Mason pushed himself up from where he'd been sitting cross-legged on the ground and ambled over to the van, brushing bits of dust and twigs from his ass. "We'd get shit done pretty quick if everyone pitched in," he mumbled, as he opened the back door and started pulling out the ladder he'd brought to make his job possible. "But no worries, Miss Daisy, we common folk'll get them things out the van," he added more loudly, adding a poorly executed southern drawl to his words.<br/><br/>He'd waited until the take was over to get started; the metallic clangs of a ladder in the background would've probably sent Sarah into a frenzy, and Mason already had enough to worry about given the tasks ahead of them. He didn't believe in ghosts, not really, but that didn't stop him from getting the creeps on occasion. When he was little, turning off the downstairs lights in his house at night usually led to him sprinting up the steps as fast as he could, headed towards the safety of the upstairs hall. He'd imagine something in the darkness behind him, advancing quickly, and no amount of self-reassurances would stop the growing sense of panic he felt in those moments.<br/><br/>The doors of the asylum hadn't been opened in forever and a day, but he didn't need any personal insight to know it was probably really dark inside. He was much older now, and his days of nighttime stair-sprinting were long gone, but he still wasn't looking forward to walking through that giant, shadowy fortress. At least he wouldn't be on his own when making his rounds.<br/><br/>He got the ladder out and stood it up against the side of the van, running a hand through the short, straight hair atop his head as he glanced at his own reflection. It wasn't exactly the pinnacle of style, but Mason loved how easy it was to take care of given that he pretty much just ignored it until it was time to get it cut. He thought he noticed a fleck of dirt on his nose and wiped at it, until realizing it was just something on the window glass. It was hard to tell sometimes, given that his Indian grandfather had given him a brown complexion, but he liked it. He never had to put on sunscreen, at any rate.<br/><br/>Mason let out an involuntary sigh of weariness as he returned to the back of the van; if everyone only retrieved their own equipment, he was definitely the person drawing the shortest straw. The large duffel bag he hoisted next was tremendously heavy, as it contained no fewer than ten cameras and three tripods. Most of the devices were small, but the camcorders were bulky, and much cheaper than the sleeker, newer models he coveted.<br/><br/>He put it down, as gently as he could, and straightened up with a groan as he grabbed the final bag, this one smaller and mercifully much lighter. It contained spare batteries, a package of adhesive tabs, and most importantly, the laptop that would be the central HUB for all of his equipment.<br/><br/>Mason slung the last bag's strap over his shoulder and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he fought against his own inherent laziness. Something made him look up, and when he did he felt his eyes widen upon glimpsing the sky above. Grey clouds swirled overhead, and were darkening fast. Reluctant as he was to venture into the asylum, Mother Nature didn't seem to give a shit about what their director wanted.<br/><br/>"We've got a lot of equipment out here, and not much of it's waterproof. Maybe we should, uh, head in soon," he offered, even as a distant rumbling sound punctuated his suggestion.