"...The sirens that you're hearing ain't the Five-O,
I'm that siren on the track."
~ 'Sirens' - Kat Dahlia
The air was brisk outside the old warehouse; as soon as he inhaled it chased away all trace of the smell of gasoline in his nostrils. He probably smelled like the substance himself, among other things, but for now it went unnoticed by his own nose. It was a good thing he lived alone, he'd mused more than once. It would have been difficult to come up with explanations every time he returned to the apartment smelling of chemicals, metal, blood. Sometimes it was his own, sometimes it wasn't. Right now it was a mixture of both, though most of it was not his own. He'd killed a lot of people tonight, and it was all to protect his identity. He'd managed to get away with playing both sides for a long while, but not nearly as long as he'd hoped. He'd known they would end up coming for him sooner or later.
It was pointless to think about how lucky he was to live alone in his apartment now, though. He wouldn't be going back there. He noted this as he purposefully strode towards the only car in the dirt lot, the building going up in flames behind him with a thundering boom.
Mark Hoffman stepped up to the car he'd purchased on the side; an old '02 Grand Cherokee, navy blue like the night. It would draw no attention, which was what he had banked on. He'd already taken the precaution of packing things he would need; only necessities. On top of his change of clothes sat his gun, loaded and ready. That he planned on keeping. He'd burned all other evidence of his Detective status that he carried on him - all ashes in the fire by now.
Hoffman felt even more now, as he swung himself into the vehicle, that the stitches in his right cheek were tearing. Unsurprising, considering the exertion of the past few hours. He'd made Jill pay for that, he thought with resolve as he started the vehicle. He'd made her pay by doing to her what she'd tried to do to him, and then some. He'd never actually seen the reverse bear trap in action, and upon seeing what it had done to a once pretty face, he didn't particularly care to see it again. Though it definitely felt better to watch it than experience it firsthand like he almost had. He'd have this scar on his cheek for the rest of his life to prove it. Dumb bitch, he thought, starting the car hurriedly. And her dumb bastard husband too, for thinking he could best me. Damn you, John Kramer. The old man thought he could let him in on this legacy of insanity; allow him to be a part of it, encourage him to create his own legacy branching off of it... and then take it all away. Fuck all of them if they thought they could lie to him and get away with it. Even John Kramer. As he drove through the lot, he could hear the original Jigsaw's voice in his mind: I didn't lie to you, I despise liars. He could hear him making excuses, justifying his actions as he always did. This was your final test, Detective Hoffman. I had to make sure I could trust you. But I can't.
Hoffman wanted to spit out the blood draining into the right side of his mouth, but didn't want to leave any more traces of his being there than he had to. It was fucking nasty though. Resigned, he spat it out on the floor of the passenger side. He'd just have to burn the car, too.
Could've trusted me till you tried to kill me, he thought once again as he reached the edge of the property. You brought this on yourself.
He was about to turn off and leave the whole damn place in the dust when something caught his eye. On the ground a little ways off was a body, twisted and mangled on the ground. A light mist rose from the blood coating almost every surface, which meant it hadn't been there that long. The blood was still warm enough to cause condensation in the air. From where he was he didn't recognize the body, but he could tell it had only been dead for a little while, about an hour or two tops. Hoffman stopped the car against his better judgement, the cop part of him curious, but wary. Whoever it was wasn't wearing a police uniform - in fact he couldn't really tell what they were wearing. They were half buried in a pile of dirt amongst the wreckage in the junkyard. Upon looking more closely, leaning towards the window of the car, he saw light hair spilling out of one of the piles of dirt. Hoffman was not a squeamish man; he had seen many a dead body, and had done his fair share of doling them out as well. But something about the hair sent a chill up his spine. It reminded him of how his sister's hair had looked when her head hung off the edge of her bed after her throat had been cut; dangling lifelessly, lacking all luster it had formerly held. He squashed the thought where it began, but leaned closer to the window to get a better look at the body, his mind already trying to come up with possible cause of death.
A pig mask with a head of black hair pushed up against the outside of the window, and Hoffman jumped back with a shout. The assailant smashed the window with a black crowbar, scattering the glass all over the interior of the front seat, littering his legs with shards. Quick as lightning, Hoffman reached into his bag on the passenger seat and pulled out his gun, whipping around and firing the weapon. He shot a hole straight through the nose of the mask, the person dead instantly. The body barely had time to crumple to the ground before his foot pressed the pedal to the floor and tore out of the lot, kicking up dirt along with speed.
