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

[ He blows out a slow breath, cheeks puffed up, eyes tipped to the side like he's considering the proposal. A little click to his teeth, a slow shake to his head like he just can't sign the contract yet.

He speaks slow, his accent is a laid-back drawl that's still somehow cleanly enunciated. Matter-of-fact, conversational. ]

I think we both know the physical pain of getting my skin seared medium rare doesn't hold a candle to the emotional pain of getting drunk alone.

[ They both actually know that's a fucking lie and almost nothing could hurt worse than branding your fresh wound closed.

It's honestly a bit more about wanting to feel like they're on even ground for something. Not adding another tally mark to only the 'things inhibiting Ian' column, widening the gap in their disparity.

And the companionship. Social bonding. Stop taking care of him for a second, swap it out for with him. Two minutes of feeling like a peer instead of a task. ]

Besides, I'm looking out for you here. You're gonna start cauterizing this-

[ A gesture to his chest. ]

And only one of two things is gonna happen. One, you're gonna be absolutely thrown off balance by raw, unbridled attraction to my battle scar, or you're gonna feel bad when I scream like a little girl before you even put the whole knife down. Either one would be easier for you after a two-shot compromise.

[ A beat, and then an afterthought: ]

What's the worst that could happen, you fuck up and stab me?

[ Been there, done that. ]

[ Doesn’t take a rocket scientist (or an engineer, as it were) to see that despite his lazy, conversational tone, this is something Ian’s quietly unwilling to budge on, much like the sandwich. Maybe more. Appetite aside, not eating further meant less chance of throwing it up when there’s a blistering knife gliding along his open wound, whereas this is something a little more personal.

Whatever the reason behind it, the fact remains that he doesn’t want to be alone in this, and that itself gives Mace pause. Or he doesn’t want to feel alone in this. Emotional equilibrium, if nothing else.

So Ian gets another one of those intent, peering looks, both quizzical and faintly amused by the way he’s wording himself, before Mace relents with a small sigh and a considering nod, as if he’s pondering the latter half of what Ian’s said. Technically, he is. What’s the worst that could happen is gonna be stuck in his damn head from now until the whole ordeal is over.

But when speaks, his grave observation is: ]

Too late, already thrown off balance. Raw attraction to your raw wound, and I’m a handsy drunk.

[ Not quite true, but all right, two-shot compromise it is. And if that’s the case, he’ll need his energy whether he wants it or not, so the crustless sandwich goes down the hatch in a few large bites, and then Mace is getting to his feet, still chewing. ]

I’ll get you another, afterward.

[ Yeah, like Ian’s gonna be in any shape for a nice, continental lunch after the fact. God, he can’t believe they’re really doing this, and there’s an unfamiliar sense of trepidation and anxiety starting to form in his chest as he brings in the necessary equipment to the room, setting it on the nightstand: a candle, matches, a clean knife, and a small bowl of homemade saline solution to sterilize what he can — literally salt in a wound, Jesus.

Now that he thinks about it, maybe tequila isn’t such a bad idea for him, too. Calm his nerves, steady his hand so he doesn’t actually stab Ian with a red-hot poker.

The last items to come are two glasses, and he hands them off to Ian as he sits down next to him, saying with a grim uptick of his lips, ]

There's one more thing you might wanna make before we get started. Something to bite down on.

[ There are few things in this world that Ian likes more than recreational flirting. Even if it's completely platonic, one hundred percent harmless, no intentions to go anywhere, the worst possible timing, any of it. It's that loose, easy rapport that feels incredibly comforting to him. Lighthearted reaffirmations of goodness and good will, a sense of humor. Some people like to give each other shit, they like to tease, casually poke fun or insult, he'll do that from time to time but flirting feels like the polar opposite of it. Typically makes people feel good rather than bad about themselves.

Mace does a good job of it, and it cracks a proper smile onto him for the first time in a little while. Sideways and amused, teeth peeking through.

Glad the sandwich didn't go to waste. It would've if he'd eaten it, probably - right onto the floor, or if they're unlucky, the blankets.

Watching Mace unpack their burn kit twists up his stomach in a way wholly different to the gash. It squeezes everything from his lungs to his bladder, and with that in mind he starts peeling the blankets off of himself. His legs have feeling again, evidently that two hour nap was long enough for the paralytic to wear off.

He prefaces movement with: ]

Don't freak out.

[ Like he's guessing Mace might when he curls his hand around the knob at the headboard and uses it to start peeling himself out of bed to stand. It's hunched forward, palm gently pressed to his stomach like he's holding something in just in case. A little shaky, but it's not his back or his legs they're worried about right now.

He can manage. ]

I need five minutes. I haven't peed the bed since I was five and I wanna keep the streak going. Also, it's less embarrassing to cry in front of the shower curtain.

[ Because he has no illusions that he'll be able to withstand this without losing control of every involuntary process partway through. ]

[ Don’t freak out. Wise words from a wise, strange man, because without that warning Mace would’ve absolutely startled at any movement from Ian, let alone him getting up. He distinctly remembers having threatened him with mild bondage earlier as a consequence for that, and he can’t help sitting up a lot straighter as Ian pulls himself to his feet, alert for any sort of mishap with a pointed little: ]

Hey, careful.

[ But it’s a quiet thing, watching as Ian handles himself more or less fine on his slow, stilted trip to take a leak. Which, actually, Mace had been meaning to ask about because bodily loss of control is frankly an occupational hazard of extreme pain. It would’ve been his next question, except that he’d been thinking Ian might need a bedpan and maybe a hand, depending on how badly off his legs still were, and man.

No easy way to broach that topic sober, so he’d figured he’d ask after they got some tequila into their systems.

In the silence that ensues, for the first time since this whole thing started, Mace finds himself briefly alone and also entirely unoccupied. It gives him some time to think, to rally his own thoughts on what’s to come.

Ian’s been putting up a good front, and it’s both noted and appreciated. The easygoing demeanour, the good-natured mixture of flirting and self-awareness, the sense of humour that matches up with Mace’s own in a weird, deadpan harmony — all of it is grounding, all of it makes this infinitely easier than it would’ve been otherwise.

The guy’s capable of smiling and cracking wise with a wound going straight down his chest, for fuck’s sake.

But Mace is pretty sure it’s nothing like what he’s feeling inside, and that …

Would it be better to lay that out in the open? Or just keep to the course they’ve already set? ]

You know, the shower curtain’s not the only one who doesn’t judge.

[ Over his shoulder as Ian re-emerges from the bathroom, but he keeps his gaze on the two glasses in his hands, giving him a little more privacy on the way back just in case. ]

[ There are now many things he has done in front of Mace. Bled, screamed, passed out, threatened to puke on him. There are many things that are likely to come; crying and actually puking come to mind. What he will not do as long as his brain can make functional people words is use a fucking bedpan. His manly pride is not actually very rigid despite the jokes he's been making at his own expense, those are more self-aware pot shots that he thinks might make things lighter than they'd otherwise be. Aforementioned lack of manly pride begins to come into play during moments of extreme personal vulnerability.

He doesn't plan on ever being on that level with anyone, save the nursing staff at an actual non-murder hospital maybe. Clinical and distant, no depth required.

He palms the wall on his way back, chin tipped toward the floor and shoulders rounded into the worst posture known to man. His hair falls in his face, damp now from a few minutes leaning against the bathroom counter to both catch his breath and clean himself up. Scrub off the blood. Soap it out of his hair where he spots it. Comb water through it so he looks like he's got some semblance of having his shit together.

Probably becomes stalling at some point, and soft rose petals of blood weep through the bandages from the movement. Not surprising and not so much as to be concerning, but it's a definite reaffirmation of his decision.

He's a little breathless by the time he makes it to the bed again. ]

I know. I judge me, but mostly just when I have an audience.

[ Mildly, pleasantly, with only the slightest strain threading through his voice. He settles on the bed a little more upright than he'd been, with only one leg still sticking off and running long down to the floor.

Kind of feels good to feel it stretch, considering.

He holds his hands out for the glasses, a little finger-wiggle gesture until he's got them both. Settles them on his left thigh, one leg in crisscross position so it's flat and mostly stable. He presses a palm down onto the rim of either glass, an air-tight seal that's more about making sure he doesn't spill them than by any real necessity.

Radius, ulna, lunate, scaphoid, capitate. Soft blue, like a computer screen or any real device monitor typically is. He speaks as he works, particles gathering like small hurricanes in either glass. It looks dry, sandy almost, nothing resembling any kind of fountain flowing from his palms like you might expect. ]

It's called Montezuma. Unlike most of the other stuff I can do, I didn't learn to make this on purpose. Didn't have to spend any devoted time studying it. It was ten bucks a liter when I was in college, and the guy I was crazy about only drank tequila.

[ The approximate amount of two shots settles softly, feather-light into either glass.

He holds one out. ]

I spent so much time partying and drinking this shit, I learned it on accident. After I realized that, it became pretty clear I needed to cut way the hell back. After that I realized I only liked him when we were both drunk. Sober, he was a fucking moron who couldn't hold an intelligent conversation to save his own life.

[ A beat, a soft sigh. ]

God, he was good looking though. Really tragic.

[ Ian’s reply is framed as a joke but there’s something about it that would make a guy think he means it, or at least some of it. Depending on his lifestyle, that could mean judging himself all the time or just half of the time — which is, in all honesty, a thoroughly understandable emotion and fairly universal.

Albeit a little foreign to Mace, who is pretty much Popeye’s most famous saying in human form: I yam what I yam. Not self-assurance so much as utter self-acceptance, blunt and practical like the rest of him. It’s the same practicality that’s guided his every thought process and decision this entire time, rooted in the ancient, esoteric philosophy of never passing a buck.

Trapped in a murder cabin as the only one with any combat experience? Do the job you were trained for.

Somebody can’t walk from point A to B? You pick ‘em up and bodily take them to point B.

Your murder cabin partner is paralyzed and has to answer the call of nature? Can’t let him break his non-bedwetting streak, so the next logical conclusion rhymes with shedman.

Paralytic wears off? Wait for him to do his business, but keep an eye on him when possible, just in case — which means that Mace ends up frowning a little when Ian approaches the bed, immediately noting the small, fresh blooms of blood on his bandage. But a few finger-wiggles later, and the glasses are back in Ian’s hands, in time for his super-powered magic trick that Mace doesn’t think he’s ever gonna stop being fascinated by.

What ends up throwing him, though, is the accompanying story that’s more fascinating than the process itself, even with the way tequila materializes as something whirling and granular rather than a rapid flush of liquid. It’s an unexpected offer of information that distracts him from watching the blue glow this time, eyes flickering up to Ian’s face instead.

… Huh. So that’s the unfortunate-brand tequila story. Montezuma. Mace mouths it silently as he takes the proffered glass and raises it to his lips with the ghost of a grin. ]

At ten bucks a liter, can’t say as I blame you. That’s fuckin’ cheap. Throw in a handsome good time —

[ Mace pauses, arching both eyebrows as he tips half of the first shot down his throat, feeling the pleasant burn as it goes down. ] Or at least, I’m assuming he was a good time. Hopefully you weren’t having any highbrow debates in bed, Party Animal.

[ Look at that, a new nickname, given freely and with no small amount of hidden amusement in his eyes as he does so. Because Ian’s definitely not the guy Mace would’ve pegged for as a party-harder, even in college. More of the stoner sort. ]

We never actually slept together.

[ He corrects in a slow and easy drawl, to the tune of I know, pathetic right? He follows that with both of his shots knocked back in a single painful swig, getting it over with. The faster it's in him the faster he'll be a little numb, and... frankly, on an empty stomach with the amount of blood he's lost, two shots of strong piss tequila are likely to kick like a fucking mule. The taste does, too, and when he pulls the glass away it's with an unabashedly disgusted expression. It's one of those things where you've got so many memories puking something up it's almost hard to swallow without triggering a Pavlovian response. It only lingers for a couple of seconds, and then it settles hotly somewhere in his chest. Jesus Patron Christ, he wishes he had the ability to create limes, at least.

Just 'cause he makes it doesn't mean he likes it. It works in a pinch, but he's more of the craft beer persuasion. Probably a surprise to nobody.

He talks in a way that suggests he's got no qualms sharing details about his personal life. It isn't a confession, he doesn't have any particular agenda. No shame, no concern that Mace will judge him about it. Just a layer of awareness at how absurd he'd been, his own shortcomings. His amusement in hindsight. ]

We just did this-- well, I just did this thing where... You ever make up somebody in your head? Like, you meet them and you get a first impression, and then you make the best possible version of that impression? Well, I did that with him, and then we did that whole flirting around the subject hovering in each other's atmosphere having too many inside jokes but nobody making a move thing. The chase, or whatever.

[ Because it's those beginning stages of relationships Ian can do. He's comfortable with those, he revels in them. Reading body language, picking up subtle clues - either that the person he's interested in is giving out deliberately, or the unconscious signals they don't even know about themselves. It's like a challenge, or a puzzle, and it's loaded to the brim with flirting. Practically his calling.

It's when things get real that he backs out. When either the idealistic pedestal he builds for them comes crumbling down - such as the case with this college interest, or worse - when they're exactly who he thought they were and he feels himself starting to get invested. Starts to notice that if they stopped coming around, if they left, it's about the point where it would start to hurt.

He rips off the band-aid, or... gently soaks the band-aid until it gets wet and falls off on its own, if you can stomach the metaphor.

The glass gets set over onto the nightstand. He cards his hair back again. ]

But anyway, that's my personal anecdote. Gimme a story about yourself, your highness.

[ Prince Charming. Kind of hard to dismiss that particular brand as an aggrandized opinion on Ian's part, not considering every single fucking thing he's done since they woke up here. ]

[ Pace yourself, buddy. Well, you can't really go wrong with not fucking somebody. You don’t actually like tequila at all, do you.

A bunch of things Mace finds himself wanting to say to Ian, one after the other — a bunch of things he ends up keeping to himself because Ian’s still talking and what he’s saying next is, in fact, a lot more informational than the tragic tale of Montezuma. Mace’s gaze goes a tad sharper, looking carefully for how he says things now, as well as what he says.

The chase, like it’s a bad thing. Mace doesn’t know about that, figures what Ian’s describing is something everybody’s guilty of to some extent. Seems pretty logical to him — you like somebody, you focus on why you like ‘em, end up liking them more and more. Although he supposes the eventual downside is that people are inescapably a sum of their parts, but.

Is it really an idealistic pedestal if half of it is real? ]

Oh, if I’m royalty, then you’re Sir Party Animal, at the very least.

[ Reaches over and taps the nearest shoulder to him with a solemn air and something of a twinkle in his eyes, knighting him with an imaginary sword. Sir Ian, though, huh? It does have a nice ring to it. ]

Gotta say one thing before I take my turn with storytime. I don’t think what you did was all that bad. The guy you were into, he could've just as easily made the first move as you. Not like he asked you out and you told him to get fucked, right? He can share some of the blame.

[ A shrug as he takes the rest of the first shot, watching Ian’s face over the rim of his glass. Mace is a big believer in facts, and an even bigger believer in accountability. From where he’s standing (sitting, whatever), it’s beginning to seem like Ian tends to take a little too much accountability, and pretend like everything's okay under the weight of all of it. ]

As for me, though, I dunno. I made all my crazy dating mistakes before college. Well, except for … [ Slowing down, now. Because that’s really not true, and arguably his biggest mistake had taken place right before Icarus II had launched. And not a day had gone by in the next year and a half that he hadn't had to see it staring him right in the face. Just the memory of it has him contemplating his second shot and then downing it in one go, before declaring: ]

There was this girl. [ And then stopping abruptly, pausing to give Ian a look that’s a mixture of amusement and frustration, both entirely directed toward himself. ]

I’m not really a good storyteller, just warning you. Probably gonna sound like an evening news report.

[ A laugh escapes through his nose, a rhythmic breathy chuckle; he'll take Sir Ian. It'd be an honor to share the first part of a title with Gandalf, even though he hasn't done nearly as much to earn it as Magneto did.

He seems appreciative, at least, of the forgiveness Mace grants him. It's not so much that he feels guilty about it, or that it in any way haunts him. There are no lingering regrets, no pain. It's just a piece of himself that he looks back on and analyzes. Finds both it and himself to be wanting. Lacking. Having the opportunity to have been far better than he was, but missing that opportunity because he couldn't see the forest through the trees.

He misses the bigger picture when it comes to matters of the heart.

Got it all together when it comes to social dynamics, work, work-life balance, diplomacy. Healthy eating habits, healthy lifestyle.

Then you get down to the big, giant core of his issues - the real ones, the defining ones - and it's like he's willfully ignorant. He keeps repeating the same mistakes over and over again because he won't or can't deal with it.

So college guy came and went, and then multiple college people simultaneously was his replacement strategy, and then came grad school and a few relationships where he fizzled things as they were starting to get real. A few relationships where he went lukewarm and all but forced them to end things for him. Eventually, a refusal to let things progress to that point altogether.

And now he's edging on 35, and it'd take weeks before anyone realized he died here. It'd be the human resources representative at Berkeley, he guesses, who would give an additional two weeks to respond to phone calls and voicemails and emails and follow-up emails. Then they'd probably do a wellness check on his residence, and then file a missing persons report which would disappear from everyone's minds in six or eight months.

And then he'd be gone.

The end.

Thank fuck for this tequila though, right?

Better, this pivot over to Mace's personal history. While he talks, Ian begins the undressing process. The careful unknotting of the bandages, the slow unwind around his own torso.

The intention is to lie down, to get Mace to talk, to tell stories as a distraction for his mind while he goes about doing this deed. Something for Ian to close his eyes to focus on.

(Rather than fixate on the pain. The fear. The fact that now that he knows how much it hurts getting slit open, he knows that this is going to be worse, and he almost fucking can't go through with it.) ]

Oh, man. There's a girl. I want you to know I'm already, like, incredibly invested.

[ A butterfly bats its wings and halfway around the world, a hurricane tears a new scar across the continental United States.

Ian Fowler teaches a class at Berkeley, sparks a love of engineering in the heart of some college kid who otherwise wouldn’t have looked twice at it as a possible career choice, and that kid — well, who knows? Engineers a device that can jam a nuke from going off, saving the lives of millions? Grows up to become the next Nikola Tesla, because fuck Thomas Edison in his plagiarizing ear with one of his bulbs? Ends up becoming an engineering teacher himself, eventually inspiring someone else down the line?

Could be any of those. Could be all of those. Statistically speaking, a positive impact was almost guaranteed with the amount of students Ian must’ve had over the years.

At least, that’s what Mace’s counter would be if he knew what, precisely, was going through the damp-haired head of the man sitting across from him.

But he doesn’t know, can only guess by that self-deprecating chuckle that there’s something else Ian’s thinking of. And at any rate, Mace's commentary wasn’t unwelcome, which is a silver lining too — he didn’t overstep. Didn’t misstep either, even if he might’ve only grazed whatever was at the center of Ian’s thought process there. ]

Hold onto that investment, I’m gonna go wash up.

[ A slightly more businesslike tone, because he sees what Ian’s going for — half-leaning against the bed, now, as he unravels his bandages in a clear indicator for what’s to come. It’s a pretty sound idea, Mace thinks, exiting the bathroom a minute later, hands as sterilized as they’re going to get.

Ian’s laying back in bed, his wound open to the air, and something turns a little cold in Mace’s stomach at the sight, the formerly comforting burn of the tequila going acidic. Fuck. He doesn’t want — but he’s gotta do this. They both do.

A deep breath as he he lights up the candle on the nightstand, and then picks up the blade, holding it above the flame. It’s gotta get hot, but not red-hot. Just enough to coagulate the blood, not enough to cause further, deep tissue trauma.

He can do this. ]

Okay, now — where were we. [ Right. There was a girl. But the story starts a little while before that, doesn’t it, and Mace steels himself enough to look into Ian’s eyes, his face serious and reassuring at the same time, his voice softening now. ]

We met during training. Both of us were specialists in our fields, the whole team was … made up of specialists, hand-picked. It was a very specific mission, see. And it was really fucking stupid of me to go and fall for one of my own goddamn teammates, but what the hell can you do, huh? If you need me to stop, you tell me on the spot. No big damn hero shit.

[ This last bit added seamlessly, because the knife’s done heating up. Mace swallows one last time, hard and bracing, before directing his attention fully to the first patch of skin he’s about to sear closed. His left hand comes up to hold the wound closed and steady, and then he lowers the edge of the knife to it, pressing gentle and exact. ]

[ At some point between the time Mace left and the time he got back, Ian's summoned up a thick blue mouth guard. Simple, semi-flexible, enough to jam between his teeth to keep him from grinding them or biting through his tongue. He hangs onto it loosely with his right hand as he stares up at the ceiling, stoic.

Mostly.

He peels his eyes down at the start of the story, intending only to glance and instead caught by Mace's deliberate gaze.

Your eyes are very blue, you know?

He's hanging onto every word right off the bat, so it takes him a second to catch up when Mace jumps the tracks. His lips twitch down into a muted frown - not at the order, but at the break in immersion. ]

Yeah.

[ He agrees roughly. Licks his lips, and he can feel the first heat of intoxication in his face. Making things a little brighter, a little more... something.

Eyes back on the ceiling. Mouth guard slotted into place.

Right before the knife touches down, he asks around the plastic: ]

What was her name?

[ Metal hits skin.

He truly, truly is not in control of the way he jerks back from it, stomach sucking in, elbows pressing into the mattress doing their best to peel him somewhere he can't go - the headboard blocks the north, though he's crammed against it so tight he has to bend his head forward toward his chest a little.

He locks up too tight to make sound at first. The required movement of vocal chords and of air expelling from the lungs is absolutely blocked by how fucking rigid he goes - just for two, maybe three seconds.

It escapes abruptly, a low tone through teeth that are obviously bared and clamping down hard. Muted by the piece in his mouth, but clearly a yell that would've frayed at the edges. It's sandpaper in his throat, it's all vowels, it's animalistic, and his eyes squeeze shut so tight it hurts.

Thought he'd have the capacity to pay attention.

Hilarious. ]

[ Thank god Ian put in a mouth-guard, otherwise he'd most likely be either cracking his teeth against each other or fucking biting his tongue in half.

Something to bite down on, Mace had said, but he hadn’t been prepared for what that would look like — even out of his peripheral vision he can see the gleam of Ian’s teeth around the plastic, the way his face scrunches up in sheer animal agony.

Worse than being cut into must've been, the first time around. Fucking motherfuck.

Mace's left hand stays as steady as his right, holds the skin together even as Ian's entire body jerks hard and helpless, a reaction that's completely out of control. That had been something Mace had expected, along with an open scream of pain which doesn't come. Just a choking silence for a few horrible seconds —

— before a muffled wail slowly, painfully rips its way out of Ian's throat.

Mace knows there's no way Ian's gonna be focusing on a word that comes out of his mouth at this point, forget following the thread of a story. It had been a sound idea, but theory was one thing, practice was another, and right now it's on Mace to make sure he doesn't fuck up even the slightest. No distractions, not even for him, and he works the knife down with a quiet, ferocious focus, continuing his split-thread of talking directly to Ian about Ian, instead. ]

You're doing great. You're okay, you're gonna be fine. I'm here, I'm right here. Brave, crazy bastard.

[ His voice is soothing, a low constant thrum to serve as a backdrop, not necessarily a rope for Ian to hold onto or pay attention to but to remind him he's not alone in this. A stream of praise and strained curses, talking him through.

It's all Mace can do.

Fuck, but what he wouldn't do for some anaesthetic right now.

After a period of time that seems interminable but that he knows logically can't have been forever, Mace pauses and lifts the knife up. It's gone all the way cold and he has to reheat it. His voice comes out hoarse as he does so, drawing his attention away from the wound to look at Ian's face again, mind full of a concern and fear that he refuses to let show in his expression, because Ian's gonna need Mace to be a rock for him right now. ]

Okay, we're taking a break. Just the last stretch to go, huh?

[ He doesn't really hear it. Maybe some recess, some background sensory acknowledgement, but not a single goddamn syllable of it makes it into his upper layer of thinking. There are no flowery words to describe the sensation, no apt metaphor, aside from:

It feels like getting your fucking flesh burnt off by a hot fucking knife.

Any accidental touch to a hot pan, any grazing your hand on an oven, any accidental incidents with candles or bonfires or boiling water - they're notorious for sucking. They're also notorious for lasting less than a second, usually, and anyone can tell you that singular second leaves a pain that lasts radiating and sharp for minutes after.

The knife goes on. The knife stays on. The knife cooks his fucking flesh back together. Pain interpretation is a funny thing, because somehow it feels hot and cold and strangely like being electrocuted all at the same time somehow.

White noise in his brain. No mental exercise even stands a chance. He's not nearly used to pain enough to employ one.

He honest to god doesn't even realize the knife is gone at first once it leaves. It still hurts, it's still enough damage to the nerves that it radiates through his core and steals his fucking breath.

It doesn't go away, until...

Still there.

Fucking fuck.

And then slowly, microscopic increments, the level comes down. It isn't the pain but rather the relief that brings sudden flooding wetness to his eyes. Even shut tight they're leaking, trailing down from the corners and past his temples to mix with the new sheen of seat in the roots of his hair.

They're taking a break.

It's not done.

Three, four, five heavy breaths that lift and lower his bare chest. A mounting frustration that comes to a head abruptly in the form of one hand ripping out the mouth guard and the other haphazardly lifting is torso up off the mattress. Not that he can go far, just the two feet between the bed and the wall where he catches himself. ]

What the FUCK is wrong with me? Who the FUCK does this on purpose? Why the FUCK ARE WE HERE?

[ And then a quick-snap jerk of his arm to fucking hurl the mouth guard at the wall hard enough for a solid thwack. It doesn't even hit the ground before he's snarling out one last line: ]

I'm A FUCKING TEACHER. God damn it. Fuck.

[ For a moment, with the heavy rise and fall of Ian’s chest, the way a tremor is going through his body still despite the fact that the knife is gone, Mace worries if he’s gonna go into some sort of breathing attack, something Mace can’t help him with if his own body turns against itself.

What happens instead is better and worse. Better because thank fuck, it’s not that. Worse, because now Ian’s able to verbalize his pain and it’s horrible to witness. Witness and not be able to do a goddamn thing to help, witness and know that he’s the sonuvabitch inflicting it on the guy in the first place.

Agreeing, still in that low, placating tone: ]

I know. I know. It’s absolute fuckin’ bullshit. I’m —

[ And then the mouth-guard goes flying out of Ian’s hand, hitting the far wall with a muted thwack, and Mace stops abruptly.

No, but he gets it, he really fucking does. The fact that Ian’s still conscious, the fact that he’s got words to put together after all that unbearable pain, is a feat in and of itself. Throwing the mouth-guard? Is honestly the least he could be doing right now, including the verbal, uncontrollable rage. What the fuck else is the guy gonna do? He’s being slowly, carefully burned right along a fresh wound.

Mace puts down the knife on the nightstand, careful not to let the blade touch the wood so as to stay free of contamination, and then goes over to where the mouth-guard is on the floor. Picks it up, takes it to the bathroom, gives it and his hands a good scrub down before bringing it back out, placing it in Ian’s palm for him to put it back into his mouth. ]

You are a crazy fucking teacher.

[ He confirms, steady and even as he picks the knife back up again, focusing his attention back to the wound. About seventy-five percent of it is a charred, angry line, the remaining part bloody but mercifully not nearly as prone to opening up as it had been before, closer together.

He holds the split skin together again with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, lifting the knife away from the candle and bringing it back to Ian’s lower abdomen. ]

And I am so fucking sorry for this.

[ Spoken right before he begins the last stretch, again steeling himself to work his way through with uninterrupted, laser-point focus, not stopping this time until he’s all the way done and the knife is put away again. He takes a step back with a deep, almost shuddering breath, observing his work to make sure there’s no fuck-ups before looking Ian in the face again.

Fuck. Jesus god. It’s over. Bordering on ragged, his composure finally straining now that they’ve gotten through the worst of it: ]

It’s done, buddy. [ A dry, tacky swallow. ] The motherfucker who sent us here, I hope he goes straight to hell.

[ To Ian's credit, none of his tantrum winds up directed at Mace. Granted, it means flat out ignoring him for points instead, with not a sound summoned up in response to the reassurances, the commentary, the apologies. Just shut eyes and a clenched jaw. He knows, he knows none of this is Mace's fault. He knows that he's pissed off. He knows that anything that comes out of is mouth right now is going to be venomous as hell, and he's got enough self-awareness to check it instead.

By the time it's done, his muzzled screaming devolves into choked out, dry sobs. Shaky, jerky, chest-heaving things. Something derived from utter futility, giving up and giving into being consumed by a sensation.

And then minutes pass after Mace finishes, long ticking eternity until the pain tapers down from excruciating to just really fucking painful.

He presses one hand into his eyes. Thumb and forefinger in one socket each, massaging back and forth rhythmically. Rubbing out the dryness that comes after shedding too many tears.

He's soaked through with sweat. Sheets, hair, face. His stomach is a long line of pissed off, shiny red. His chest rises and falls in perfect time, exact seconds like he's counting and manually controlling it.

He doesn't say a fucking word yet.

The tequila didn't do a fucking thing.

Eventually, he breathes out exactly one syllable. There's no weight in his voice, no conviction, it almost sounds robotic. ]

Fuck.

[ That's... about all he's got right now. It's like he's in some post-pain stasis, some vegetative state where he's blank and just riding the wave of post-pain post-adrenaline vacancy. ]

Edited 2020-05-26 09:27 (UTC)

[ Mace isn't thinking of this as anything even close to a tantrum. Isn't expecting any sort of coherent response from Ian for anything he's saying, either, just means it as that same background noise as he'd meant it to be from the start.

Dry, wracked sobs now fill the air from Ian's body as Mace douses a piece of cotton into cold water from the bathroom and gently wipes the area as clean as he can get it without disturbing that horrible red-black line running down the center. There's sweat all over him, which means he's going to get cold all over again, and fast — but touching the seared wound with a blanket is probably not the best of ideas.

In the end, Mace arranges the blankets around him in a way that covers his arms, the sides of his bared chest and stomach, and leaves the rest of it in open air to heal.

Fuck is about right.

Nothing else to say, but there's still something more to do, and Mace summons up some untapped source of stoicism from deep inside, and gets ready to do it. Compartmentalizes the screaming he'd just heard, the pain he knows he had to inflict, the absolute emptiness in Ian's sweat-soaked face, and puts all into a little box and kicks it to the back of his mind for now.

Then it's off to the kitchen to open the fridge and take out any food that won't go bad in the night, plus all the water he can grab. Other non-perishables from the pantry, bringing the whole schlock in the master bedroom and neatly setting it off to the side. Back again to the rest of the cabin to do one last perimeter check and wedge the second couch against the basement entrance before returning.

Locks the bedroom door and slowly pushes the dresser in front of it for good measure, because he knows the moment it's lights out for him he's going to fall into a slumber so deep, he won't be able to wake in a hurry if things go sour for them again.

The only good thing coming out of this is that, because it's not stitches, Ian won't open up again by accident and bleed out. Mace sets a pillow onto the rug next to the bed and finally lays back with a long, almost silent sigh. The lamp at the bedside is still on, the last light in the room, but it won't be too much trouble to reach up and turn it off. He's leaving it on for now, just in case, planning to turn it off when he thinks he can hear Ian's breathing slow into sleep. ]

[ For a while, he's burning too bright for sleep to even be a consideration. Flaming heat throughout Mace's scavenger hunt through the cabinets. Through the sound of moving furniture that he listlessly acknowledges he could've been helping with if it weren't for this. Still and smoldering as the dresser slides in front of their door, but at least by then the steady rise and fall of his chest is slower.

More calm.

Pretty confident that if he lays here until he stops hurting he'll nod off at some point.

It's just--

Rusty-voiced and tired: ]

If I let you sleep in the fucking floor tonight on top of everything else you did I deserve to have my asshole cauterized next.

[ Frankly. It's just -- it's not really fathomable that the guy should have to sleep on the fucking rug.

Granted, he did sweat into the sheets, but that's entirely on one side of the bed. There's a whole dry, clean expanse on the other, and something tells Ian he won't be fucking tossing and turning much tonight to wind up hogging it. ]

I'm not gonna get fresh with you. I'm like a third date minimum guy.

[ Which really isn't true, he doesn't have a set of rules like that, but. You know.

While the words are joking, his tone can't carry the lightness it would've earlier. Just... fatigue. ]

[ As with every other decision, Mace picking the floor to sleep is an ultimately strategic move; it'll mean he can get up faster and not sleep for as long, won't fall into the coma-like slumber that a comfortable mattress would have him enter.

He's about to summarize this best as he can when Ian speaks up, explain that it's not on him to worry about this. But then he continues in that utterly exhausted voice, summoning a joke out of god knows where through all the residual pain he must be feeling, and ...

Third date. ]

Think we qualify for a common-law partnership after all this.

[ Faintly, only a little wry as he gets back on his feet, turning off the lamp and heading to the other side of the bed next to Ian. He takes off the shoes he'd been intending to sleep in and then crawls into bed, the tactician in him protesting at the softness underneath him, the rest of him welcoming it as he stretches out, supine and with his arms and legs close to him.

He'd intended to stay conscious at least until he could know for sure that Ian was asleep, but he's got no chance of that now. Well, at least he's used to sleeping in a small enclosure without much movement, so there won't be any chance of him accidentally knocking into him into the night.

Right before exhaustion finally drags him into his usual dreamless sleep, he murmurs his answer to the question Ian had asked. ]

Her name was Cassie.

[ Cassie. It's a pretty name.

Mace settles into the bed, and Ian would be lying if he said the gentle dip and radiating heat of another person didn't set him a little at ease. Might be true that he could lean over and look down onto the floor, but having it right there without the need for any real thought is just...

It's better. It feels better.

Eventually his torso settles enough to become static. Background noise. Everything fades to something softer. Absolute exhaustion settles in heavy, and he falls asleep not long after Mace.

He dreams of fire.

When he wakes up, it's alone. The food has all disappeared, the knife and all the other supplies are gone. The dresser is back where it began. All of the extra blankets are missing from his person, and he's laying shirtless atop a neatly made bed.

It scares him more deeply than he can put into words for reasons he can't articulate, and it's that fear that sends him stumbling hazardously through the door so hard it bangs against the wall. Following it, the unsteady wall-supported fumbling rush toward the other bedroom in the cabin, that he prays to God isn't empty, stomach screaming in protest all the while. ]

Edited 2020-05-26 12:14 (UTC)

[ He doesn't know what it is that wakes him up. It's not his body, which seems perfectly content to remain sunken into bed underneath him, despite the sudden lack of warmth it can sense; it's not some loud noise, persistently knocking him into consciousness. But a relentless unease pervades his slumbering mind, his senses picking up on an anomaly and urging him to wake up.

Mace opens his eyes and stares with bleary incomprehension at a completely different ceiling than the one he'd seen yesterday, unable to put together for a long moment what the hell's happened.

And then with a horrible rush, everything comes flooding back. He hears the distant sound of something going bang, and his hand shoots out to his side, but the mattress next to him is empty — empty and dusty and smaller, because this isn't the goddamn master bedroom, he's in the second room and he's alone. ]

No.

[ The denial is out of him before his feet even hit the floor, a strange, alien fear running an icy finger down his spine. It's washed out by the sudden anger that fills him, though, seeing the bare room around him — the door that he hadn't had the chance to fucking reinstall the day before, closed in his face like somebody's mocking him.

He slams into it shoulder-first, but it doesn't even budge, the knob rattles loud and useless in his palm, and the next sound out of him is Ian's name, as loud as he can make it, his fist pounding into the wood. ]

Can you hear me? Ian!

[ Jesus Christ it's a fucking relief to hear the voice, even if he can't see the face. Maybe it's selfish, maybe silence would've meant Mace made it out somehow, but his gut instinct says that's not what he'd believe. Silence would have filled him with a keen, unshakable dread. The overwhelming suspicion that they'd taken him, and if he wasn't dead he'd be wishing he was. ]

Yeah-

[ Called back, raspy and relieved, very noticeably in close proximity to the door. A second later there's a soft thump as the side of his fists hits it, a support he uses to bear most of his weight and lean upon it. ]

I'm here. Are you alright?

[ His voice is raised up loud enough to make it through wood, he thinks, and while there's a soft tremor of leftover shakiness, he's mostly back to steady again.

Just a door.

Just a door.

(And then the constantly working lower echelons of his mind murmur that the door is locked, that they've been separated like test subjects forced apart, that there's likely to be a follow-up experiment because why else bother with that specific piece?)

And then the following realization that Mace is barred in, but Ian's out in the hall, in the open floor plan of the cabin.

Alone. Wide open, it feels like. Fuck. Jesus, fuck. ]

[ The relief that sweeps over him to hear Ian’s voice — slightly unsteady and hoarse, but still normal, unharmed — is as alien as the rest of this situation, a balm to an injury he didn’t remember sustaining. Because for a moment, all Mace could think was that this was it, they’d somehow separated the two of them and taken Ian for good. Locked him in here as a reminder that it didn’t matter what lengths the two of them had gone to the day before, didn’t matter how hard he’d fought. ]

Thank fuck, I thought —

[ Almost angrily, stopping before he finishes that sentence and taking a slow, deep breath. Then he turns around, taking stock of the rest of the room. Something, anything, to help him open this fucking door, break it down if he has to.

There’s nothing. A bed. The sheets, the pillow, a nightstand, a lamp. The curtains with their stupid, kitschy floral pattern.

And then, out of the window, hanging from the nearest tree, he spots something that makes every muscle in his body tense up, his voice going oddly toneless as he says, ]

I’m fine, buddy.

[ A flash of pale blue, waving gently in the fog.

He's beginning to understand what this is. To use his previous mice analogy, this is the set-up for the second experiment, and he’s starting to think, bizarrely, that it’s not some living creature behind any of this at all. That it’s this fucking cabin itself, toying with them like some sort of monstrous cat before it — what, devours them? Drives them nuts before picking them off one by one?

What the hell is the point? ]

Ian, listen to me. [ His voice drops in pitch but keeps its volume, the words quick and urgent. If he's stuck in here, that means Ian's injured and vulnerable in the emptiness of the rest of this cabin. ]

Get back to the master bedroom, lock that door, and wait for me. All right? Don’t open that door no matter what you fuckin’ hear. I’m gonna — I’ll find a way to you.

[ They've only known each other a day. Ian finds he has to remind himself of that to regain some perspective, and it's completely out of the norm for him to have to do that. It takes him so, so much to get to the point where he feels really reliant on another person - not just in the moment, not just can you help me with this wound, but reliant in a general sense. Reliant as in how do I navigate this without you? He's not comfortable being there as a general rule ever, he hasn't been there since his mother passed away (she was his only constant, his rock, his entire life).

A situation like this breeds rapid bonding out of necessity. It's innate in humans, it's pure survival instinct. Humans are social creatures, their odds go up exponentially in pairs, it's part of the whole reason partnerships developed over the course of human history and became the standard. What's extremely unsettling and extremely ironic about it happening now is the fact that out of anyone he's ever begun to feel it for (romantically, platonically, doesn't matter) Mace is the most likely person to immediately leave him - possibly by flat out fucking dying.

Unlike back home, unlike in real life, he doesn't have the option of cutting it out. It's just not on the table, there's no scenario he can envision where they survive separately like this, where they don't have to come together outside of just in the moment. Even if he wanted to, even if he wanted to make this a we interact for survival only situation, frankly the nature of their rapport and the ease with which it's unfolding makes that practically impossible too.

So here he is on the other side of a fucking door, freaking out because his tether is behind a lock more than the fact that he himself is exposed. Maybe he cares a lot, or maybe subconsciously it's because he's starting to associate Mace with defense. Safety. ]

I can get the knob off.

[ He calls back instead, frustrated and determined, already lowering himself to his knees in that slow, painful way he has to do by necessity because of the fucking searing burns up the strip of his stomach. Beneath the slit of the door, Mace may see a familiar blue.

They can take the fucking tool all they want, the dumb fuckers, he'll make more.

Maybe a fucking ten pound hammer, which might've been a good idea if he had the guaranteed ability to use one right now. ]

Edited (just keep finding stuff wrong with this tag im a mess ) 2020-05-27 20:26 (UTC)

[ Absurdly, it occurs to Mace that all of this would be easier if Ian were different. If he were selfish, maybe, and afraid — someone like Harvey, who’d put his own safety above others, who’d take the quick way out every single time, while his teammates worked and died around him. Somebody like that would listen to Mace’s directions without question, without worrying over what happens to him.

Moreover, if that were the case, they wouldn’t have this connection between them either. Mace knows the science of it, that the trauma they’re undergoing together is forming an attachment that would normally take exponentially longer to foster, and that might’ve held true even if Ian were just a civilian focused on his own survival.

But situational bonding aside, Ian’s not Harvey. Ian is deadpan humour and easy-going flirting over cheap tequila, an engineering teacher who chooses cauterization over stitches, who decides to fight zombie doctors head-on instead of letting Mace face them alone. Batman jokes after being cut open, old movie references in a dark basement.

And that’s the biggest reason all of this is so, so hard, because Mace just flat-out likes the guy, and his attachment now is not just circumstantial, or on an intellectual scale, but on a sheer emotional level that means he’s fucking compromised. Ian’s wellbeing is suddenly important to him in a way that has Mace unwilling to risk having him hurt, trying to get this damn knob off.

Or staying out in that hallway alone, open to any threat in this murder cabin — and uncharacteristic frustration bleeds into Mace's voice as he says: ]

Not in your condition. You just went through a goddamn surgery, put down whatever the hell it is you’re making and get somewhere safe.

[ Yeah, he sees that blue, and instead of the usual intrigue, all Mace feels now is indignant concern. He doesn’t know how Ian’s magic works, if what he’s doing is gonna drain him in a way he can’t afford right now, leave him more defenseless by dulling his agility or strength.

Whatever decision they make right now has to be predicated on the assumption that the rest of the cabin is no longer safe, that there’s an invisible countdown before the rug gets pulled out from under them all over again. ]

If you get hurt doing this, or one of those fuckers gets the drop on — look. I’m gonna break my way out through the window, and break my way back in from the living room, okay? I can handle that. [ A pause, and then: ] I can’t handle the other shit.

[ Dimly, distantly, somewhere from a source he can't pinpoint comes a sudden, loud cracking sound. It's like limbs from dead trees compromised during a storm, thick heavy things giving in and snapping, groaning, falling. His breath stutters, head shoots up, wide-eyed. The front door is still closed.

It could've come from outside.

It could've come from the basement.

The fact that he has no way of knowing is shaking his courage. If it's the basement, he won't have enough time to get the knob off. Fuck, if it's from outside and they bust the door down he's just as fucked. Shit, shit. ]

Okay, okay- Watch your feet-

[ Urgently, another blue glow that feels like it takes too many precious seconds. There's a 1/4th inch gap under the door, just high enough that he can push through one long razor blade like the kind you'd slip into a retractable box cutter.

It's all he can thing to do right now, all that will fit. ]

Don't come in the front- come around, come around to the master bedroom, I can break that window-

[ Quickly, around heaving breaths as he hauls himself to his feet. Hand pressing against stomach, forearm bracing against wall to push himself off. ]

Don't fucking die!

[ Snapped out, snarled really, an unchallengable order.

He's a coward. He knows it. He knows the right thing to do would be to stay, to get the knob or the hinges off. To summon up a hammer and start bashing the doorknob until they could snap it completely off and pull out the thick medal column that embeds itself into the door frame.

But god, fucking, god almighty, he remembers getting picked up and held down and cut into, and he just can't.

He staggers gracelessly down the hall. ]

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