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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 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
God, it was such a close call. It was such a close call, a matter of fucking seconds probably before he slipped under the water. Who knows if the noose was tight enough to keep him from sucking any into his lungs, who knows if Ian's CPR certification would really hold up to the damn test?
It's getting harder and harder to avoid acknowledging what he feels, especially to himself. The knee-jerk fear, the immediate thought that he couldn't do this alone - and even if he could, he doesn't want to. There'd been a flaring instinct that if he lost Mace, he might lose himself then, too. Lose the will to keep muddling through it all, break down right then and there in the river with him. Maybe he'd get through that, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd linger so long whatever haunts this cave would've decided for him.
He stows it away with a thick swallow, reorients himself to the present moment.
He leans into the tracing touch, face gently turning in and eyes squeezing shut. It transitions the whole thing into something akin to a desperate nuzzle, belying just how rattled the whole thing left him. It contradicts his tone, deliberately light as he murmurs (not for the first time): ]
Shut up.
[ With no conviction whatsoever. ]
Don't thank me for that.
[ For any of it. It was not an entirely selfless act - quite the opposite, his heart is extremely selfish right now. Just in case Mace plans to argue, he shifts on. Slowly loosens his hold around Mace's middle, though doesn't let go immediately. It's a reluctant, slow parting. Really, just barely initiating the act of it like wading into the stream. ]
We should go. We don't know how much farther, we haven't eaten. We keep stalling and we're gonna start losing energy.
no subject
A yearning that went beyond simple desire. An attachment that went beyond the flesh.
Don't thank me for that.
Mace's brows furrow and his lips part, because he can tell, despite Ian's attempt at an easy tone, how shaken he is — what he must've gone through. But Ian doesn't give Mace a chance to argue the point, and the arm around Mace's torso eases off, although not all the way just yet. He's glad of that; glad that he'll have some time to acclimatize himself to the detachment, to wrest his thoughts back into some semblance of control.
Christ, he's wasted — enough time, enough energy, not his own but Ian's. That last morning back at the cabin seems an entire lifetime ago, and he can't even fucking remember if he'd managed to feed Ian anything beyond coffee, before they'd gone tearing out of the window. ]
I'll do it.
[ Meaning, I'll pull the lever. This time, he pitches his voice low enough so that the rasp isn't as noticeable. Braces himself to get to his feet, to reluctantly put unwanted distance between them so they can get moving, but before he goes. Mace leans up to plant a hard, lingering kiss right where Ian gets a dimple when he smiles.
Then it's a matter of holding the blanket tight around himself and easing up, first onto his knees, balancing himself with his hands, then finally upright on his feet. He sways and then grits his teeth, his first step forward painful with how hard he hits his heel against the stone. Fuck. Get a hold of yourself, Mace.
Getting his clothing back on is another minor exercise in both humility and balance, but it gets easier as he goes, and when he's done he blows out a shaky breath, leaning down to pick up the lever-rope and looking over at Ian. ]
Got another idea, if you like it better. Could dig under the grate. Try and lift it up.
no subject
All that good is quickly replaced by concern, though, at the sight of his shaky limbs. At how much it seems to take him to get upright. The thought of him pulling that lever, the thought of anything else springing on him - especially right now... He can't. Can't let that happen.
The second plan is better, but Mace isn't in a great condition to start fucking digging. ]
Hey, put your clothes on. Get warm. I'll get it started.
[ And he'll get it finished, too - hopefully without argument by turning to oh-so-casually head on over to the gate with his wrists glowing.
Dig under the grate. Should be easy enough - just a couple feet in diameter, and he thinks the portcullis didn't dig that deeply into the ground. That's if he's remembering right, the entire thing had been through water and chaos.
He'll find out once he makes it over there and gets the chance to dig his shovel into soft, wet soil.
He works with his hands too, man. He's plenty built to dig and lift, even if a few days with a fucked up abdomen kept him from pitching in on the manual labor as much as he'd like. Shouldn't be a precedent, though. Shouldn't pigeonhole Mace into the role of doing all the heavy lifting. ]
no subject
If it weren’t for the sudden, violent sneezing that overtakes him, that has him doubling over with the force of it, right into the crook of his elbow.
Maybe getting warm isn't such a bad idea. Son of a bitch, but he can’t afford to get sick, can’t let himself get knocked down for the count and leave Ian to pick up more and more of the slack — and it’s with that thought in mind that Mace unravels the flannel from where Ian had left it tied around the rope, a worried frown puckering his brows as he puts it on.
Buttons it all the way up again, despite the way the collar presses into his sore throat, and leaves the sleeves unrolled this time around. Bundles their supplies up together again and grabs the torch from where it's wedged in the rocks, before joining Ian where he’s hard at work, shovelling underneath the portcullis. The rope’s still tied around the lever, but Mace doesn't even give it a glance this time, distracted by his guy.
And not entirely out of worry, because — well, fuck. Look at him go. ]
Ian.
[ Half-firm, half-impressed. It’s not the juvenile part of Mace this time, it’s something more lizard-brain, like being in a cave for so long has him thinking like a caveman too. The pride he feels at having found such a mate — not just intelligent, not just beautiful, but strong and capable.
Yeah, not the time, Mace. ]
Gimme the shovel, come on. Look, I’m all — warmed up.
[ Let him do the heavy-lifting while he's still good for it. If it's a pigeonhole, it's one he's picked for himself on his own. ]
no subject
Oh, no.
No way. Not on his watch.
Something fiercely protective flares to life in him, something that burns a little higher at the sound of his name and what Ian knows will be following it. When he pauses to look at Mace (with his flannel buttoned all the way up - good and bad) it's with the kind of firmness in his expression that a mother might have toward her child. ]
Go sit down and light another torch. That one's dying.
[ They're still in a cave system, it's still pitch black, and it's only the dimming flashlight he'd found up against the gate that made this part even possible. Cranking it, setting it off to the side to illuminate the place his shovel's breaking ground.
Besides light, the heat from the fire is an added benefit. If he could sit Mace down somewhere under four quilts in front of a space heater, he might do it. Short of that, the next best option is to craft while they walk again. More torches, since they're on their last. Another blanket.
(More clothes for himself, because these are still damp and sucking the warmth from him too.)
Another knife, because Mace's was small enough to slip through the gaps in the gate and be carried away by the river to god knows where. They've got his crowbar still, that's something, but knives are good for more than just fighting. It had saved Mace's life (from Ian) not but an hour or so earlier. Maybe that comes first.
All of these thoughts are a two-second strategy his mind comes up with in the background without actually articulating themselves in his brain. His primary focus is on being stern with a shake of the shovel handle in Mace's direction, and then pointedly going back to digging. ]