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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
[ A correction, amused despite everything else at the look on Ian's face, his outraged tone of voice that's actually genuine.
And while there definitely was some sort of Disney presence on television in the 2050s, Mace was not one of the people watching it, that's for sure. Can't answer that last part, although he is familiar with the characters Ian's listing here, through osmosis if nothing else. Humanity tried its best, but alas, it could only go so far in the face of James Mace's unintentional dedication to asceticism. ]
My sisters wanted to go one day, but the news about the Sun kinda took over everything else by that point.
[ That memory, and Ian's quip about being extremely dead during Mace's lifetime — the two criss-cross disquietingly in his head, remind him of what he'd left Earth to do and the uncertainty of its success, and nudge Mace back into a sudden quiet. ]
no subject
No time to linger there in that half-serious half-joking scandalized place, though. He remembers now what Mace's mission was, what he had to go through. The fact that he died doing it.
(Ian sees that ship in his dreams.) ]
Hey... what the hell happened to the sun? I thought we were supposed to have, like, another five billion years before it burned out?
[ He shifts uncomfortably against the rock, moving his weight to his other hip. Ridiculous as it sounds, it's one of those moments he realizes he's edging toward the middle of his thirties. Sleeping on hard stone or another human twice in a row doesn't really lend itself to ergonomics. He's sore in places, stiff in others, and that's not even taking into account his still-healing stomach.
To add to all of it, for the first time since they've started this mess his stomach finally growls. ]
no subject
We were, yeah. Then the Sun got ... infected, according to CERN. This ancient fuckin' particle left over from the big bang, something called a Q-ball. Altered the nuclear fusion of the Sun, and everything started getting cold, fast. They sent up a ship, seven years before ours. I was twenty-two, and I really thought ...
[ A shake of his head, remembering the Icarus I. Remembering the crew. ]
Anyway, that's what our mission was. A stellar bomb designed to blast the infection into a natural decay, and restart the Sun. But that's as far as I know; I was just the engineer, man. And the flyboy.
[ Mace looks up from where he's been watching Ian work away at the final component, his lips curving small and secret and a little sad; he hasn't missed the way Ian's been fidgeting now and again, knows what discomforts are causing it. Discomforts being a hell of a fucking understatement, considering what Ian's body had been put through, half of it at Mace's hand.
And then Ian's stomach interrupts them, polite but understandably ornery, and ... ]
Y'know, they say humans taste like chicken.
no subject
It pulls at his chest.
Still can't help that soft huff at humans taste like chicken. The battery begins to finish taking shape, slowly but surely. ]
We got a whole dead guy back there in the tunnels we're wasting. Should've grabbed a rack of ribs on our way through.
[ And so it goes for a while, a softer banter, a muted affair until the last piece is complete and Ian finally assembles the pieces one by one. It's simple, and he offers it over to Mace to give it the first test.
Just turn the thingy a few times. ]
If she lights up, we're ready for our sweet watery graves.
no subject
[ It's still a part of their banter, but that's the one sentence that comes across as perhaps a little too serious, mainly because deep down inside Mace isn't kidding.
With any luck, though, they won't have to resort to that — luck, and the flashlight Ian finishes making, which Mace takes in hand with a renewed light in his eyes, one that had started dimming from the moment he'd gotten them trapped here.
Turning the thingy is all he wants, honestly. A bright, pale yellow beam follows soon after, and Mace grins outright, looking up at Ian like he wants to kiss him. He'll save that for later, though. First: ]
O, ye of little faith.
[ As they approach the riverbank, there's another dull clang, and the mystery of that is solved soon after. It's the metal sheet, all right, and the river is buffeting it back and forth against what looks very much like a portcullis, about six feet deep inside the tunnel. Despite having been underwater for God only knew how fucking long, the thing is rustless. Gleaming steel. And on the tunnel wall, below the surface but clearly visible now thanks to the flashlight, even at the angle they're at —
Mace straightens up from where he'd been kneeling and pointing the flashlight, turns to look at Ian with a quiet intensity in his eyes. ]
It's got a lever.
no subject
They pull the lever, the goddamn floor drops out beneath them. They pull the lever, it triggers something else. They pull the lever and they let something in that this gate was keeping out.
What's the right move? What's the right decision? It's starting to feel just as uncertain a path as the fucking door, except now it's Ian making these calls like he's got any fucking clue. Like he's got any right to assume the path he wants them to take is the correct choice.
If this fucks them both over, he's never gonna forgive himself for it.
After a few tense seconds, he pulls his hand away. His voice sounds a little rusty, a little thick. ]
Well, we're obviously not fucking pulling it while you're in the water.
[ They can rope it or something. Ian made a hundred feet of that in the first twenty minutes they spent here, bundled in with their other supplies for just such an occasion.
Lowly, more to himself: ]
I fucking hate this place.
no subject
Honestly, Mace doesn't blame him. The logical, most straightforward answer is that the lever would lift the gate.
Nothing about this place has been logical, let alone straightforward. It's equally likely that the lever triggers something fucked up, or does nothing at all. One last red herring to taunt them before the next bout of suffering begins.
But the weight of this decision, that's not something Mace wants Ian to be bearing at all, forget bearing it alone, and when he pulls his hand away, Mace's eyes are on him with the same intensity. Only this time, tempered by concern at the hoarseness of Ian's voice, at what he mumbles to himself. ]
Obviously.
[ A murmured agreement, as he kneels next to their supply bundle, undoing it with the intention of pulling out the rope. Ian had made more than enough for them to use it for both of the ideas Mace has in mind, and after he removes it, the next thing to go is.
His clothing. He stands back up, fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt in quick, clever movements. Barely takes him ten seconds before he's bare-chested, the flannel draped over Ian's shoulders like a cape. Instead of moving to the zipper of his jeans, though, he bends down to pick up the rope. Starts looping a double-length of it around his chest, right at his diaphragm before bringing another length of it over his shoulder, and only then does he speak. ]
You ever do any ropework?
[ Incidentally, Mace hasn't taken his eyes off of Ian the entire time. ]
no subject
It could happen so quickly.
Two minutes of bad judgement and then permanently gone.
(Or a lifetime of bad decision making and chemo treatments and then lighting up a cigarette as soon as she got in the car when he picked her up. Didn't know how to make her stop. Can't let it happen again.)
If there was ever a spectacle perfectly crafted to get his mind on a completely opposite track, it's this. Mace stripping with confidence, and though Ian knows it's completely practical, he...
Well, there's rope around him in a certain kinda way and... ]
Any w-
[ Annnnd let's just course-correct that context because he's definitely not asking about it that way. ]
Yeah, a little. I wasn't, like, a boy scout but I know some basic knots.
[ No Shibari, sorry. ]
no subject
Wouldn't be out of place in a bedroom, frankly, although it's definitely out of place here. But that's intentional. A sort of mental sleight of hand, directing Ian away from whatever thought process had begun in his mind just now. Distracting him from the burden he'd placed on his own shoulders, if only for a little bit. ]
Not bad.
[ Low, approving tone as he brings the rope over his other shoulder, before doing another double length around his sternum area, going underneath his arms. He's making a harness, and the final touch goes right at his waist, a constrictor knot to make sure it doesn't go loose.
Attached to it is the rest of the rope — minus the half-length he'd cut, meant to be tied to the lever — the end of which Mace places in Ian's hand. The implication is clear: even though he's going in the water, Ian still gets to have a hand on him throughout; they're still connected, they're still together in some small way, and Mace hopes that that gives Ian at least a little peace of mind.
The other free end (of the lever rope), he slides it loosely through Ian's belt loops, and then tugs him close with it the way he'd done with their tether, back in the woods.
The intent is the same, and he cups Ian's face in his hands, studying it closely. Sees the worry there, and something else flickering behind his eyes, something worse than worry. A fear, maybe. ]
We get outta here, I'll show you something better.
[ It sounds like a promise. It doesn't particularly sound like a promise to teach Ian the ins-and-outs of marlinspike seamanship.
Mace seals it with a kiss, unhurried and deep, not a goodbye kiss. If anything, it says I'm coming back. ]
no subject
How dare you fucking smile at him like that looking the way you are, honestly, he's gonna call down the chain behemoth cop. It's gotta be illegal.
Top it all off with that low, approving diction and it nearly sends a shiver down Ian's spine. Add good at rope-based body harnesses to Mace's list of insanely appealing skills.
Getting tugged flush against him is the last piece required to tip things, and a little flush of heat finally ripples down his spine. Even in a place like this, even at a time like this, it fucking got to him. He's a little spellbound by the time Mace touches his face, and his own hands head to Mace's waist like a prom night slow dance. Like he intends to use that grip to pull him in, but he never executes.
They're in the middle of something. He knows this. It's still a big enough piece in his brain to keep him from taking things anywhere that will start sending the blood headed south at a consistent rate.
But.
Spellbound, all the same. A little in a trance as his head angles to meet lips, kissing back with equal languid warmth.
When they finally part, it's with a lowly murmured: ]
Damn it.
[ Whether he means that about the end of the kiss, about what Mace is doing, about this place? Maybe all of it. Hard to pinpoint. All the same, there's one last flickering, lingering look before he heads to one of the nearest stalagmites that looks sturdy and thick.
He intends to keep a grip on the line itself, but in the event it slips through his grasp, fuck it if he's gonna leave the guy untethered. A quick clove hitch and a test with his body weight - seems good. After that, it's a matter of wrapping the flannel Mace draped on him around the rope for something to grab onto.
Fuck rope burn. ]
no subject
Ian’s not the only one spellbound.
They break apart and Mace notes, with no small amount of satisfaction, that Ian’s thoughts have been successfully redirected to something more physical and grounding. The fear’s gone out of those eyes, replaced with a dazed, dark warmth that’s honestly Ian’s best fucking look, perhaps second only to the way his face goes slack and pretty right before he —
If the chain behemoth cop arrives, Mace’ll go quietly and plead guilty.
He meets that lingering little look and murmured curse with a salute and a cocky twist to his lips, before turning around and heading toward the river, already undoing the fly of his jeans. It doesn’t take long before his clothing is folded neatly on the riverbank, and Mace is standing in just the towel they’d ganked from the cabin. Absolutely not out of modesty; frankly, he's just impressed that it’s managed to stay tied this entire time and curious to see if it makes out of the river, too.
The flashlight's right next to him, aimed into the river and the mouth of the tunnel, lighting up the immediate area enough that Mace knows he won't be going in blind. He swings his bare legs over the edge, testing the temperature with one foot; thank fuck for this silver lining, because it's not too cold. Nothing he can't easily bear, nothing Ian ought to have trouble with if all goes as planned.
Go in. Secure rope to the lever. Swim back out.
Mace doesn’t look over his shoulder as he slides into the water, but it occurs to him that for the first time, he's got somebody waiting for him — not a parent, not a sibling, but a somebody special, the kind of somebody that NASA had ensured he didn't have before signing him up.
And that somebody’s right behind him, tying the rope to a stalagmite. ]
Ian! I'm gonna pull once when I reach the lever, and twice when I'm on the way back.
[ Called back, loud enough that he knows his voice'll carry, before taking a deep breath and going under. Rope in one hand, the knife in the other.
He hadn't specified the number of pulls he'd give if there were trouble, because that's not something for Ian to worry about. Not something Mace wants him thinking about even for the brief time it's gonna take to get this done. ]
no subject
It won't do him any good against chains as thick as he heard, though.
God, please don't let that lever open that fucking Space Mountain door.
Please don't let him go the way of Steve Irwin.
Please don't let anything rip him under the water or squirrel him away without a fucking sound.
(Please don't take him away from me.)
That nervousness gets paired with the sudden, oppressive quiet. The only sound is the running of water, background noise, pink noise, something humans relegate to the back of their minds on instinct. The cavern seems enormous now, stretching into infinity because Ian's aware of just how alone he is for the first time in days.
There's nobody.
There's just him. Oh god, even this two-minute glimpse into the alternative reality he could be living is too much. He wouldn't be able to do this on his own.
Right after comes the paranoia. The urge to constantly glance over his shoulder to check for movement, half expecting something to jump-scare the ever-loving shit out of him. Expecting Mary herself to be an inch from his face when he turns around. Fuck off, bitch, he has priorities and they're under water right now. That flickering torch embedded into rock is the only light he has for security, and its radius is both laughable and a target to anything lurking in the dark. Fear begins to claw its way up his chest toward his throat, and he hums softly to abate it.
There's a tactic he's heard of for coping, and he tries it out now himself. Singing softly, too quiet for Mace to hear under the water. ]
When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No I won't be afraid
Oh, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me
[ Seemed apt. ]
no subject
Which gives him about five and a half minutes, give or take ten seconds. It's more than enough time to secure the rope to the lever. The water's still clear when his head goes under, and there's no sudden, horrible surprises waiting beneath the surface.
So why the fuck does he feel as though he's being watched?
No, it's just paranoia. Just ... the answer's gotta be because for the first time, barring their horrific stint in the fog-ridden woods, he's entirely alone. Holding your breath slows your perception of time; being underwater means little to no sound, apart from the rushing in your ears and your own heartbeat. Slowed reflexes, another vulnerability that must be getting to him.
And the memory of the last time he'd been underwater, lurking in the back of his mind like a spider.
It's fucking stupid. He's being fucking stupid. The lever is right fucking there, Jesus be some common sense, and Mace gives a firm tug to the rope attached to his harness when he reaches it. A little firmer than he'd intended, out of frustration at himself and the growing sense of foreboding in his gut.
Halfway done. He wedges the hilt of the knife where the towel's still knotted around him, freeing both hands so he can tie the second rope in the middle of the lever, as tight of a constrictor knot as he's ever made in his goddamn life. Out of the corner of his eye, just as he's giving the one-two to let Ian know he's on his way back, he catches a glimmer of light at the base of the portcullis.
It's not coming from the flashlight. It's not a reflection off of some debris, wedged into the silt. His stomach drops somewhere to his knees as he turns his head to look.
It's the lantern, unbroken and lit, and Mace realizes what that means, right as the harness rope meant to be his lifeline floats up and loops around his fucking throat like a noose.
Son of a bitch.
The lantern goes out, the water goes murky and freezing, and a sudden torrent of noise filters through to him even inside the river. Jeering and voices, echoing from every direction, like the cavern's filled with a crowd watching a circus act as he thrashes, his chest squeezing with an ugly, irrational fear.
Instinctively, his hands go to his throat, but the thing just fucking tightens, and with a horrible flash of insight, Mace understands what the big idea is here. Because if he doesn't come right back out, and Ian pulls at his end of the rope —
The knife.
One hand gropes for the hilt at his hips, the other going out to the rope, trying to tug it toward himself and add some slack to the length, give himself some time. His lungs start to burn by the time he manages to cut through it, but it's far from a relief. Not yet, not until he can breathe, not until he gets out of this frigid rehashing of his worst memory.
Not until he has Ian's hands on him again, holding him close, the whole world narrowed down to the warmth in those dark eyes —
Mace's head breaks the surface of the water, and he doesn't know if he's gasping Ian's name or if he's crying it out. ]
no subject
His eyes are anywhere but the tunnel right now. They're on the ceiling, the walls, every speck or inch of visible space he can track.
And then begins the glow. Ian's voice calls out on instinct in a way that seems vaguely melodious, a slowly rising rounding of syllables. ]
Mace--
[ He very nearly starts pulling then, his fingers flex and his shoulders tighten, but he's startled into stillness by a sudden cacophony. Jeers and laughter, boos and applause, echoing chatter that carries itself around the room and around Ian so tangibly he can feel it. At one point, there's a cackle of laughter next to his ear and his hair moves.
It's swelling. It's growing into something. The sound of it becomes deafening, drowning out the river, his breathing, fuck, it drowns out his own ability to think.
That's when he yanks the rope.
There isn't even a fucking hint of resistance to it. He almost staggers backward because he was pulling with the concept of a hundred and something pound guy dragging through water, but there's practically nothing. He takes two seconds to process it, and then his legs are carrying him toward the water with or without the consent of his mind. Before he's even knees deep he dives.
Light from the flashlight is scattered and refracted by turbulent water, but there's plenty enough to see his guy thrashing wildly at the surface and clawing at his neck. At the rope still tight around it, knotted in place with the tail drifting along the surface of the water, severed.
He doesn't remember swimming. Doesn't remember the sloppy, frantic breast stroke, only that he's there digging his fingers into the knot at the back of his neck with words falling out of his mouth mindlessly. ]
Come on, baby- hold on- fuck- fuck-
[ Too many perfect loops preventing any slack from slipping through, his hands are shaking too badly, his wrists are still glowing so he knows he can't make anything-- ]
Knife, knife- gimme your knife- where is it-
[ Some of it with a mouth full of water as he dips down too low, forgets to kick, has to surge back up again and snap his chin to one side to get his hair out of his eyes. ]
no subject
It's no use. His pulse goes thick and loud, the pressure starts to build behind his clenched eyes, and he can feel his body going numb and heavy.
Ian, Mace thinks, or maybe says it again, and hey. At least that's something. At least he gets to say it one more time. At least he —
There's a loud, sudden splash.
Ian's frantic voice, calling him baby, and Mace's face crumples even as he turns it blindly in that direction.
If he had the oxygen for it, the next thing out of him would be a furious, frightened moan. Ian’s in the water, Ian isn’t supposed to be in the water, it's cold and it's dangerous and Ian's supposed to be safe. Ian's supposed to be on the river bank, waiting for him to come back because Mace promised —
(Ian's supposed to be bundled up in a soft, white robe, watching Mace make breakfast with drowsy eyes from where he's curled up in bed.)
As it is, all that escapes is a choked sound of despair, knowing that he's pulled Ian in with him. A hand lands at the back of his neck, and Mace wrenches his eyes open, some tiny, selfish part of him wanting to see Ian's face one last time.
His hearing's gone muffled, shot through with a distant ringing, but he can just about make out what's being asked of him, and —
Knife. Knife, where did he —
Dimly, he realizes that with the way he's thrashing and the unpredictability of his limbs, how they’re starting to shake from the cold even as they weaken — it means that if he tries to hand Ian the knife the usual way, there’s a chance he could hurt him.
The thought hits him worse than the sight of that fucking lantern had. Acts like a flame to the last fuse of coordination he has left in him, and Mace switches the knife to his other hand, heedless of the way the blade cuts into his palm.
But that doesn't matter because he can’t even fucking feel it at this point, and he holds out the knife hilt-first, not knowing if he’s aiming right. His vision is starting to darken around the edges as his lips repeatedly stutter around the very first syllable of Ian’s name, unable to get to the n, as useless as the rest of him. ]
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It's to the tune of a thousand people laughing at max volume. Rattling the portcullis and the walls, maybe, or that might just be Ian's vision swimming in and out with the adrenaline and terror.
Blood wisps through the water at Mace's hand like a silk scarf, and he can't see that either. He can only slam onlimb into the water to bob up while the other tugs the knife indelicately from Mace's grip - probably pulling the wound a little deeper in the process. He tugs them both wildly forth until he can wedge a foot into one of the gate's gaps for leverage. He Mace in by the chest, then shifts his grip to Mace's hair, to deliberately wrest his head forward as far as the rope will allow. ]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, here we go, it's the only way —
[ To do it in time. He slips the blade underneath the rope - except that it's pulled so taut it's nearly embedded into Mace's skin, and so another sharp line slits through flesh in the process. A gash, deep and immediately bleeding, ignored in favor of roughly and violently slicing through the rope in two inelegant motions. The alternative would've been to saw at it from the exterior, but not only would it mean a dozen fillets across skin, the kind of force application required would take too long. The strength of his bicep and the sharpness of the knife make pull-tension the most efficient option. It works quickly, severing rope but at the expense of a few more cuts into the back of Mace's neck when he has to press the knife back up again.
Once it's gone, he discards the knife without a second fucking thought to grab at the rope, to rip it down and away until it isn't fucking touching him anymore. Both it and the knife hit the riverbed beneath them somewhere. He doesn't give a shit. All he cares about is dragging Mace in back-first into his chest so he can forcefully keep him up, keep his chin out of the water so he doesn't suck any down when he-- ]
Breathe for me, baby, come on-
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Christ, Mace is the one who’s sorry.
Despite the numbness spreading through his limbs like a canker, sensation is the last to go. Mace doesn’t feel the knife taken out of his grasp, same as he doesn’t feel the way the blade cuts into him on the way out, his hand batting the water listlessly; as much as he wants to, he can’t even sense the warmth of Ian’s body pulling him close. Only knows it’s even there because he’d seen, heard, felt him leap into the water after him — and because something deep inside him is utterly content, utterly at peace.
The last time this happened, he’d been alone.
A strange vibration goes through him, and he thinks his heel must have collided with something, something metallic. His head moves forward, something drags an icy finger down the back of his neck up and down, and Mace’s lips move silently around nothing.
The first breath back in is like an explosion going off in his chest.
Oxygen floods his system, sensation thundering in at its heels, and he realizes he’s pressed back-to-front against Ian, his body shaking with the force of how hard he’s gasping. Or maybe that’s because he’s fucking freezing, because they’re still in the river — except it’s going clear again, doesn’t feel like ice anymore, and Mace’s eyes open slow and bleary and wet, staring into the water at the arm around his waist without comprehension. It’s Ian’s forearm; it’s blue, but whether the glow is coming or going, Mace can’t tell just yet. The rope is gone.
Breathe for me, baby—
His next gasp sounds more like a dry sob. Clumsily, he attempts to turn around so he can get eyes on Ian again. Only gets about halfway around, the ball of his shoulder pressing into Ian’s chest as he cranes his head back weakly, and he blinks hard at Ian’s face as it comes into focus. Like a newborn, like someone seeing the Sun rise for the first time. There’s a beam of light falling across both of them from the shore, and Mace is completely fascinated by the colour of Ian’s eyes, as if he’s never seen it before.
His lips part, and without thinking, he rasps, ]
Y— yuh— you—
[ Fuck, his teeth won’t stop chattering; his leg spasms out again and Mace realizes where they are, that his foot is hitting the portcullis under the water. ]
You— t-take mm, mmh— breath—
[ Away. But that's just fine, because his gorgeous guy is also the one's given it right back to him, and Mace would smile if his lips weren't trembling. ]
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The ragged gasp of breath Mace sucks down which relieves him so intensely, he nearly lets go by accident. He turns and Ian's arm is hanging so tight it's almost hard to let him; when he can convince it to unlock, it goes around his shoulders instead to reel him in again - chest to chest this time.
Oh, fuck, he knows what you're trying to say, Jesus Christ- ]
Shut up—
[ It's breathed out raggedly, and he can't even summon up a laugh. It's heatless, mindless, and it's a precursor to him pressing his forehead against Mace's so hard it nearly hurts. Wet hair sends droplets down Mace's cheek, and both arms wrap around his shoulders so tight the fingertips might actually leave bruises.
The body heat he gives back might be a small consolation for the way Ian's stalling them here, one foot still grounded in the portcullis to keep them both bobbing above the surface. He just can't stop hanging on, because now that the crisis is averted the reality is settling in. The close call, what almost happened, how it could've gone. ]
Oh, god-
[ Practically coughed out, with a hand shooting up to the back of Mace's head to tangle in his soaked hair.
They need to get out of the water, they need to get Mace warm again, just-- fuck, his expression, the color of his face. How easily Ian can transpose that over Mary, bulging eyes and a crushed windpipe, if he'd have yanked that rope he'd have snapped Mace's neck and not even known until he hauled a lifeless corpse onto the river bank like a fucking rag doll.
The good news is at least they both know he definitively leaves his panic attack spirals for after the pressure's off. ]
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His eyes close with the quiet, simple happiness of that knowledge, concentrating on the sound of Ian’s voice.
And this time, he can feel the hand Ian tangles into his hair, manages a low, sustained hum in his throat in response to the arms around his shoulder, pulling him in tight and warm — heat from Ian’s body is seeping into his own. With it comes the slow rise of pain along various parts of his body, but that’s not his concern right now.
He nudges his way a little lower so that his face isn’t directly in Ian’s, pressing his nose and mouth into the crook of his shoulder before coughing out water that he hadn’t known he’d taken in. Then it’s right back to where he’d been, forehead to forehead, and Mace’s eyes open again, the expression in them laid bare in a way it hasn’t this entire time. ]
Shh— shh, shh.
[ A convulsive swallow, and Mace’s hand comes up to touch Ian’s face with skittering fingertips, a weak shadow of the way he’d cupped his face before, but no less tender. Comforting, reassuring, because while he’s not shushing him, the intent is incredibly similar when he half-breathes out, half-gasps: ]
Sh, sugar.
[ And he bumps his trembling lips forward, probably missing Ian’s mouth but not having it in him to care very much.
It’s about the time when he catches sight of red dripping down the side of Ian’s face, and a sick stab of fear goes through him before he realizes it’s coming from his own fucking palm. A relieved, choked sigh, and then his gaze flickers over Ian’s shoulder, vision slightly distorted by the way his head’s shaking.
Looks clear. Sounds clear, too. Fucking normal, no more jeering, ugly laughter or mockery, and even the current’s slowed down around them. No threat of an undertow taking them down. No blue glow. Just Ian in his arms, right where he belongs, and Mace’s hand awkwardly smears his blood against Ian’s ear in an attempt to brush his hair back as he asks, ]
Y-you— cold?
[ Troubled, suddenly, by a new thought. Had Ian hit the water when the temperature dropped? Fuck, his clothes are soaked, they need to get him back ashore, and Mace kicks out into the water behind them, trying to propel them away. ]
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God, god, he almost—
You cold?
A sudden bark of incredulous laughter escapes his chest, or maybe it's a choked out sob. Practically impossible to differentiate between the two of them, because Mace is obviously fucking freezing his balls off with chattering teeth and icicle limbs. It's still on his lips when they kick off, and he dips down a little in the process so he gets a half of a mouth full of river water.
That's alright. That's okay. That's nothing.
He can't keep his hands off Mace the entire swim back. Grips and drags and tries to half-carry him through the current toward the shore, terrified that something's going to reach out and try to drag Mace under again. He'd lose it, he'd absolutely lose it. He'd dive under and choke someone out with more effectiveness than that ghost rope that did Mary in, try him right now.
A few feet from the bank, their torch still burns dutifully on - though it's getting low. They'll need to light another soon, especially considering the flashlight's been abandoned at the river gate and he has zero intentions of letting either of them near that fucking thing again right now. ]
C'mon, c'mon.
[ Softly urged, a hand reaching down to tug the soaked towel off of him and instead replace it with the blanket he shakes their supplies out of. He wraps it around Mace like someone might do for a fucking shock victim, hands on shoulders, hands on biceps, hands everywhere because he can't calm down. ]
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Instead of a grown man who knows full well how to swim, Mace might as well be a puppy paddling in the ocean for the first time, for all the difference his leg strokes make in the water. It’s Ian who pulls the majority of both their weights, it’s Ian’s grip on him that keeps him steady and upright against the drag of the current, his hands practically carrying Mace ashore.
Jesus, if only his teeth would stop chattering, if only the cold would leave him so he could say more than just ineffectual, moronic stammers. Because. He is so fucking proud of Ian. His guy had been there to pick up the pieces like the flannel on his shoulders really had been a cape.
Rushed right in without even looking.
Fuck, if something had happened to him —
The immortal towel finally meets its match when Ian tugs it away, and then there’s a blanket being wrapped around him, bringing with it a fresh descent of heat that has Mace’s breath coming out on a stuttering, low cry. It’s the pain of the thaw, nothing more, and it means fuck-all right now. Ian’s hands are moving restlessly from his shoulder to his bicep to his face, and Mace's eyes follow each movement, that lost, soft expression mixing with a slow clarity as he understands what’s happening.
Now that the worst is over, Ian’s — ]
Hey. Wuh — we’re. Okay. It’s — okay.
[ At the next sweep of Ian’s hand near his shoulder, Mace tilts his head to trap it there, leaning his cheek into it as he blinks up at Ian’s face in the flickering torchlight. ]
Ian. Ian.
[ Finally, his lips manage to curve up into something resembling a smile. It’s a little broken at the edges, with pride and gratitude and something that aches, and his arms are held down by the blanket so he can’t do what he actually wants, but. Mace swallows, turning his face so he can press his lips into that trapped palm, before saying something he never thought he’d ever fucking say to anyone. ]
Hold. Me?
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Come on, Fowler. Just get your shit together for a while and carry them. ]
Yeah. Yeah--
[ He breathes, and it's followed immediately by steering Mace over toward the wall where their torch burns on. He pulls them both down, but doesn't let Mace hit the stone floor. He's guided instead onto Ian's lap with no quarter for protesting if he's got any plans of it.
He folds himself around Mace's back. Wraps both arms around his middle, pulls him in deep enough that he can even settle his chin on the blanket over Mace's shoulder. The heat coming off the torch should help a little too, though Ian's soaking wet clothes and still-dripping hair probably counterbalance the scales.
He's going to have to make them both something dry. Another blanket, too, probably. Maybe even wood for a goddamn fire, because he can't... imagine them going anywhere. Can't imagine pushing on for a while, not until they're both recovered enough to fucking function and Mace's core temperature gets up to something safe again.
It's okay, though, because the threat feels gone. It feels like it all came to a head, it ruptured, it burned itself out in an inferno that nearly consumed them - but purified itself in the process, at least for a little while.
There's still the matter of... those chains, the sound of them, what might be carrying them, whether or not that's still around. Fuck it, though. He doesn't have enough space for that right now. All he can think of, all he can manage, is to hang on tightly to the man he's practically wrapped himself around. ]
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He’d choose the latter, soaked clothing and all. The torch is a bonus when they get to the wall, but right now what Mace needs almost as much as heat is closeness, and that’s precisely what Ian’s giving him in spades when he settles Mace into his arms and dips his chin over his shoulder, slotting him into place.
Mace doesn’t even try to protest their positions, just accepts it gratefully and quietly. He'll never admit it, he probably won't even think about it further down the line, but he’s rattled pretty bad. Lacerated on a psychological level. The only thing holding him down is Ian. His fixed point, his sweetest constant. Mace might be the one verbalizing it, but in truth, Ian’s the one who’s reassuring him.
The shivering subsides. Eventually, so does the pain, dying down to a slow throb in his limbs that’s oddly lulling, coupled with the sound of Ian’s pulse so close to his ear. And despite his conscious mind stressing the importance of him staying awake and alert, Mace can’t help but doze off in Ian’s arms, his face tucked into the small, warm space between Ian’s neck and shoulder. If some bullshit pops up in the meanwhile —
Well, he’ll deal with that if and when it happens.
It doesn’t.
Mace comes back to awareness with a sharp inhale; his vision’s no longer swimming in and out of focus, but for a moment he thinks his hearing’s completely gone because —
He can’t hear the river anymore.
It can’t have been all that long, his hair is still damp and so is Ian’s clothing. And Ian himself is still wrapped around him the same way, a warm and steadying presence that feels so good, Mace doesn’t want to move a goddamn inch, let alone lift his head up to look around. He's still so fucking cold, as though it's settled into his bones like sediment.
He peers out into the darkness anyway, and then his throat clicks as he swallows, tacky and dry; it’s painful, he knows his neck’s gonna be fucked up for a while, but it's out of a shock he can't contain.
From his current vantage point, it’s almost as though the river’s completely fucking drained away. Can’t be completely sure, not until and unless he’s right by the bank again, but there's no rush of water. No current lapping against the stone. No intermittent clanging noise.
Just the rope that'd been attached to the lever, still lifted up from the tunnel and across the way, its loose end lying a few feet away from the two of them. ]
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It's worth it.
He's awake when the river goes dry. It's as though someone turned off a hose, the flow trickling to a stream and then nothing. It leaves him wide-eyed and confused, on edge immediately, and he considers waking up the man in his arms, but...
No glow. His wrists stay comfortingly dark, so his teeth click softly shut. Let him rest, let him get as much as he fucking can before—
Yeah. Before gasping awake like they do these days, expecting absolutely fucking anything to be bearing down on them. There's nothing, just Ian's permanent rasp made a little more pronounced by thirst. Couldn't convince himself to let go and reach for the canteen. ]
It's okay.
[ Murmured quietly by Mace's ear, his eyes on the river too. ]
It just... stopped. But there's nothing else.
[ So far. He doubts that'll be the permanent state of things, especially considering how tempting that lever looks with the rope so conveniently settled before them despite the fact that the stream flows in the opposite direction. ]
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There has to be a dam, somewhere along the direction of its flow, before it reached the cave system. Could be miles away from here, some reservoir in the distance, and whoever’s operating it might be on an alternating schedule — which gives them a window of time to see if they can find a way out.
Because they can’t stay here. And they can’t go back, or at least, there’d be no point to it — nothing behind them but the dark tunnels, a smashed corpse, and something lurking in the tunnels that sounded like it was the size of a fucking studio apartment.
Nowhere to go but forward, which meant. ]
Gotta pull it.
[ Raw and unsteady, because for some reason his throat hurts more now that the initial shock has worn off, something half-apologetic in his voice, half-resigned. And fuck it, but they’d put in the work, right? Getting the rope there, he’d almost gotten himself necked and worse than that, he could've gotten Ian hurt in the process — might as well make use of it, too.
Unless there's another idea, another option, and Mace frowns as his chill-addled mind tried to think its way out. The ends of the portcullis had been wedged into the riverbed, and he could — if Ian could make him a shovel, he could dig underneath it, try and lift it up.
Before he suggests that, though. Mace tilts his head up just a little, his eyes soft as they seek out Ian’s face, the cold tip of his nose grazing the line of Ian's jaw. ]
Thank you.
[ For jumping in after him like that. For holding him close, bearing his weight against the stone. For not letting go. ]
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