vestigechat | inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

Entry tags:

!tdm

inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

				
				VESTIGE TEST DRIVE MEME

WHAT IS THIS?

Vestige

The Box

invite-only

horror jamjar

Good Quality Suffering™️

ongoing

no official start date

literally nothing but this TDM

all powers intact

items

Intro + Friending

EDIT 5/20:

DISCORD SERVER

 PROMPT 1 ► just your ordinary cabin in the woods 

⬛ARRIVAL + GENERAL PROMPT

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

⬛MONSTER HORROR.

packed

A child's drawing, of what appears to be... shit, what even is that? Is it a bat? Is it some kind of... reptile? We just don't know. (result! warnings for gore/violence.)
A light-blue paper face mask, the sort used in hospitals for patients who have a cold. Maybe you guys should've brought masks too. It sure would keep all this dust the hell out of your nose... ( result! warning for body horror! )
A buzzsaw blade, dusty but intact. ( result! warnings for gore/violence. )
A music box, covered in faded yellow flowers. I wonder what music it plays? ( result! warnings for gore/violence and Alarming Children. )
A funeral urn. But... It seems that someone glued it shut around the edges? I guess that's one way to make sure nobody spills grandma. ( result! )

 PROMPT 3 ► congratulations, you fucked up

⬛SURVIVAL HORROR.

easy

smoke

here

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

⬛PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR.

try

The first time your character ventures into the fog, they're just turned around and sent back to the cabin.
The second time, they hallucinate things that they don't want to hear. Something they fear, something that hurts them, something that stresses them the fuck out. Maybe a character's worst fear is wildcats and they hear one growling just out of sight in the mist. Maybe instead they hear a loved one crying for help back in the direction from which they've come, drawing them back to the cabin. Or maybe they hear the voice of someone they admire berating their cowardice or stupidity or something, for running away from the cabin in the first place. The goal is to psych them out and send them running back to the place where the action is happening.
The third time, it's the same but full-blown visual or even physical hallucinations. Basically anything that might lure, scare, emotionally wound, etc. them into going back to the vicinity of the cabin.

 THE LOOP ► a note on replayability

left unbothered

sunrise

burnt

fall unconscious

reawaken in a perfectly undamaged cabin

CODE BY TESSISAMESS (patreon)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ That pun earns one lingering look from Ian, not amused or annoyed - some space in between, maybe, mashed with the fact that he can't believe anyone could whip out the lowest form of comedy at a time like this. He acknowledges you, Mace, but you should think about what you did and feel bad.

He can say the first question Mace hits him with isn't something he's ever been asked before. Then again, nobody he's ever shown has been in this particular field - gone after too many writers or artists. ]

I have to know it. Like, really know it, not just... know of it. I can do water. I can do one really specific, really unfortunate brand of Tequila. I can do coffee, a couple different lubricants, WD40, motor oil... Can't really get friendly with acid.

[ It helps if it's something he can touch. He's a tactile person, the more hands-on he can get with something the easier it is for him to reproduce it. ]

I'm also not great with complex organics. No animals, no plants, no bugs.

[ No shooting spiders at their enemies, sorry. ]

[ Hey, the lowest form of comedy suits the place they’re in right now, so Mace will remain unashamed in the face of all this judgement as he mulls over their remaining options, taking into account Ian's parameters. Something he's gotta be familiar with, and it sounds like it has to have been up close and personal, so ... ]

Coffee, huh?

[ That gives him an idea. Maybe just water'll be enough for what he's got in mind, if Ian can cover all three states of matter for it. Hell, even liquid'll be enough, but Mace wants to get a good understanding of Ian's abilities before shit goes down. ]

Can you control the temperature, too? Or is just a room temp kind of situation? Because we're looking at possible ice projectiles, or hot steam in somebody's eye, or ...

[ It ain't spiders to the face, but it's a level of weaponization and unpredictability that's bound to come in handy, and Mace trails off with a vague but meaningful gesture, still holding the knife in his hand. His thoughts flick back over what was just said, and then it's his turn for a lingering glance at Ian. ]

By the way, if we make it out of this, I'm gonna want to know which brand, and why.

[ Coffee. He's tried his heart out to make specific coffee, the creamer/sugar ratio, but evidently that's too many different things at once and he fucks it up every time. It either tastes like shit or it's full of so much of one component it's practically sand sludge. Somehow straight tequila is easier, maybe simpler.

He shakes his head. ]

It's not... I'm not that good. I can get you room temperature water, I can get you hot coffee, but if I don't drink it or touch it scalding I can't make it scalding.

[ Which, granted, normal hot coffee in someone's eyes still sucks, but the time it takes him to make it means it won't be a spur of the moment attack. If they just constantly have coffee sitting around on the off-chance, sure... ]

I get what you're looking for.

[ He does, and he doesn't sound upset about it. Not particularly bothered or judgmental. If they were on opposite ends he'd be asking all the same questions. ]

But I can't think of any way to weaponize it other than... literally. It takes too long to pull something out, and if I'm in a fight, if I can't concentrate, I can't do it.

[ A beat, then wryly: ]

No ice projectiles. Barely ice. The good news is if you give me about three hours I can start making us the best margaritas you've ever had. If we got kidnapped by Dr. Jimmy Buffett maybe that'll be enough to get us out.

[ Some confusion passes over Mace’s face at the reference to Jimmy Buffett, which goes careening over his head, but he files it away to ask about later on. Instead, with a vague smirk, ]

You’re making wine without the water — or margaritas, as it were. That overshoots past good straight into miracle territory, for me.

[ As far as Mace is concerned, yer a wizard Harry. And he can appreciate needing to concentrate in the middle of a firefight (or whatever it is they’re going to be stuck in), so literal weaponization sounds just as good to him. It’s about a world and a half better than what they’d have without Ian, that’s for damn sure.

But now that he's got a feel for the framework they're gonna be working in, that whatever Ian creates has to be something he’s directly familiar with, there's another important question that’s been in the back of his mind this whole time. Another swift glance up at the stairs behind Ian to make sure they’re still in the clear, and his face goes back to serious.

This’ll be a little more personal than a tequila story, but he’s gotta ask. ]

You a father?

[ Not do you have a family, or are you married, because while those bits are still just as important in an emotional sense, none of them imply dependents in the same way that children do. And for the purposes of their situation, Mace needs to know which one of them matters more, in the greater scheme of things.

After a pause, he adds: ]

I'm not.

[ Of all the places this conversation could have gone, he wouldn't have banked on this hard left. From margaritas to suddenly somber. His smile falls quickly, easily. Slides off like water.

It isn't until the I'm not that he understands why the guy's asking.

He's prioritizing. The understanding is a visible transition onto Ian's face, no masking, no holding back. His lips purse for a second, but it isn't because he's considering being dishonest.

It's because the truth sounds worse than he really believes it is. ]

No. I don't have anybody.

[ Nobody. Nothing. No wife, no kids, no parents, no siblings. No close friends, just work friends and guys I know from college, people who pad their weddings and their parties with him because he's easy and he's fun. People who have never seen the inside of his house, people who don't know his mother's name.

Don't prioritize him if you've got anyone at all.

And to gloss over how pathetic it probably sounds, he follows it up wryly. ]

I feel like we should probably be on a first name basis at this point.

[ Because he's pretty sure they haven't swapped those yet before getting to where they are. ]

[ Even in the low light, Mace just about sees the moment he gets it — gets the why of it, the realization and the reaction it evokes passing over his expression; he knows what the answer's gonna be before he even hears it.

The way it's delivered speaks volumes, too, and Mace thinks he can make an educated guess as to the reasoning behind it. It doesn't sound pathetic to his ears so much as it does clear, leaving no room for doubt. Cut and dry.

However, it does make his brow dip and his expression go thoughtful for a moment. The guy said he was a teacher, and that means he has students. Passing on knowledge and guidance, a stone thrown into water, the ripples extending outward over and over. That means something.

But he keeps that bit to himself for now, just gives a slow, understanding nod in response as if everything's settled, as if they've both established themselves on the same level of prioritization. They haven't, but that's for him to know.

Slipping the knife into his pocket, he offers out his now free hand. ]

Mace. I mean, that's my last name, but nobody's called me James since high school.

[ There's some guys that just settle into their last names even more comfortably than their first, and Mace is one of 'em. ]

[ An eyebrow arches up at Mace, but who the hell is he to judge? He doesn't have a middle name, that's arguably just as weird as going by the name of a medieval weapon.

There's no hesitance in the way he reaches out to shake. He doesn't try to big dick by squeezing too hard, there's no reluctance in his grip. There are callouses, but they're in strange places - the heel of his hand, the meat beneath his fingers, but the dead center of his palm is soft and unmarred.

Not hard to guess why, if you can track that blue glow. ]

Ian.

[ He offers back, and when their hands drop away he postulates with barely-detectable humor: ]

What about Jim? Jimmy? Jamey?

[ Some people say you can't tell what a person's like just by their handshake, and those people all probably have the grip, temperature, and texture of a cold fish. Mace tends to use it as a barometer as to the kind of person he's meeting, and that barometer's telling him right now that Ian's a stand-up guy. One who works with his hands, which he'd known already — engineering — but it's good to have the reminder all the same.

His own grip is firm and warm, as blunt as he himself is, as straightforward, and Mace makes a little face at hearing that shortlist. He's never understood Jim and the variations thereof; come to think of it, most nicknames don't add up to their originating names. ]

I see we're moving to nickname basis, now. What's that, second base?

[ He's got a weird sense of humour, sorry Ian. ]

Anyway, I can't shorten Ian to anything, so. If I have to take one of those, you're gonna get a made-up one from me.

[ Another tiny uptick to his lips; second base. There's a little micro-expression, an almost teasing lift of one eyebrow and the tiniest little nod of his head to the right in a way that suggests he's considering it. It doesn't last long, flows right on by without commentary. ]

Can't wait to hear one of those.

[ He muses dryly, but it's a little distracted. Too busy sticking his hand out and slowly crafting a knife to match the one Mace has in his pocket. It takes sixty or ninety seconds, and he curls his fingers around it once it's done. He's not exactly a knife guy, doesn't get in very many fights, but he can hold a screwdriver.

Same thing, right?

Ha.

Might be time to get back to serious business. ]

So... You ever seen the movie Home Alone?

[ Yes, this is in fact serious business. ]

[ Making up nicknames is not Mace's strongest suit, so it’s probably just as well that Ian decides to materialize another knife at that point, distracting him completely. The moment Ian’s hand is out again, his eyes are right back on it, following the blue glow like he’s trying to figure out how it works just from watching it.

He does catch that reference, though, as well as the way the atmosphere shifts — they’re getting down to business. It takes a second but it does strike a bell, and Mace is, in fact, all seriousness as he nods.

He can see where this is going and he likes it. ]

Kid booby traps his house, takes down the bad guys despite the odds.

[ Or rather, tips the odds in his favour. A pause in between looking around the area for some fabric to wrap his hands with — no point getting splinters while swinging — and he glances back over at Ian. ]

Old movie.

[ Same decade as the Island of Doctor Moreau, now that he thinks about it. ]

[ At old movie, Ian's shoulders kind of bounce back and forth. Yeah, okay, depending on your perspective. He's in his mid thirties, he's starting to get used to hearing things he grew up with called old.

Mace doesn't look all that different than him in age, but still. No comment. ]

We could get something like that going. The only problem is it means sealing ourselves in, so if they get tired of trying and... I don't know, burn the place down, we'd need an exit strategy.

[ Some way to leave that also doesn't let anyone in. ]

We also don't know how long we've got - if spotting that thing did anything, or if picking it up's going to trigger it, or if it's completely irrelevant and someone's gonna pop in at random to... hand us a Publisher's Clearing House check?

[ Shrug. Who knows what the plan is. ]

[ Right. They could be running short on time — or maybe that thing is the trigger, and this whole thing is the puzzle Ian suggested it was at the start. If they try to skip steps, ignore the mask and break out of the cabin, they’ll just end up wandering in the fog until they wake up right back here. Can't go around it; they'll have to go through. ]

So we make sure we don’t get caught without an exit.

[ There’s a patch of floorboard that’s uncovered and undisturbed in front of the staircase, and Mace squats down by it, setting down the log and starting to draw into the dust. Two squares, connected by a dotted line, and the bigger square gets an X right at the top left: the front door of the cabin. ]

Okay, so say this is the basement. [ taps the second, smaller square, ] If I were a mad doc, I’d be looking to either trap my mice in one place or separate 'em. Cut us our checks, one by one.

But they can’t do any of that if … [ two fingers, smudging out the dotted line ] There’s no seal.

[ A keen glance back up at Ian, Mace nodding at the basement entrance behind them. ]

If you can make me a screwdriver and a hammer, I’ll take that door down off its hinges.

[ He hums in approval, bent at an awkward angle and leaning into Mace's personal space so he can get a face-forward view. Yeah, okay, take away the divider. Seen too many movies where the main characters get trapped on either side and it fucks them up.

He can do better than dust, too.

A blue glow, quicker this time, knits together a wide piece of drafting paper. Another afterward and the most simple drawing charcoal you can fathom. Easier to see, easier to sketch out something more intricate. He repeats Mace's original floor plan, but adds on the rooms. ]

I'm thinkin' we take down all the goddamn interior doors. Bedroom's just as bad as basement if we're talking split-ups or barring someone in. Not like they're not gonna be ready to bust one down to get us anyway, right?

[ Because no kidnapping fuck is going to show up to their own murder house without being prepared to get through the fucking doors. ]

Swap 'em for some basic tripwire, it'd take two seconds. Simple components. I can make fishing line, nails. If we can get somebody down on the ground our odds go up.

[ Except - another thing that spirals into his mind - he reels back from the drawing. ]

But you think they'd do two on one odds? That's crazy, right? Why would you give someone the numbers advantage?

[ Something real comforting about the familiar sight of a drafting paper and charcoal, and not even noticing how crowded their space is getting Mace leans in with an appreciative murmur. ]

Nice.

[ And it’s not just Ian's draftsmanship that’s clear and sound, so his plan; already settling into the clarity of a methodical mindset, that tripwire comment acts like a flame to a fuse, giving Mace another lightbulb moment. Getting somebody down on the ground is good, and the odds go further up if they can keep them there.

Man, if they had the time — and weren’t, you know, stuck in a fuckin' psycho horror show — he’d suggest they go further in-depth about this over some of that aforementioned coffee. ]

You wouldn’t. You’d bring company, which means … [ Reaching over, plucking the charcoal gently out of Ian’s hand — ]

We’ll need a way to try and take down multiple hostiles at once. [ In the corner of the drafting paper, he sketches out a quick picture of a fishing net, weights attached intermittently around it. ]

Make some netting, and we can rig one of these over the main thresholds — basement and living room. They set off the tripwire, and boom. If the netting’s no bueno, we can grab some of the sheets off the beds upstairs, attach some weights to ‘em.

[ A pause, and then something else occurs to Mace; he looks over at his makeshift bat and then back at Ian, raising his eyebrows. ]

Think you could make a whole lot of nails?

[ The charcoal is freely given, offered up as though he always loosely intended for Mace to take it. His arms fold gently over his knees, smashed together as they share a space.

Glad he's picking up the same thread that Ian is - there's no way one single doctor is gonna run into a house with two guys who had time to weaponize. Not unless he's got something like what Ian has but better, something that leaves him feeling confident taking on two victims alone.

Ian's never met anyone else who can do what he does, though, so he's not banking on it.

Assume they have the numbers, then.

He can't make a net per say, but he can make rope. Bed sheets would work too, probably just as well, unless-

With the nails... ]

Yeah, I can do nails. I can also do conductive wiring.

[ Said with a pointed look at the bulb-less socket over their heads. The light switches upstairs work, he knows that one for a fact. They have electricity.

You going the same place as him with those nails, or are they hitting on two great ideas at once? ]

[ They’re absolutely hitting on two great ideas at once. In fact — ]

And here I was, figuring on a humble nail bat. [ Mace sounds both wry and a little impressed, having caught that upward glance and the connection to the electricity just about immediately, and wonders why he hadn’t thought of it himself. ]

I like the way you think. We fry ‘em.

[ Whoever’s brought them here — and Mace is hoping it’s a who and not a what — is probably gonna be coming through one of the entrance points of the house. But if even if they’re already in the cabin somehow, hidden and waiting, it won’t be too difficult to lure their captors through the empty doorways instead.

Okay, so maybe he’s simplifying it in his head, but that’s the crux of the nitty gritty. And with the added reassurance of having a guy as sharp as Ian with him on this, Mace is pretty hopeful they can pull this off.

Home Alone 6: The Mice Bite Back.

With a decided air, he balances the charcoal on top of Ian’s folded arms. ]

All right, let’s do this. You magic the materials, I’ll get started on the doors and — [ His gaze lands on the knife Ian had made for himself a few minutes ago, going pensive as he looks back up and makes eye contact again. ]

And … you know how to use that thing, Teach?

[ The nickname slips out on its own. In Mace’s defense, all this mechanical talk got his creativity flowing. ]

[ His lips pull up at humble nail bat. Hey, you know what, that's a good one too. Wouldn't have thought of it, but it'll definitely take their weaponization to the next level. Further reach than a knife, more lethal than just a blunt object.

He's all set to magic the materials when the nickname comes out, and he pauses to shoot Mace a wry look.

About that nickname thing, huh? Guess who broke the barrier first? ]

I don't know, Jamey, do you stick 'em with the sharp side?

[ No, he has never had any kind of Systema knife fighting class. He doesn't, as a rule, get into knife fights. He just knows that in general stabbing and slashing are probably a good idea if you're being attacked and you've got a knife in your hand.

If Mace has something better for him than that, he's all ears. ]

[ Between Jim, Jamey, Jimmy, or God forbid Jimbo, Mace figures Jamey is the lesser of the numerous evils. Anyway, he’s brought it on himself, so there’s only the briefest of eye-rolls at both his new nickname and that smart-assed comment. ]

In theory, yeah.

[ Not that he’s been in a class for this specific shit himself, but he knows a few things here and there. ]

First rule of knife-fighting is, you’re gonna get cut. [ No, it isn’t, but it’s a guideline that’s served him well enough, as in don’t be afraid of getting nicked and mess up in the process. But: ] Don’t keep getting cut, though. You get hurt, you trade that in for a kill, which. Second rule, and actually more important than the first: maximal violence, immediately.

[ And that’s really the only thing he needs Ian to fully understand before this all goes down. ]

It’s not jujitsu. Nothing fancy. Not even really a fight, it’s — you’re gonna go in with lethal force and you can’t hesitate. Okay?

[ The more he talks, the more Mace finds himself start to worry a little. Considers suggesting that maybe Ian also materialize a broom handle, affix the knife at the end of that to make some sort of spear instead, give him a distance advantage, but …

No, that increases the complexity of the situation and also introduces the possibility of confusion, which is the last thing needed during or before combat. It’s on Mace, then, to make sure he gets the lion’s share of whatever comes at them.

Okay. Understood. He nods, and even though he’s looking Ian’s way the whole time, it’s directed at himself. ]

All right. You’re gonna be fine.

[ There's a soft, breathy laugh at the first rule of knife fighting. He's assuming this means his opponent's gonna have a knife too, otherwise it's less of a knife fight and more of a stabbing. Fair enough.

Maximal violence.

The second rule of knife fighting is you don't talk about knife fighting.

He doesn't make that joke, tempting as it is. Instead, a more somber and steady expression takes over his features. He can't read minds, though sometimes he used to wish he could swap his gift out for that. He can, however, assess the uncertainty in Mace's tone. The way he seems to suddenly second-guess Ian's proficiency.

Can't tell if he's worried for Ian or for himself, having a partner that doesn't know how to fight. Either way--

He reaches out to curl a hand around Mace's forearm. A grounding contact to add emphasis, something to drag Mace's attention up so they can make real eye contact. ]

I'm not gonna hesitate.

[ Impressed with deliberate intention, confident, unfaltering.

You believe him? He means it. ]

[ It’s not until there’s a hand on his arm that Mace’s gaze clears, focuses properly on the man in front of him. He'd heard the soft laugh and if he wasn't so concerned, he might've made the joke about Fight Club himself, or at least quipped that Ian was thinking it. But with what's on his mind, he can't quite muster it.

Ian’s a civilian; it’s not even worry on Mace’s part that his partner in crime doesn’t know how to fight, it’s the fact that he shouldn’t have to, shouldn’t be near the line of fire in the first place. Pure and simple, the buck stops with the guy who’s had combat training, and if something happens, if something goes wrong ...

Then it passes, driven away by the steadfast, serious conviction he hears in that voice, sees in Ian’s eyes.

Yeah, he believes it, and it’s with a small, real smile that Mace says: ]

I’ll be counting on it.

[ Before reaching out to clap his hand onto Ian’s shoulder, following it up with a firm squeeze to show he means it, too. Because he will be, he has to be. They can’t go into this unless they both trust the other guy to work to the best of his ability — although that doesn’t mean Mace won’t still be doing what he can to direct the flow of fighting toward himself as much as possible.

After that, the minutes seem to tick by like seconds; Ian works his magic, Mace makes a nail bat. Mace gets all the doors out of the way while Ian rigs up the fishing line, connecting the wiring so that lethal electricity is at their fingertips with a flip of any of the switches upstairs. Well, lethal enough for humans, anyway. ]

You know what would suck?

[ Called over his shoulder as puts the finishing touches on the flooring in front of the fireplace in the living room — a liberal coating of WD40. It’s also at the head of the stairs leading up to the bedroom and all along the railing. Mace wipes his palms on his thighs and gets to his feet, walking back over to where Ian is. ]

Imagine that we’re doing all this, and then it turns out that it’s fuckin’ ghosts or something.

[ Nice to be on the same page. Not that he's enjoying his staycation here in creepy murder cabin, he's at least got the perspective to know that there are far worse people he could've been stranded with. He can't know if the people who took them are aware of their trade, if they're braced for what happens when you put two people like them together in a problem situation, if this whole thing is gonna backfire, but...

Could be worse. Silver lining.

Which isn't to say he isn't stressed or scared shitless. He very much is, it's a low underlying burning beneath his surface level calm. Good under pressure, but the pressure's mounting every time they finish a piece of their puzzle. Like they're racing a clock, and any minute something might burst in.

In any case, the wires are set, the nets are up, there are nails in a log and electricity rigged into anything he could manage. There's some very, very Home Alone WD40, and there's even a trick step that Ian's marked with the charcoal that'll fall through completely if any weight's put on it. They've taken turns plowing down the stairs and skipping it until it's almost natural.

Now here they stand in the center of their hard work, and Ian offers out a bottle of water - dumped out from the fridge and replaced with his own, just in case. Can't imagine why they would bother drugging them, but better safe than sorry.

He breathes out slow. ]

Then I hope pissing yourself is a ghost deterrent.

[ Frankly, because how the fuck do you fight a ghost? ]

I guess we should make it a general rule that whatever comes through those doors... aim for the head.

[ Right? That's how you kill... pretty much anything. Normal doctor, zombies, murderers, werewolves? What in the hell are they even talking about anymore?

He shakes his head. ]

You ready?

[ The closer they get to crunch time, the calmer Mace ends up feeling. It's the knowledge that he’s in this mess with somebody as capable as Ian, it’s the fact that they’re actually prepared as well as anybody can be under the circumstances. Better, even, thanks to Ian’s superpower, which part of Mace still really hasn’t gotten over. He’s compartmentalized most of the shock and curiosity for later on, if they get a later on.

More than anything else, though, it’s that he has a strange reaction to adrenaline. Panic isn’t an option so all those racing hormones in his bloodstream only serve to heighten his senses, which in turn gives him a sense of assurance. He’s at peak performance. The odds are as good as they’re gonna get.

He takes the bottle with a grin that’s more teeth than humour, downing almost all the contents in a single, extended swig. ]

I dunno man, I’ve heard some pretty weird folklore. You’d be surprised at the kinda shit people say can stop a ghost.

[ Not that he believes in them, but he’s learned the hard way, now, that it doesn’t really matter what you believe in. But aiming for the head is pretty much their best shot regardless of whatever’s headed their way, so when Ian suggests that, Mace points the emptied bottle at him with an approving nod. ]

Let’s McCallister these fuckers.

[ The traps they’ve got set up span an entire vista of casualties — blunt force trauma, electrocution, and a missing stair that’ll send any possible hostiles straight to the goddamn basement hard enough to break their leg and, hopefully, their neck. Kevin would be proud.

Mace cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders and then picks up the bat, looking over at Ian and assessing. He looks calm enough, he sounds ready, he ain't sweating; if he's nervous or afraid, it's nowhere that Mace can see it, which is good. Mind over matter. ]

One of us goes down and sets off their supposed trigger with the mask, the other guy waits for the homeowners committee at the front door.

[ A pause, and he jabs a thumb at himself, saying, ] It's me, I'm the other guy.

[ Moments like these, Ian wishes he read more goddamn folklore. He'd love to be able to whip out a couple of different things like that guy in the Mummy and stumble onto something that accidentally saved his ass from a ghost. In the meantime, though, they've got knives and electricity and that's about it.

Shit.

They're yin and yang here, with Mace becoming slowly more resolute and Ian churning a little under the surface. He's managing, the freaking out will come after when he has time to process. After the adrenaline and, more importantly, after he's alone.

Let's McCallister these fucks.

Might just be the most inspirational thing he's ever heard. That sentiment's plastered on his face, and it's the only thing that keeps him from protesting the designation of trigger-man.

Here goes nothing. He takes the steps, skips the trick stair.

Knife in his right hand. Left hovering over the mask.

A sharp breath out. It might seem like stalling, just a little, when he yells up the stairs: ]

Get ready!

[ Barely a falter, just a tiny bit of uncertainty, mostly resolute.

Sharp breath in. Sharp breath out. Another... sharp breath in, a little bit of a bounce to gear himself up and-- he snatches it up. Once it's in his hand he goes dead silent, listening for anything. Any single goddamn noise. Any feeling of prickling in the dark. Any indicator that he's not alone in this basement.

He chances a glance down at the mask. Nothing. No writing, no words, no blood, no nothing.

Tentatively, he hedges toward the foot of the stairs to call up. ]

Anything?

[ Mace catches a flicker of something in Ian’s eyes before resoluteness covers it, something that might’ve been a protest, and he’d been prepared to have to argue the fact that it makes a lot more sense for him to be the one to welcome their captors, that it was best for Ian to be their ground control operations.

But it doesn’t come; instead, Ian goes down the stairs, just like they practiced, and Mace waits patiently for his signal. It takes a little while, but soon enough he hears him yell, and to Mace’s ears it sounds only clear and determined. It helps readiness flood his own system, gets him impossibly more alert. I’m not gonna hesitate, Ian had said, in more or less the same tone.

It’s showtime.

Except for a long, excruciating minute, absolutely nothing happens. He can hear his own breathing loud in his ears, hears Ian’s voice from the foot of the basement stairs calling out a tentative follow-up, and he’s just about to reply with a negative when something goes crunch outside the front door and every hair on Mace’s body stands up.

Like a bell tolling in a church tower comes the knock knock knock. Three sharp, ringing taps that somehow seem to echo throughout the entire cabin from the front door, which shouldn’t be possible. This isn’t a thin, cardboard-walled apartment in fuckin’ downtown Detroit, this is thick logs forming a structure that’s well-insulated by carpets and furniture, with a basement made out of bricks.

A horrible feeling of dread starts forming in the pit of Mace’s stomach, something he doesn’t recognize and — not recognizing it — actively hates. Knocks shouldn’t be able to elicit this. They aren’t really two kids stuck at home, braving an invasion from grown men three times their size, they are the grown men in this equation.

Get it together, Mace, he thinks angrily, and is just about to take the strides needed to cover the distance between himself and the door when it suddenly wrenches open, and —

What the — ]

Son of a bitch.

[ It’s not quite a yell but it’s loud and shocked, and despite Mace’s best efforts, the dread he’d been starting to feel filters into his voice. Shit. Not good, he can’t show fear, he can’t let Ian catch the fear in his voice, and with that thought in the forefront of his mind, he starts fucking swinging like this is the major leagues and his last name is Robinson.

There’s a sickening sound of meat meeting nailed wood, which checks out, because the white-coats — four of them right out the gate, two at his twelve o’clock, one at his three, fuck where did the third one go, fuck — might be human-shaped but they sure as hell look raw and red under their masks. Eyes stitched shut, and it doesn’t matter how hard he hits them, it’s like they don’t even fucking feel it.

No screams of pain. No change in their energy, something relentless and placid in a way that’s completely terrifying. The only sound is Mace cursing as he knocks one right into the pile of firewood in the corner and starts doing his best to bash the asshole's head in. ]

[ He's got one foot on the stairs when the knocks come. He shouldn't be able to hear it as clearly as he does, he knows that - the insulation, the sheer density in the masonry surrounding him. It shouldn't be possible, and yet he can practically feel it reverberating through the wood beneath his shoe.

Suddenly, ghost doesn't seem so far-fetched.

He should've been moving during those seconds, he realizes in hindsight. Could've taken them and been right behind Mace by the time they burst through, but his knees had locked and he'd frozen in place trying to comprehend the surreality of it.

It's that son of a bitch that snaps him back into frantic action, knife in hand, left hand on banister, only just enough presence of mind to skip his own stair rather than fall through it.

When he makes it to the top, he falters again for just one second.

It's on his lips, it's in his breath, it's louder than he would've ever intended but it's completely beyond a conscious choice: ]

What the fuck--

[ They don't have eyes. Three o'clock doc does not spin so much as kindly and politely turn around toward him, head tipping in either acknowledgement or scrutiny. Kind of hard to tell when they don't have fucking eyes. In either case, it peels away from the group and toward Ian's direction.

Words fall out of his mouth so quick and so loud they might take a little longer to decipher. ]

Backup, backup, backup-

[ Directed at Mace, because of the net. Can't be under it when it drops, and he wants to drop it now. ]

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