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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
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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 subject
[ 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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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.
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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.
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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. ]
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The surprise doesn't show on his face, but his expression relaxes visibly, some of the tension going out of his shoulders and the set of his jaw.
It emboldens him a little, too. Enough so that his automatic attempt at giving Ian his space after they'd ended up here, thanks to Mace's fuckup, gets superceded by something more instinctive. Without saying anything at first, he shifts and kneewalks over to Ian's side, and only then dislodges their hands. ]
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? [ Dredged up out of his college memories, rusty and probably mispronounced, seeing as he'd only ever read it in a book. Definitely out of context here, considering the origin of it.
Careful but steady, no longer expecting to be rebuffed, he tugs Ian into his arms, but it's different this time; arranges him so that he's settled with Mace's chest underneath his cheek, on his stomach. Their legs splayed out, almost touching the other wall. The flannel, he shakes out and then covers Ian with it, wrapping the whole thing neatly by folding his arms over Ian's back and upper body. Like this, Ian's head is nestled just underneath Mace's chin, and they're close enough that he can murmur: ]
I will. Now, go to sleep.
[ The knife is right by his hand, the wall at his back, and the bottle just down and off to the side. Rope and torches lined up, making a meaningless barrier between their bodies and the rest of the tunnel. His sisters used to do that, sometimes. Line up their pillows down the bed like it could stop anything.
Mace passes his hands back and forth over Ian's back as they lay there, slow and soothing in a way that he probably doesn't need to put him under, and his mind wanders back to what had knocked into it earlier. The rucksack.
The lantern had been busted, the furs ripped apart, but the rucksack had been plain fucking missing. And sure as fuck, it had had something in it. And whoever'd put it there had wanted them to open it, had been luring Mace to do it even before he'd read the wall.
A warning. A puzzle. A trigger?
The note on the wall, written like a riddle.
What the fuck had been inside the bag? ]
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It sure as hell isn't enough to steer him away from the warmth of contact, from this thing they've been building that's rapidly become an addiction. A requirement, for the sake of his sanity. One of the only things that makes continuing on even remotely tolerable, let alone worth it.
The floor beneath them is cool, it never warms to body heat, and he understands what Mace means by hypothermia. On the other hand, the selfish and comfortable position he's in drives that thought out of his head for the moment. Mace is warm beneath him, the flannel over him traps that heat, and he melts into it like all the resistance has gone from his muscles.
The touch at his back is soothing, and it starts to drag him under rapidly. He's sleep-delirious and practically gone when he mumbles one last thing: ]
Don't leave me, okay?
[ Doesn't realize he says it, won't remember, definitely won't know if Mace says anything back.
He's fucking out. ]
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To know he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore is a relief he didn’t know he was missing, has him relaxing despite himself. Despite everything. Laying like this, the comforting weight of Ian’s body on top of his own and the heat of him so close, it serves to give Mace the kind of rest that’s the next best thing to sleep itself. He doesn’t let his guard down, doesn’t nod off even for a blink, but it’s like he can feel his exhaustion seep straight from his back and into the stone underneath them.
It’s like the kiss. Back at the cabin. He hadn’t needed or thought about food, after that. Ian’s pretty gone to the world in his arms, but every now and then makes some sort of soft, snuffling noise that has him smiling faint and involuntary in between bouts of deep, mostly horrific thoughts.
Namely, the contents of the rucksack. He goes over the scenario a hundred times in the ensuing stretch of time that follows, and each time, that’s the main thing that stands out. Leads him to the same conclusion.
Not a threat, nor a trigger. A riddle on the wall, and inside the bag — either a clue, or the answer.
Had Mary been in there the entire time? Her corpse? Or the murder weapon? Neither is that great of a thought. Neither inspires confidence. Because suppose it was her who'd written that on the wall — suppose if there’d been some sort of clue in the bag —
His thoughts are cut off by a sudden sound — the very first, during this entire time — that comes up out of the dark.
It’s muffled enough that for a second Mace thinks he's imagining it, that it’s just some echo of own breathing in his ears. If it hadn’t been dead fucking silent around them he would’ve missed it for sure. Wouldn’t have been able to catch it if he’d been talking, either. But he hears it now and with a mouthed curse, understands what it is; the sound of stone grating against stone, the same as when they’d fallen down this damn rabbit hole.
Jesus fucking Christ. There’s another door?
One hand tightens around Ian’s slumbering body while the other slowly peels away and goes for the knife, as he turns his head and stares into the hall, muscles coiled tight and ready.
Nothing. Nothing.
Just that sound of a door being opened, and … God, he doesn’t know if that’s better, or worse. On the one hand, it just about confirms that there’s an egress point. On the other, somebody had to have opened it, which means it also confirms the existence of an active hostile.
Which means he'll have to wake Ian up, let him know. ]
Ian. C'mon, buddy.
[ Softly, trying not to startle him out of sleep, regretting that he has to pull him out of it at all. Don’t leave me, Ian had said, and Mace’s answer had been in the form of his lips brushing against the top of his hair, careless of the sweat and dirt and dried blood there. Something he knows Ian hadn't even registered, because he'd been asleep almost immediately. He hesitates and then repeats the movement, this time shifting so that he can aim for Ian's forehead, gently rubbing one hand against his back in a rocking motion. ]
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It means he wakes up groggy, though. That it takes long seconds for him to blearily crack his eyes open and lift himself up. Takes him a few more to remember where he is, where they are, and as soon as they do he starts shifting - one leg up, shoe scuffing across the floor. ]
Wh- is it a fight- are we running-
[ Mumbled out, raspy-dry voice, groping around for... nothing, because he never actually got around to making himself a crowbar.
Speaking of which - he holds an arm up.
Not glowing. That's... good? Right? ]
You okay?
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We're still in the clear, don't worry.
[ Although the arm-check absolutely doesn't hurt to have as confirmation of that, and Mace's eyes are drawn to it almost immediately. No blue, thank god, and he feels another twinge of regret at having woken Ian up. But. ]
I heard something. Sounded like the door we just came through, although from pretty far off. Figured it'd be best to start getting ready for ...
[ Anything, honestly. Having slid down a few migratory inches, Mace finds himself having to straighten up again some. His legs aren't asleep and neither are his arms, but there's a kink in his back he can't resist cracking out. Watches Ian's face while he does it, taking note of the lack of. Tears. Upset. No nightmares, or at least none as bad as the one they'd both had in the cabin which ... he'll take it as a good sign. ]
How you feeling?
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He scrubs a hand over his face, and the other arm comes out automatically. Blue kicks in, takes a little more dark out of the room.
Crowbar first. ]
I'm okay.
[ He murmurs, and though his voice is raspy, it sounds more true than it had before he knocked out for a while. ]
How are you? Do you need sleep, man?
[ They can trade off, though he doubts Mace is gonna be able to let himself relax enough after hearing something like that.
Alternatively -- ]
I can make coffee, if you need some.
[ He mentioned that the first day they met. Water, coffee, tequila, lube. He's still got that packet of instant, too, but they're sort of strapped for a heating apparatus that isn't just plain wasteful.
He can't remember what else was left, what else they needed. The thing is, they probably shouldn't sit around just... fucking wasting time. They don't have any food. Coffee's only gonna get them so far. If it takes days to make it out, if they lose energy and can't climb or fight because they spent too much time trying to prepare for other shit... ]
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[ The joke's out before he can catch himself, his usual weird humour. And the way Ian says he's okay, Mace believes it this time, or at least a lot more than he had before when Ian had been visibly nodding off. Still that exhaustion visible in the way he holds himself, scrubs his face; still the shadows under his eyes, the pallor to his face, but there's a lucidity there now that hadn't been there earlier, as he materializes a crowbar.
Better than a bat. Easier to wield, pointier at the end ... Mace approves. ]
And nah, I've never been much of a coffee-drinker.
[ He lays the flannel shirt out on his lap as he talks, and places the rope and extra torches into it before buttoning it back up. Ties the sleeves together into a sort of strap for his shoulder.
Knows Ian can make a bag for them, but they can do that at the next pit-stop, too. Probably best they get moving while they can, although there's maybe one thing for Ian to make, and not just for Mace. Dehydration is the next big threat on the list. ]
Always preferred water.
[ A pause, as he gets to his feet, and then holds out a hand for Ian. ]
By the way, there's something I wanted to get your input on. A hypothesis.
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