inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

[vestigemods]

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.

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:


• 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! )

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.

CODE BY TESSISAMESS (patreon)

Comments

[hydraulics]

[ 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. ]

[wittingly]

[ 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. ]

[hydraulics]

[ 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.

[wittingly]

[ 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?

[hydraulics]

[ 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?

[wittingly]

[ 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? ]

[hydraulics]

[ 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. ]

[wittingly]

[ 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. ]

[hydraulics]

[ 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.

[wittingly]

[ 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. ]

[hydraulics]

[ 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.

[wittingly]

[ 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?

[hydraulics]

[ 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.

[wittingly]

[ 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?

[hydraulics]

[ 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. ]

[wittingly]

[ 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. ]

[hydraulics]

[ You’d think the fact that their sockets are empty and the lids sewn shut would bother Mace more, or the skinless, bloody flesh of their hands and the small bits of it peeking out from behind their masks.

Yet what’s actually starting to get to him, even through the first few moments of harried pummelling, is the fact that they’re not registering any sort of pain. Their motor functions are as adept and strong as any normal human being's, and he catches the glint of steel in the hand of one of ‘em, which means they have a deliberation of purpose — they’re here to hurt.

But all of the above requires grey matter in their skull and a functioning spinal cord, which in turn ought to mean they fucking feel it when he uses the nailbat like a meat mallet to their head.

Nothing. Just a mess of bone and viscera underneath the business end of the log, no urgency in the rest of the body as it stops moving. He rears back when he hears Ian’s voice behind him, panting and turning around quickly. Between the legs of his other twelve o’clock friend, he catches sight of the third making tracks toward Ian at the mouth of the basement, and his stomach drops. ]

Get back!

[ Backup, backup, back— and Mace registers it as a call for actual backup at first, lurches upward like something’s yanking him up on a string, and —

String. Of course, the wire rigging the net right above his goddamn head, that’s what Ian’s talking about, and Mace throws himself back out of the line of fire within the next second, slamming the zombie doctor behind him into the ground. Not waiting to see if the net over the front door comes down, he just rolls off of the thing underneath him and onto his feet, lunging at three o’clock to pull him into a headlock and away from Ian.

Grappling with one of these fuckers is an exercise in futility, and Mace is realizing his mistake very quickly. Choking out isn't an option, isn't working at all, and when he finally manages to snap its neck, it keeps on going anyway, its head pointed the wrong way around and its body seemingly unaffected.

Fixated on that, he doesn’t notice the fourth, missing doctor looming up right behind them. More accurately, looming up close beside Ian, peering around the kitchen wall next to the basement door as if he’s about to politely inquire if they’re interested in a cup of tea. Or it'd look that way if it weren’t for the scalpel in his red, nailless fingers. ]

[wittingly]

[ As soon as Mace slams his new buddy into the ground, Ian makes a quick calculation on whether or not he's clear. It's a matter of inches, he thinks, he thinks, but he's gotten pretty good at eyeballing distance and fit. He takes the gamble, flares out, slams his knife into the supporting wire so hard it digs into the wooden wall underneath it.

The net falls. The switch was already flipped on. Nails and wire hit skin, and two of the docs beneath it crumple. As it turns out, while they may not feel pain their brain still operates on the same fundamental level as other living creatures - electrical impulses sent down the spinal cord to the body. Inundated with volts so overwhelming they can't stand up, it seems like they might have a win. Temporary, maybe, but it's working.

He doesn't take too much time to dwell. Too busy wrapping both hands around the handle of his knife, trying to jerk it out of the wall again - too busy to notice the fourth doc professionally diverting his attention around the doorway on the opposite side of his knife.

He doesn't aim to kill. He could've, it's an absolute fact - in two or three seconds he could've plunged that thing into Ian's neck and ripped it back out again, severing carotid arteries and making field-medical based survival odds incredibly unlikely.

He aims instead for a cluster of nerves beneath Ian's left shoulder, and the pain acts as a near-instant paralytic to his entire fucking arm. He bites out a sharp FUCK-- a pitch or two higher than his speaking voice, left arm going limp, right arm reaching back blindly on instinct for the wound.

He at least has the foresight to duck back down the steps before a second item can impale him - a needle, long, syringe filled with something he can't identify at first glance. Something about that is entirely more horrifying than the scalpel or their eyes. Something about it disturbs Ian on a visceral level, the thought of them injecting something into his fucking body, needle piercing veins, chemicals flooding through, what the fuck it might be.

He could hazard a guess, but he doesn't want to. Instead, he clumsily takes the stairs two at a time. Can't hold onto the rails so his heel hits the last step and sends him stumbling nearly to his knees. He recovers with his right hand scraping on basement floor, but he can't get upright again before his primary care physician starts to descend the stairs.

Please, please-

The step collapses under his weight, a spray of splinters and detritus and dust exploding around him. ]

Yeah, motherfucker--

[ Snapped out, and then he's hauling his ass up the stairs again to help Mace.

Except that he doesn't know they're pain intolerant, that broken arms mean nothing, that they'll keep on pushing, and so he isn't expecting the needle to shoot up into his calf as he passes overhead.

Oh, fuck. ]

[hydraulics]

[ The thing about having your head twisted back-to-front is that it does kind of a number on the coordination. Even for murderous, zombified PhDs, which means that it’s a lot less difficult for Mace to get the drop on this particular guy. The nailbat is still some ways away, but — thanks to Ian — he’s got a brand spanking new dagger on hand, and it turns out that beheading one of these freaks does pretty much the same thing as bashing their brains in.

Of course, slicing through a throat is one thing and thoroughly severing it off is another, so it takes just a little longer than Mace had figured. He’s got their new family doctor pinned to the ground, one hand fisted in his stupid white cap to wrench his head back, the other sawing through sinew and spine — when he hears it.

From the direction of the basement: Ian’s voice raised in both pitch and volume, and more concerning than either of those, in sharp pain. Mace's hand falters, his first instinct being to turn around and get visual confirmation on what’s going on behind him, if Ian’s okay or not —

But he can’t, if he turns around now and leaves the job half-done, and this bastard just gets back up again — ]

Fucking fuck.

[ It’s not even clear if the anger in his voice is directed toward the thing underneath him, or himself. But the burst of furious energy does the trick, and he hacks away the last bit of meat and bone, twisting the head off completely and throwing it pell-mell to the side, not bothering to see where it lands.

Something crashes hard down below.

He’s on his feet and turning around in the next moment, his grip on the knife slippery with blood and gore, and a deep, copper smell firmly entrenched in his nostrils. Thinks he can practically taste it at the back of his throat, which is disgusting, made all the worse by the stench of frying flesh as the two near the front door writhe in small, jerky movements underneath their electric blanket.

It worked, their trap worked, but he doesn’t have even the split-second to spare to feel any sort of triumph about it, sprinting toward the basement steps, reaching the open door just in time to see — ]

No!

[ — a rotting, scarlet hand emerge from the jagged mouth of the trick stair, and stab a syringe right into Ian’s leg, emptying the plunger into him before it disappears back into the dark. ]

Motherfuck — Ian, grab onto me, c’mon —

[ Bitten out words as he hooks his elbows beneath Ian’s underarms and hauls him up, adrenaline making it so that Mace doesn’t even feel the guy’s weight as he practically lifts him out of the basement. They’ve gotta get somewhere safe, they’ve gotta regroup, but the whole house is open to not just them but any further assailants that decide to waltz in through the front door, and Mace is cursing with every breath as he helps Ian into the kitchen, past the living room and straight into the dining area.

Sets him down on one of the chairs by the table and without preamble, leans down to roll up his pant leg, the beginnings of panic starting to bubble up underneath his previously focused mindset. ]

I'm gonna see how bad he got you, okay? You holding up, buddy?

[wittingly]

[ For one stupid, stupid second he thinks maybe whatever was in the syringe didn't work. He makes it up that top step and a quarter of an inch out the door just fine. Breathing's fine, nothing burns, nothing hurts aside from his goddamn left shoulder still, he's fine.

And then almost immediately his limbs quit working. It's absolutely phenomenal timing on Mace's part, swear to god it is, because he's free-falling for less than a second before a shoulder drives up into his armpit to keep him from breaking his nose on the floor.

There's a sharp grit to his teeth, bared and clenched and white, not through pain but through effort. He's trying his absolute goddamndest to grapple unwieldy limbs into submission, to drag his boneless legs forward and push off to help at all, but they've got all the durability of wet spaghetti.

Doesn't notice until he's seated that they made it as far as they did. He leans over heavily, elbow cracking onto the table on accident. He barely acknowledges it. He's too busy dipping down to paw at his thighs, to knead any semblance of feeling into them. ]

I think it was a paralytic- fuck, I can't feel shit, I can't move 'em.

[ Not really, not in any real capacity. He knows they're not dead, not gone for good, but it doesn't matter - they may as well be if those things show up in the next twelve seconds or twelve minutes.

He sounds resigned at the end, even to his own ears. His voice knows quicker than he does what this means.

Fuck, fuck.

Okay, though. Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay - he's just gotta keep his mind up at the surface and not let the bigger picture sink in. Stay present in the moment and not think, just-

Urgently get it out before the real fear sets in and he loses his courage. ]

You can't carry me out of here and fight them off at the same time, man, you gotta go. The door's down, there's one under the steps but I think he's gonna get up, those two under the net-

[ He doesn't even have his fucking knife thanks to the one that got him in the shoulder.

A sharp breath merges with the first syllable of his words, hissed and watery: ]

You gotta get the fuck outta here.

[hydraulics]

[ A paralytic. Why would a doctor paralyze someone? It’s not even a question that needs to be fully asked, and the back of Mace’s mind is suddenly filled with images of whirring drills, scalpels, tweezers shining under cold white light.

Horrible as the images are, they both increase the splintering of his calm, and turn up the heat under his motivation and focus. All of a sudden, he understands the hospital mask, understands why doctors, and the way they looked — skinned but alive, their eyes removed, the unrelenting, terrifying tranquility with which they’d advanced upon the two of them.

Looks like it’s an experiment after all. Well, these are two mice they aren’t splicing that easily, and Mace’s face sets grimly into stone despite the rising panic churning in his gut at the sight of the entrance wound to Ian’s calf. It's small but swollen, the skin around it hot, and he prays like hell it's just a paralytic and not something worse.

A glance upward confirms bared teeth, a barely held together composure because he knows Ian’s putting together the meaning of it same as he just did. Mace notes, too, the way Ian’s voice goes slightly atremble on the exhale outward, would be able to sense the resignation all over him even if he hadn’t heard it in his words. Essentially go on without me, as if that was ever even in the vicinity of the table let alone on it.

And hell, but Mace knows it's sound, on the surface of it. The argument. Which way the odds are stacked and the wind is blowing. But. There’s some stuff, he’d said earlier, that becomes a part of you whether you want it to or not, and this is it.

He might not be military, but he's a soldier at heart before he’s an engineer, and you never leave a man behind. Let alone a civilian. Let alone the guy relying on you, Jesus. ]

We are both …

[ As he leans over to grab a bottle of water from the small stockpile under the table in front of him, where they’d also left their roughshod attempt at a first aid kit — clean scraps of cloth, cotton, tape, some matches and a pair of scissors. He wipes his bloody hands on his shirt as best as he can before washing off the needle cut with a splash of water, pressing a piece of cotton to the area right afterward and taping it down. ]

Gonna get the fuck outta here.

[ Or neither of us are, he doesn’t say, because he’s going to make sure Ian gets out even if he doesn’t. And while Mace keeps his voice fairly even as he speaks, wanting to reassure and keep the atmosphere as stable as possible under the circumstances, he can’t keep the intensity out of voice or his gaze when he looks up again. ]

So don’t ever say that to me again, Teach.

[ “Ever” being, of course, extremely optimistic, depending on how the rest of this goes down. But it’s the thought that counts, Mace thinks, looking back over his shoulder, his mind racing. Two under the net, one under the steps — Mace knows he can’t outrun them with Ian alongside him, so their best bet is to keep him here in the dining room while Mace eliminates the hostiles one by one.

The more immediate threat is the one in the basement, but if the others somehow escape in the meantime … ]

Here.

[ Quieter, pressing the hilt of the knife he’d left on the floorboards into Ian’s right palm, locking eyes with him, something going soft in his expression. Puts the water bottle in reach of his left hand on the table. He can absolutely appreciate the courage it took to say what Ian’d just said, the balls-out integrity needed to tell the other guy to save himself at one’s own expense. It's admirable, even if it is stupid. Maybe because it's stupid. ]

You wanna be brave and dumb at the same time? Use this to do it — but only if any more of those fuckers come this way. I'm gonna go take out the one in the basement, and then I'm comin' right back, you hear me?

[ A last squeeze to Ian's shoulder, and then Mace is rising to his feet and turning around in a fluid movement, heading to the living room with the intent to grab his nailbat first. ]

[wittingly]

[ When he was younger - twelve or thirteen - he used to read a lot of comic books. Lots of science fiction, fantasy novels. In them there was always the risk of the protagonist being taken and dissected for their powers. Being the only one he knew with it, he carried that paranoia with him all the way up until his mid twenties or so. It became a distant memory as he aged, passed thirty and almost to thirty five now, less and less likely that he'd ever get caught by anyone with any intention to do anything with him.

Suddenly that concern doesn't seem so far away. He can't say whether or not they knew about him before they took him, doesn't make sense that they'd let him wake up rather than slicing open his wrist or his chest cavity from the get-go, but either way the concept is fucking him up right now.

When it comes to heart attack symptoms, aside from the well-known chest pain, shortness of breath, and left arm tingling there's also a slightly less well-known and slightly more dramatic sounding symptom. It's called the feeling of impending doom. It doesn't refer to anxiety, paranoia, or depression - it's legitimately its own feeling, a physical sensation that sweeps coldly out from the chest and drops your stomach through the floor. It twists up your bladder and it grabs your lungs into a vice, and it's a staggering wash over your mind.

It hits him now, finally. That sensation, the crippling fear, the full brunt of reality.

Don't ever say that again, teach- ]

Don't worry, I won't, that's all I had in me--

[ His voice has risen up an octave. Feels like it's on 1.5x speed, falling out of his mouth in a quick and panicked flurry. ]

Fuck I really don't wanna die here, I really don't wanna die-

[ It's more to himself now than it is Mace. It's the kind of panic attack that makes words seem distant, allows them out without any filter, the mind too wired and frantic to assert any kind of control over speech.

He's not a soldier.

He's not an astronaut.

He's a fucking teacher. The extent of his bravery got consumed after a singular attempt to do the right thing, and now he's fucking scared. It rims his eyes and stutters his breathing until he can't get enough air, but he at least has the capacity to nod jerkily at Mace's plan. Take the one out in the basement, come right back, yeah, yeah, okay, okay, okay, okay.

He grips the knife so tight his knuckles go white. Hisses out through his teeth. Pulls in a sucking breath, and manages eye contact long enough to assert again yes, go, go do it, you have to. He'll manage.

They're under the net, right? It's fine. It's fine.

Mace goes.

Ten or fifteen seconds pass like a god damn eternity, stretching out in any direction. Hyper-vigilant and surreal, everything too bright and too sharp, like a moment of lucidity while being otherwise shit-faced drunk. There's a soft click, too gentle to startle him. At first, he feels nothing about it - until he realizes three or four seconds later what it means.

The absolute dead silence that follows it.

No humming. No humming, no humming, meaning not even the refrigerator. No light bulbs, no background noise of electricity in the cabin. It's shut off.

It feels like they must've been waiting for his mind to wrap around that, because as soon as it does two surgeons step through the doorway with calm intention. It takes him until their hands are on him before he can break out of his shock long enough to allow a yell to shred his throat.

To his credit, he does manage to stab the knife clean through one eye and into the brain meat of one of the doctors.

It just doesn't do anything. ]

[hydraulics]

[ It’s like being inside a goddamn pressure cooker. Normally, that’s when Mace is at his peak, performing to the very limit of his abilities. Always been that way, always able to keep his head held up no matter how high the water rose, air in his lungs and his thoughts working in perfect mechanical sync to solve whatever problem was laid out in front of him.

But he’s never been in a pressure cooker quite like this. The mission, those last few hazy moments that he thinks he can barely remember — even then, there’d been something to hold onto, something to work toward, the enormity of that goal overshadowing everything else in existence. Right now, though. Right now the objective is both within reach and just out of his grasp, and the uncertainty of it is like a canker, a shrapnel of doubt that would start working its way in deep were it not for one other thing.

He’d heard the fear in Ian’s voice loud and clear, cracking open beneath the surface of his words, glistening in his eyes, and strangely enough that’s what’s keeping Mace centered, grounded. He hadn’t stopped to reassure him any further because they didn’t have the time, but when he picks up the bat, that's what he’s thinking of. White knuckles, staccato breathing, that's all I had in me.

It's still on his mind as he hurries past the two sons of bitches underneath the electrical netting, pausing just long enough to ascertain that they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon — writhing intermittently, the steam still rising from their rotten bodies — before making a beeline for the basement door.

Maybe not the smartest thing; he ought to plan his way in, think it through, but that’d mean wasting precious seconds they absolutely do not have. And anyway, that’s not the modus operandi of these fucks, is it? No hiding around in dark corners, no traps set for their experiments — just a bloody-minded focus to drug them up and cut them down.

Well, guess fucking what, doc. Mace can focus too. ]

Knock knock.

[ A snarl, and it’s maybe a little petty, but he’s all the way pissed as he thunders down the last few steps of the basement, his eyes already adjusted to the dim lighting through sheer anger. Which is lucky as hell, because while Mace hasn’t walked into an ambush, the doctor is very much in and entirely prepared.

A scalpel cuts across his forearm, barely missing the tendon at his wrist, and oh I see, Mace thinks, lunging out of the way. Bio-mechanical cutting, rendering motor functions useless. Right. Not gonna get the chance because this asshole's not gonna get close enough for it, and there’s a whistling noise as the nailbat arcs through the air and slams the doctor’s head into the nearest concrete wall. Then again, and again, and it’s so much easier to do this here than it had been upstairs against the hardwood flooring.

Panting with exertion, Mace draws back, the nailbat dropping to the floor with a satisfying squelch. He gets to feel a savage sort of good for about five seconds, before there’s a soft, echoing click and the lights go out completely, plunging the basement into total darkness and the cabin into complete silence.

No.

No. The netting. The electricity. The open fucking path straight to the dining room where —

I really don’t wanna die here, I really don’t wanna —

From somewhere above, a strangled yell cuts through the quiet like a knife. ]

Ian!

[ Loud enough that his lips vibrate with it, already pounding right back up the stairs, past the now-empty net at the front door, sprinting through the kitchen and living area.

An engineering prof, and Mace had left him alone and terrified with two bum legs and a knife. Promised him things he had no guarantee he could deliver, told him to be brave and stupid, and Mace rounds the last corner to the dining room with mounting dread in his heart, and a sense of horrible urgency he hadn’t felt even when he’d first headed to the basement.

It’s not unfounded. ]

Get the fuck off of him!

[ He’d dropped the bat downstairs, but it doesn’t matter. Mace can use his bare hands for this one, pulls off one of the two that are bending over Ian’s prone body lain across the dining room table, and flings it bodily through the doorway behind them. ]

[wittingly]

[ Seconds can be a long time or a short time depending on your perspective - and that's quite a literal statement, too. He knows in that basic-information way many people know that adrenaline can slow down a person's perception of the passage of time. Likewise, music has been known to speed up that perception. Right now, for Ian, the world moves in excruciatingly slow motion. The film reel wound down to half speed at best, with two sets of arms gracelessly and efficiently peeling him from a chair.

He was a wild youth. He was a runner, a flighty and flailing long-limbed kid. He'd revert to that now in a heartbeat on instinct. If he could, those legs would be kicking up so high he'd be near-impossible to hang onto.

Now, they only dangle limply and drag uncomfortably against the dirty hardwood floor. Toes scraping, knees bending to accommodate, until they gently arrange him onto his back on the table. The flurry of words that pour out of him range from incomprehensible to clearly enunciated, from rage to terror, a litany of No, no- no, nonono, you motherfucker, don't fucking touch me, oh god please- in a nonsensical slaw.

There is no trace of empathy or hesitance as the head surgeon takes up place on one side, his attending on the other driving a scalpel down into the juncture of his arm so he can't move it without debilitating pain coursing through him. The other arm is easy enough to hold down, leaving only his head and one shoulder spastically trying to rip itself up off the table.

They cut through his shirt in one neat line. Press the scalpel blade gracefully between his ribs and drive it in, bisecting in a singular movement like steel through butter. Like nothing, without a trace of resistance. It's almost pretty, the way red blooms up and starts to spill out.

The paralytic does nothing to numb sensation. He can feel it. He can feel it all just fine, and the sheer fucking terror nearly blacks him out of consciousness entirely. That'd be a mercy. He doesn't quite make it. It's just a stutter in his vision, in his mind, a skipping record in his head interrupted by Mace peeling Left Doc away before he can dip his fingers into the soft cavity he'd been opening up like a flower.

The second he's off, Ian's rolling haphazardly and without a single iota of grace off the table, which turns onto its side under the movement.

Panicked instinct has him army-crawling toward a dropped scalpel, which he picks up just in time for the second doc - looming overhead. He knows better now than to stab and let go. Blind fury, pure survival drives him to ram the thing into its eyes over and over and over and over, heedless of the weight that it brings down as it slumps, peeling over to half cover it with his own body so he can keep driving the blade a dozen, two dozen more times.

Long after it's dead. Long after it's down, though it takes him too many seconds to realize that. ]

[hydraulics]

[ The lights are out, which means the doctor — skidding past the living room threshold and into the kitchen — trips over a wire that does nothing in the way of electrocution. But it gives Mace an idea even as he moves forward at a run, full-on furious all over again instead of adread; it’s in his hands in the next few seconds, coiled around his fists at either side, and he gets his opponent by its neck before it can fully stand up.

Of course, strangulation's not gonna work here, and the wire's more of a two-man saw in Mace’s hands than it is a garrotte. It’s simpler than he would’ve figured, because the fuckin’ thing is still more interested in stabbing him instead of freeing itself from the brutal back-and-forth of a wire against the raw flesh of its throat.

A scalpel cut gets him in the upper thigh, and worse is the grip of a skinned, fleshy hand in his hair — this, Mace thinks as he grunts in pain, is why he shaves it off whenever he can — but soon enough his weapon of choice does the trick.

A spray of blood splatters against the couch, followed by another, and by the time Mace is finished and the head’s all but sawn away, the wire’s dug bloody welts into his own palms. The rush of adrenaline in his system makes it so that he doesn’t feel a thing as he books it back to the dining room, just in time to see Ian crouched over an unmoving corpse, stabbing it repeatedly. Uncontrollably.

Relief floods him to see which way the pendulum’s swung, that he hadn’t been too late, but it’s short-lived. He takes a few steps forward, calling Ian by name a couple times, but it doesn’t seem to register. Finally, he raises his voice, not a shout so much as a loud, placating call: ]

Buddy, you gotta stop —

[ God, he can’t even blame the guy. But what he’s doing right now is at a detriment to himself, and Mace grabs his free hand on the next upswing so that Ian doesn’t accidentally hurt himself, or Mace for that matter. His other hand comes up underneath Ian’s other arm, going across his bare chest and scooping him back to the dining table as gently as possible.

Steers him into the chair he’d left him in and — ]

Jesus fuck.

[ They’d cut him right open. Like they were gonna do a fucking vivisection on him on the spot, and the true horror of it all washes over Mace like a bucket of ice, each piece carefully starting to shred away at the composure he’s been holding onto for so long. He’ll have to hold onto it a little longer because fucking focus here, Mace, and one bloodied hand cups the side of Ian’s face, tilting it to the side so Mace can search his gaze for some sort of lucidity, see where he’s at. ]

Ian, talk to me. Look at me, c'mon. I’ve got you, huh?