wants to prevent that however he can.

His free hand dips down to where they're still holding the knife together, and he pauses to feel around for Ian's wrist. Brushes his thumb there, right at his pulse point, a strangely intimate gesture. And then he's gently freeing his hand so he can have the knife ready, because right now he's not even a bodyguard, let alone a damn prince. He's maybe the stable boy.

Striking a match has the following few benefits: one, he gets to see Ian's face better, satisfy the part of him that hadn't been content with physicality alone, needing visual proof of the fact that Ian was indeed unhurt. Two, now that they can see each other, Mace can mouth I'm sorry at him and have Ian see the apology in his eyes, too.

Three, somehow the lamp from the cave had managed to get dragged in, lying a few feet away from them at the head of the steps. It's still shattered, still overturned, but all it would require is a little oil and ... ]

Should I light that thing up?

[ If the answer's no, which it might be considering where the lantern had come from, Mace's fine leaving it there. Fine with lighting a match every step of the way, although maybe Ian can make, like. A stake or something. ]

[ His temper doesn't last long. It's just a flare of frustration brought on by adrenaline, by fear, by being fed up with this entire goddamn world. It mellows out quickly, because - at the end of the day, it wasn't really a slight. It wasn't on purpose. The kinds of things that Ian can hold heat over aren't remotely in this ballpark.

He feels a little guilty. Feels like an asshole for snapping, when all Mace has done - all he's done this entire time is try to take care of them. Protect them.

(Him.)

Annoying him further isn't really in the cards.

His fingers unfurl at the slightest prompting, compliant. His lips press together into a line that Mace can't see.

Should I light that thing up? ]

No.

[ Murmured firmly, warily. ]

I think I can make us something.

[ Since he seems to be... kind of in control right now.

He doesn't trust a single fucking thing this place provides anymore. No caves, no hospital masks, no refrigerators, no gurneys, no fucking windows, no voices, definitely no sketchy fucking lanterns that probably summon the devil when you light them.

His glow flares up again, but his free hand goes back to Mace's shoulder to curl around tight. ]

Hey, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. You couldn't have known that it'd mean anything, and we needed... something to think about that wasn't this for a while for our own fucking sanity, so. I'm sorry.

[ He's making another bottle of tequila - this time not for drinking. It's so they can dump a little on some cloth and make that torch Mace was thinking about, and so they can keep the rest to fucking Molotov something finally.

The torch, as far as he's concerned, is a short term solution. Medium term, if they can wait about twenty minutes he can make another long-burning ethanol can.

Give him three hours and he can make some hand-crank powered flashlights. ]

[ I think I can make something, and Mace’s attention immediately goes from the broken lantern to Ian’s arm, a little concerned at the implication. A box of matches was one thing, small and requiring less energy to make, but remembering the half-knife … maybe it wasn’t the best time for Ian to push his strength with something bigger.

But then there’s a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firm and conciliatory, and Mace is distracted. The apology, the touch, even the change in Ian’s tone and body language as he sets about making what looks like another bottle of tequila — all of that’s the opposite of what Mace had both expected and angled for. Confusion replaces concern briefly, and then Mace understands that Ian’s feeling bad, here.

For stating facts. ]

Ian. [ Both his hands are occupied right now, otherwise he’d be putting one on the fingers curled around his shoulder and patting it. He throws a look over his shoulder instead, a little fond, a little exasperated, before turning back to the darkness and making sure it’s clear in the span of time that the match goes out.

What looks like a long, stonewalled hallway stretches out in front of them, wide enough for about four men to walk abreast, and high enough that the ceiling is almost double Ian’s height. There’s still a worrying amount of damp all along the eastern ridge of the ceiling, but at least the walls are fucking blank. ]

I read the words do you know how he killed Mary, and decided to play tonsil hockey. Yeah, it was my fault.

[ He’s oversimplifying but honestly, even if that were exactly how it’d played out, the end result would’ve been the same. He can’t let his guard down here, he knows and fucking knew that, and he’d slipped up anyway. After the cabin. After what had happened in the woods, and he’d still …

Mace shakes his head. His fuck-up, his fix, that’s how it’s always gone. It wasn’t on Ian to watch out for Mace’s feelings, especially not when those same feelings had almost gotten him abducted by the undead. ]

You didn’t say anything wrong. In fact. I like it. Keeps me accountable, and you’re cuter when you’re mad.

[ Sorry Ian, you’re stuck with this guy. But at least Mace isn’t just mouthing off for the sake of it this time, his mind working double-time after how badly he’d screwed up.

Damp stains in the walls, but it’s a hallway, and they’re only on one side — they can use that to orient themselves. A secret doorway from the cave leading to the place, meaning someone had built it in — whether their strangle-happy prospector, or someone else — which meant this shit was at least going somewhere. Once the torch is ready to go, they can be on their way, although before they do that ...

The palm of his left hand is still pretty busted, and it barely takes a scrape from the knife edge before it's bleeding anew. He wipes it discreetly on the wall nearest to him, as a marker. ]

[ That's the first time he's actually hearing them - didn't see them before, and something about it... Something about that question sends an uncomfortable cold down his spine. It's a lot to unpack, there's a lot... hidden there.

A small breath at cuter - appealing now, it'd be less appealing to hear when his temper's actually flaring. He'll say nothing of accountability, nothing of doubling down on the ownership of it, although he's... a little glad to hear it. A little mollified. Always did prefer the students who admitted when they fucked up rather than making excuses.

Still, he understands.

He thinks they should stay here just for a little bit, to regroup. Just until they're prepared to face... whatever the next round of bullshit is. Until they have stable lighting, weapons, whatever... they're gonna need to manage it in a fucking cave system, if he can sustain creation for long. It only started flickering out after he'd made a few things.

His feet scuff, and he lowers himself gently to the ground with his eyes on his glow. He doesn't need as much concentration for tequila - like knives, it's an old familiar process.

It means he has a second to think, and finally make an observation out loud. ]

That's three people.

[ In case Mace hadn't come to that conclusion. ]

Mary- I'm assuming that's... who she was. Whoever killed her, which is probably someone we're gonna fucking meet, considering our luck, and then... whoever wrote it. Mary doesn't strike me as the literary type, and I can't see any reason why she'd refer to herself in third person if she were.

[ The bottle's finished; he sets it aside, glow flickering dark just for a second while he starts on the second thing - cotton cloth. Same things he makes his shirts from, but easier since he doesn't need them to form. Just yards of it, sloppy as is efficient. ]

What we can infer about this third party is that he's knowing, probably - or, they, but I'm defaulting. He knows it was a man who killed Mary. He knows her name was Mary. He's either omniscient, he's an uninterrupting watcher - don't fucking bet on that, or he's the one that made it happen. If it's the latter, if it's like it was that day in the cabin...

[ When Mace choked him. ]

That might be more dangerous than just the he doing the killing. What it implies.

[ Mace listens to Ian lay out his thoughts on the matter, and a lot of it is what's been on his mind, similar conclusions. But then Ian hits on something that hadn't occurred to Mace at all, something that strums a disquieting note inside him. Opens an unhappy vista of opportunities.

Or he's the one that made it happen. ]

Three people.

[ Agreeably, popping a squat down next to Ian, watching as cloth starts to manifest at his palm, and then glances down the empty corridor stretching out next to them once more. With the added flickering yellow light of the bottle, he can see that it's not so much an endless hall as it is one that breaks away up ahead, a sharp bend some ten yards in the distance. Maybe it's not a hallway. Maybe it's a tunnel. Or a maze.

That idea, unpleasant though it is, gets Mace thinking again, and his voice is a little slower, a little quieter as he continues. ]

Or just two, and one of them's talking in third person. The writing, it ... wasn't anything fancy, it was like scratches. It could've been her, could've made her write it prior to the fact, or she did it herself. Doesn't make for sanity, does it, being in this place? She might've cracked in some way before — beforehand.

[ Before she'd been cracked, literally, but for some reason Mace still has that strange, niggling feeling that he's missing something, that there's a step they're skipping over. A chain left unlinked. He looks up at Ian, his thoughts going back to if it's like it was that day in the cabin. What he'd felt, coming to with his hands around Ian's throat; what it would do to him if it were to happen now.

It can't. He fucking can't. Not again, never again. ]

If it's a third party, though. [ And then he finds himself stopping, thinking the better of it. God, he's making a habit of this shit, isn't he.

But no, there's no point. He'd suggested it before, back at the cabin — make a knife, and if I so much as look at you funny — and Ian had shot it down back then with just a look; Mace doesn't think Ian's become any more amenable to the idea, even with the present fuck up taken into consideration. This is something that he's gonna have to prevent on his own.

Instead, abruptly: ]

Hypothermia. That's the first thing we've gotta watch out for, barring outside threats.

[ Even before the thirst — which isn't so much a danger for them, considering — and well before the hunger, being in a cave meant being in the cold, and that was without the evidence of water, somewhere nearby. As he speaks, he tears off some of the cotton Ian's made so far, and starts wrapping it around his palms, first one and then the other. ]

[ Though Ian may have spent a good chunk of his youth messing around in the woods, in mines, in caves, it was always short durations. A day or less, maybe overnight if they were feeling particularly bold in the summer and wanted to go 'camping' - smoking pot and getting drunk, frankly. It was never with any real notion of survival, they never did it outside of the summer months, and it was with an absolute abundance of supplies.

He's gonna have to defer to Mace on this. He's glad he made them clothes; shirt, jeans, socks, shoes. He's gonna need to make a flannel for Mace, after this, though torches should create a bit of heat too. They're not long lasting, is the problem. ]

I can do wood. Used to be for, you know, carving, woodworking, but it'll burn. It's simple.

[ Just one component, dense, uncomplicated. Even easier than a basic fucking knife. ]

Start soaking some cloth. It needs to be completely saturated so it'll burn longer. Save some for the handle - something to hold onto. Can't use dry wood as the base or it'll catch on fire. The metal I can make's gonna get hot eventually. Torches are gonna last less than an hour, so we're gonna wanna use them one at a time.

[ Easier to focus on this than third party, third person, eventual attack. ]

If we can get somewhere to camp out, somewhere we can spend three or four hours, I can make hand-crank flashlights.

[ The components are simple. He doesn't need to make the whole thing in one go, that'd be harder. He can just make the pieces and assemble them, they're incredibly basic. The batteries would've been the hardest part, but the kind you wind? Easier. ]

I think... I think when I'm in proximity with... something, one of those, with something not...

[ He can't say not real because they definitely are. ]

With something other, I think it shorts me out. It started goin' out not long before she showed up. Then lit up like a fuckin' beacon when she was close. Lit up in the woods when that thing was trying to trick us into looking, too. So it... maybe it's good, I don't know. Warning system? But it means I can't make you a weapon when shit starts to go down, so.

[ Don't lose that knife. Don't ask for matches. What they've got, they've got. ]

[ So that's what had happened. The moment Ian says it, Mace sees how well it all falls into place, how he'd misinterpreted it earlier.

Shorts me out. It wasn't a hijacking so much as it was Ian's body itself, warning him after his superpowers got zapped, and that means they're both left more vulnerable during an attack but also warned before it, which. You know what? Mace'll take it. Because.

It gives them time, and that's the one thing they've always been fuckin' short on. The one thing that can make the difference between surviving and not when you get jumped, like these goddamn spooks kept doing. He begins to tear the cotton into several long pieces, meant for the torches, setting them to the side as he speaks. ]

Want you to make a weapon for yourself. Maybe a kind of bat, if you're good for wood; easy to use, long-distance so you can hang further back. Me, I got myself covered with this.

[ This, meaning, he's got the knife, and he has absolutely no intention of losing it. Has already shifted into a mindset of rationing in a way that hadn't happened even back at the cabin, when they'd started stockpiling in the master bedroom, because then at least there'd been some subconscious idea that they would escape, almost a certainty. Here, there's none.

The only other thing Mace needs, or that they're most likely gonna end up needing, is rope, and fuck. He's lost count of how many times he's thought this, but again, Mace can't help but think how fucking lucky he is to have him. ]

And ... could use some rope, if you can wrangle it. First birthday gift I got was a fuckin' paracord bracelet, it comes in handy.

[ For example, Mace had teethed on it. He starts soaking up the first stretch of cotton, holding out a hand for the wooden parts, for whenever Ian's finished making them, continuing: ]

I feel like this is probably the safest place we're gonna get to camp out, though. We can stick it out here for a while, until we're ready. Can hit pause on the flashlights until we get to our next pit-stop, if you're — not doing too hot.

[ Tired, obviously he was. Upset, a fucking given. Drained is probably the best word here but by that time, Mace has already gone for the far lamer description. Hand-crank flashlights sound they're gonna take a lot out of Ian, though, and Mace's eyes go over him again to see how he's holding up through body language alone. ]

I'm fine.

[ Not quite. He's tired. Physically tired, in a way that's starting to show. The underneath of his eyes are a little puffy, starting to look bruised. His hair's getting slowly more tangled over time, curls matted by sweat and cave dirt. He had that nightmare last night - Christ, was that only last night? That woke him - both of them - up probably too early. Then came everything after - the solo run through the woods, the terror. The long trek to get to their cave. Terror round two.

Even if his powers don't falter, another four hours awake and active - thinking, not even resting - is going to be hard.

He's running on adrenaline right now. The spiked energy of a near-death experience, which is becoming a too-familiar sensation. That will fade out, and once it does he's gonna crash hard.

But he won't stop voluntarily, not until they're covered. Not until they're-- until everything is safe enough. Safe enough, though... that arbitrary line, it's something they might never come close enough to for Ian to willingly pack it in.

The stakes for the torches come next. Four of them. Good enough that he feels like he can switch to a flannel for Mace - hypothermia right? Then rope - he's got no concept of how much is enough, so he's opting for a hundred feet of it.

The exhaustion starts kicking in about half way through. It manifests in the form of dry eyes that are hard to keep open for too long without blinking. A sort of tug at the back of his head that he has to keep fighting. That almost-stoned feeling.

There's so much left to make.
A bat for himself - he thinks he can do aluminum. Maybe a crowbar might be better - sharp on one end, multi-functional beyond just swinging.
Something to put between them and the ground - hypothermia, right, so a sleeping bag.
An actual bag to carry all this shit in.
Water.
Flashlights.

There's so much fucking more they should have.

God, he just wants them to be safe. ]

Why'd they leave it- do you think?

[ He murmurs, eyes flickering, trying to find something to concentrate on aside from tedious mind-numbing cable to keep himself alert. ]

All of it. Their stuff - those furs. The note.

[ Yeah, Ian looks like a hot mess. Not the fun kind either, and when he crashes, Mace can tell it’ll be like a goddamn stone to the bottom of a river. He hadn't even recovered from the fucking wound in his chest, the cauterization after, and this is ... exactly what Mace had been worried about, earlier.

He wants to tell him to stop, for a while. They’re arguably safer here than they’d been back in the cave, because the way behind them’s blocked and whatever’s headed their way is extremely likely to be found much further ahead. But they’d stopped before, hadn’t they, and where had that gotten them, exactly? Trapped in an underground tunnel, with one way out if they’re lucky, all possible monstrosities included. And he can see the way Ian’s working. Diligent, focused, uninterrupted.

So Mace stays quiet, focuses on the task at hand, making the torches. Folding the shirt neatly, setting it aside. Moves on to cutting off a short length of the rope Ian’s already started to make, enough to bundle the extra torches together.

He’s started coiling the rope round, foot by foot, when Ian breaks the silence with a question that Mace himself has been mulling over. ]

You remember the hospital mask? Being drawn to it? The stuff in the cave, I think I wanted to … it was the same, for me. [ He casts a dubious side-glance at the lantern, and then shakes his head. ]

Back then we thought it was a warning, or a puzzle. Turned out to be a trigger.

[ Again, that fucking feeling at the back of his mind. What is it? What the fuck is he missing? Mace goes over the murder-note in his head, all the stuff along with it, until he feels like he’s going in crazy fucking circles with nothing to show for it.

And then his mind trips over something, hard.

It’s about the same time his gaze lands on Ian again, the way exhaustion is creeping into his expression, unmistakably headed toward one conclusion. His eyelids lowering every now and then before he blinks hard and fast a few times. The way he’s drooping forward with an invisible weight on his shoulders. Wilting.

His hand goes out before he can think it through, fingers setting at Ian’s wrist. They’re gentle, but Mace’s voice is firm. ]

That's enough rope. The rest, you can make after you sleep.

[ He knows they hadn’t wanted to do watches in the cabin, had opted for sleeping at the same time because fuck it. But right now Ian's about to drop. Mace might be banged up but he's far too keyed up to catch a single wink. ]

I know I made a mistake. But I won’t let anything get to you while you’re out. On my life, man.

Edited 2020-06-19 08:47 (UTC)

[ His eyelids do flicker open properly at the reminder of the hospital mask, a quiet understanding rippling through him. Yeah, he could almost tell the way Mace's eyes were drawn to that corner. The gut instinct he had to make sure he didn't lay a hand on any of it. He remembers that pull, that hypnotic draw to touch that he'd have given into if Mace hadn't talked him down.

God only knows how that might've gone differently. They'd have kicked the door in with neither of them remotely prepared, no bonding to speak of to make them look out for each other. He'd be dead, probably.

This place is a fucking mouse trap, isn't it? Or some kind of maze? Luring them in with treats and temptations, and they get fucking zapped when they touch them.

Mace's hand on his wrist makes the glow flicker, then ultimately die off. Tired hands go for Mace's forearm, curling around it with the soft feeling of dry skin passing over skin. It's a bleary, pointless thing - not to remove or to pull, just an automatic rub. A reassuring touch. The tactile need to express affection in an absent, gentle up and down.

The desire to settle against his side and lean into him is near-overwhelming. ]

Yeah, but who's looking out for you when I'm out?

[ A discontented murmur. Fighting the inevitable, he knows, but. Fuck, it just feels so wrong to leave Mace awake by himself.

And always, always the permanent fear that he'll wake up to something new and horrifying hovering over his fucking face. ]

Edited 2020-06-19 08:56 (UTC)

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