He goes to sleep a well behaved resident of the Massachusetts Correctional Institution of Norfolk County and wakes up, not for the first time in his life, naked in the woods in the middle of winter. If there had been frost riming the ground while he slept in his cell, he wouldn’t know it, but the time of year doesn’t leave it out of the question. So Ransom’s first thought—
No, that’s not true. His first thought is to wonder if he’s gotten frostbite on his dick, also not for the first time in his life. It’s been over a decade since that fateful ski trip in Aspen, but that kind of thing tends to leave an impression on the male psyche. He checks, and everything’s intact, no numbness or weird tingling. If he feels relief it’s short-lived, it’s not quite dick-freezing weather anyway, his mind already on that second thought and each consecutive one, spinning out scenarios that might have gotten him here, on the outside, sans clothing, with what seems to be an actual fucking tattoo on his left clavicle, but with no sign of a healing process, no lingering headiness from being drugged, though he must have been.
He doesn’t get very far, which is saying something — if there’s one thing Ransom knows, it’s concocting scenarios. All he can be sure of is that he hasn’t been here for too long — the frost had only just begun to melt under his body — and whoever brought him here doesn’t want to kill him (at least not yet) but doesn’t want him getting far, either. He comes up with being hunted for sport, an idea he’s always found hilarious but that he assumes if it were a real thing he would’ve been invited to at some point. He laughs a little wildly, the sound fogging out in front of him.
”WHAT THE FUCK?” he yells with his arms spread, palms up. When there’s no answer he drops his hands to his hips. Or maybe you answer, and he will gladly take someone to blame. Otherwise, he contemplates his direction. Toward where more light penetrates the green gloom is the only way that makes sense if he actually wants to get out of here, but he still hesitates. Ransom is not unaware that, whatever the reason, he’s out, and he currently cuts a conspicuous figure.
He doesn’t want to get caught. At least not until—
Not until he finds Marta.
ii. room;
Ransom could really do without a roommate. His cellmate has been fine, as far as these things go, but he’s missed the luxuries of his previous life, like taking a shit in private. As soon as he’s handed a key and a folded stack of clothes he finds his room and shuts and locks the door behind him. Once he’s finally dressed he thinks about leaving again to eat, hungry but also loathe to sit restlessly inside the four walls of the room, but instead he parks himself on one of the beds, ready to glare at anyone who tries to come in.
Speaking of luxuries. Though it’s still far from his midcentury modern frame and king size mattress — probably gone now anyway, thanks, Mom and Dad — at least it’s not a twin bunk, and shit it feels good to be able to lie down and actually stretch out his limbs.
iii. festival;
Yeah, he never would’ve come up with this. It’s like a kink dungeon meets The Village with some excessively elaborate worldbuilding. Though he hasn’t seen anyone break character, Ransom is not at all convinced that’s not exactly what this is.
A smiling woman hands him a wrist-strap, and he lets it drop over his fingers, holding it up for perusal with wry insouciance. “Wow, special.” He pockets it anyway. He fends off — or more often ignores — any displays or offers to participate from the crowd, but when he comes across the Gluwein he accepts a mug readily. He’s never been much for wine — he prefers beer or liquor — but it’s been over a year since he’s had a drink and cons can’t be choosers. He eats too, but the wine still goes straight to his head.
”I used to have a higher tolerance before prison,” he says aloud, then shakes his head as though to dislodge that bit of oversharing.
ransom drysdale | knives out ( diabel )
He goes to sleep a well behaved resident of the Massachusetts Correctional Institution of Norfolk County and wakes up, not for the first time in his life, naked in the woods in the middle of winter. If there had been frost riming the ground while he slept in his cell, he wouldn’t know it, but the time of year doesn’t leave it out of the question. So Ransom’s first thought—
No, that’s not true. His first thought is to wonder if he’s gotten frostbite on his dick, also not for the first time in his life. It’s been over a decade since that fateful ski trip in Aspen, but that kind of thing tends to leave an impression on the male psyche. He checks, and everything’s intact, no numbness or weird tingling. If he feels relief it’s short-lived, it’s not quite dick-freezing weather anyway, his mind already on that second thought and each consecutive one, spinning out scenarios that might have gotten him here, on the outside, sans clothing, with what seems to be an actual fucking tattoo on his left clavicle, but with no sign of a healing process, no lingering headiness from being drugged, though he must have been.
He doesn’t get very far, which is saying something — if there’s one thing Ransom knows, it’s concocting scenarios. All he can be sure of is that he hasn’t been here for too long — the frost had only just begun to melt under his body — and whoever brought him here doesn’t want to kill him (at least not yet) but doesn’t want him getting far, either. He comes up with being hunted for sport, an idea he’s always found hilarious but that he assumes if it were a real thing he would’ve been invited to at some point. He laughs a little wildly, the sound fogging out in front of him.
”WHAT THE FUCK?” he yells with his arms spread, palms up. When there’s no answer he drops his hands to his hips. Or maybe you answer, and he will gladly take someone to blame. Otherwise, he contemplates his direction. Toward where more light penetrates the green gloom is the only way that makes sense if he actually wants to get out of here, but he still hesitates. Ransom is not unaware that, whatever the reason, he’s out, and he currently cuts a conspicuous figure.
He doesn’t want to get caught. At least not until—
Not until he finds Marta.
Ransom could really do without a roommate. His cellmate has been fine, as far as these things go, but he’s missed the luxuries of his previous life, like taking a shit in private. As soon as he’s handed a key and a folded stack of clothes he finds his room and shuts and locks the door behind him. Once he’s finally dressed he thinks about leaving again to eat, hungry but also loathe to sit restlessly inside the four walls of the room, but instead he parks himself on one of the beds, ready to glare at anyone who tries to come in.
Speaking of luxuries. Though it’s still far from his midcentury modern frame and king size mattress — probably gone now anyway, thanks, Mom and Dad — at least it’s not a twin bunk, and shit it feels good to be able to lie down and actually stretch out his limbs.
Yeah, he never would’ve come up with this. It’s like a kink dungeon meets The Village with some excessively elaborate worldbuilding. Though he hasn’t seen anyone break character, Ransom is not at all convinced that’s not exactly what this is.
A smiling woman hands him a wrist-strap, and he lets it drop over his fingers, holding it up for perusal with wry insouciance. “Wow, special.” He pockets it anyway. He fends off — or more often ignores — any displays or offers to participate from the crowd, but when he comes across the Gluwein he accepts a mug readily. He’s never been much for wine — he prefers beer or liquor — but it’s been over a year since he’s had a drink and cons can’t be choosers. He eats too, but the wine still goes straight to his head.
”I used to have a higher tolerance before prison,” he says aloud, then shakes his head as though to dislodge that bit of oversharing.