Chris awoke to the familiar sight of the grimy ceiling above. He must have been so drunk they kicked him out – again. No problem, though, he would just waltz right back in and grab another cold one. He wearily stood up, stretched, and let out a loud yawn. His head stung with the pain of a fresh hangover.

"Barkeep," He called out with a slight slur, "Fix me the usual, I'm coming back."

It was at this point Chris realized that he wasn't in the alleyway behind his local pub, but instead in a bare, sunless room, devoid of any decorations, or life - but him. There was a lone door at the other end of the room – and a gray tape recorder on it.

All the blood dropped from his face immediately. His skin turned a paper-white color. His synapses were overwhelmed by memories of the last game with those mutts, those damned mutts. His hand moved unconsciously to the scar he bore on his chest where one of the mutts had bitten him.

"No," He murmured rapidly, hoping that this was all a nightmare.

It probably was, he rationalized, one of his business rivals could have brought him to this place when he was out cold as a cruel joke. He had to be sure, though, so he walked over to the tape recorder, and with a deep breath, pressed play.

"Hello Mr. Brill," Jigsaw greeted.

Chris couldn't summon the strength to hear any more, and pressed stop. He crawled into a corner and curled up into a ball, his hands clutching his head as though it may fall off, and began to rock back and forth. He stayed this way for a countless time, trapped in a trance of intense fear.

He had found out the identity of his captor shortly after his escape of the last game, and was torn between admiration and hatred of the serial killer Jigsaw. At the very least, this solved his dilemma – it was hatred.

Finally, Chris rose, knowing he might as well get it over with.

"Hello Mr. Brill," Jigsaw repeated. The very sound of that voice caused Chris to resume his fear trance, but he allowed the tape to continue playing. "Ever since winning my last game, you've wandered around in unhappiness. You've resorted to drinking alcohol almost constantly to ease your so-called 'suffering', and you've drank almost your entire fortune away. Are you so miserable Chris? Did your rebirth change you forever?"

Of course it did. For the first week after the game he could not sleep, for his dreams were plagued with images of the attacking mutts. His alcohol addiction had been small at first – just a few scotches to help him sleep – and developed into a reliance on the substance.

"We're going to try again," Jigsaw continued. "If you feel you no longer desire life, then I'm not stopping you from killing yourself where you stand. However, if you want to live, you'll have to play another game."

"I want to live," Chris responded, "LIVE!"

"The exit to this house is hidden well, as a matter of fact, I can assure you could wander for an eternity and not find it. There are several traps in the house as well. Each trap holds a clue to the whereabouts of the exit. Trapped with you are several other people. You'll need their knowledge, as well as yours, to survive the traps, and find the exit. Let the game begin."

Chris, overwhelmed, lay down on the floor.

"I'll never sleep again," Chris thought.

And yet five minutes later he fainted, and was lost to the world.

Derek woke up slowly at first. He immediately realized he wasn't in his apartment and began to panic. Instinctively, he reached for his laptop. It was lying on his stomach. He sighed in relief.
He sat up, rubbing his head painfully. The last thing he remembered was going to sleep in his apartment, and now he was in this place…
Where was he? He thought, looked around. He was in a room with no furniture. There were windows, but they were boarded up. The wallpaper was an ugly rotten brown, and was beginning to peel. There was a lone door at the far end of the room.
Clueless on what else to do, he opened up his laptop, and the screen buzzed to life. He wanted to make sure all of his documents, programs, and files were still there. What caught his attention, though, was a blinking icon at the bottom of the screen. It was labeled 'Message'.
Curious, he clicked on the blinking button, and an audio file activated.
"Hello Derek," a raspy voice greeted him from his built-in speakers, "Do you appreciate your life? I can tell you what you do appreciate. Your computer."
What kind of joke was this? Who would go to such lengths of doing something like this? Faintly, though, he remembered hearing the voice somewhere.
"Day and night you sat at your computer until you were finally able to afford a laptop. But where did that money come from, Derek? Friends? Family? Maybe a loan from the bank? No, Derek, your money came from people."
He laughed, "Really, Sherlock?" He asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"You robbed credit card numbers, ruined lives, and caused torment and fear to complete strangers. And you did it all from the comfort of your own home."
Derek stopped laughing. This wasn't funny anymore. How could this person know this information? The mystery person could have, ironically, hacked into his computer, but that was impossible, because Derek was the best of the best.
"Now the tables have turned, Derek. It is your turn for a complete stranger to ruin your life. Or, if you play your cards right, help you discover salvation. The door in front of you is unlocked. In the other rooms you will find three other prisoners. Your job is to help them. If one of them dies, I will take from you that which you took from others. Your bank account will be canceled, your files deleted, and your back-up disk erased."
That's all? For the death of a person he doesn't even know? Surely this person could make up a better joke then that!
"If another one dies, I will see to it that you never see your family again, even if you do make it out alive. And if all three of them die… Well, I'm sure you can guess what will happen to you then. It's all about teamwork, Derek. Let's hope you're a team player."

With a sudden burst of nausea accompanying it, Derek remembered. The man was Jigsaw – a serial killer. He was his newest victim.

Jenna's eyes opened slowly, they had to blink several times before opening completely. They stared up at a decaying ceiling, no more then a year away from collapsing.

"Where am I?" She tried to say, but the words came out in a slur.

Sitting up, she leaned her head over and coughed up all the drool and saliva that had accumulated in her throat while she was out. Clearing her throat a few times, she stood up and observed her surroundings. The room was completely bare, except a lone door and-

And a tape recorder on the door.

"No!" She screamed at a frequency unintelligible, as memories washed over her like a wave.

The tub she had awoke in, the support beam that crashed the ramp she had fallen down, the quiz… and the man that had fried upon her escape.

Remembering the man, she screamed at the thought "HIS FUCKING EYES BURST IN THEIR SOCKETS AND HIS TOUNGE WAS ON FIRE JESUS FUCKING CHRIST OH GOD!"

Falling, his electrocution replayed rapidly in her mind's eye, but she regained control in time to catch herself.

Standing again, she marched over to the door, clinging to false hope that this was all some sort of joke, and that she wasn't in another one of those hellish games.

"Hello Jennifer." Jigsaw's voice greeted her. Hearing those words, Jenna slumped to the floor as the walls echoed her despaired squeal and wet warmth exited her eyes. "By this point in time," Jigsaw began again, "You probably know who I am, and what I do. Ever since playing that last game of ours, you've lived in despair, scarred by the sights you saw – particularly that poor man being electrocuted. As a matter of fact, the only thing keeping you from slitting your wrists in the bathtub is the love of your little brother, Danny. You no longer care about your own life Jennifer, just that of Danny's. Well, taking that into account, I've designed a very special game for you. Inside the house you're trapped in are both three other people, and various traps. Each trap has a clue hidden within. Each clue will lead you closer to the exit. Now, here's the kicker: These traps are fatal ones. If any of your three cellmates dies – just one – I'll show Danny a few things that will make him hate your guts. Incriminating photos, blaming, the works. Simply, your job is to ensure the safety of all people within the house, or your only reason to live – Danny – will be stripped from you. Let the game begin."

"Danny," Jenna whispered, her mind zoning out of the reality in front of her. As much as she hated to admit, she would have to go through another one of Jigsaw's games… for Danny.

Alex woke up with a headache. This was nothing new. He was lying on the floor. He'd probably fallen off of the bed. He stood up and stretched his arms, then his legs.

He began doing his morning stretches, as he did every morning, when he noticed he was not in his apartment. The room he was in was bare, with old peeling brown wallpaper, boarded up windows, and a door at the far end of the room. Attached to the door was a tape recorder labeled "PLAY ME".
He had a nasty suspicion he knew what this was, but he walked over to the recorder anyway and pressed 'play'.
"Hello Mr. Burroughs." A raspy voice greeted him, "At first glance, it would seem as though you've been kidnapped. Much like the many people you've kidnapped and killed in your career as a professional hitman."
He smiled to himself. He knew all about the Jigsaw killer, and now he was part of one of these 'games'. He also knew these games could be beat.
"Whether it was a business rival, or just some guy they didn't like, people paid you to end the lives of others. Now, it seems to me as though you don't appreciate your life enough to learn to appreciate the lives of others."
He didn't care for the lives of others. He knew how many families he'd made cry, left without any system of providing sustenance, but the way he saw it, it wasn't his problem or his fault. Death would happen regardless, he just took advantage of the opportunity and made some money along the way.
"Your job is to get out alive, Alex." Jigsaw continued, "There are traps hidden throughout the house, and each one hides a clue to the whereabouts of the exit. You won't be acting alone however; trapped with you are three other individuals. To solve the necessary riddles, and thus make it to the exit, you're going to have to get to know about each of your companions. They possess knowledge vital to your success. They are disposable however, and once you feel that you no longer need their services, you're free to kill them. Perhaps once you've learned what these people are like, you will learn what you've destroyed… Let the game begin."

He began to picture what the newspapers would say:
Jigsaw strikes again! Only Alex Burroughs survives!

Spitting on the tape recorder, he opened the door, and walked into the hallway.

Jigsaw sat slumped in his wheelchair. His eyes remained focused on the monitor connected to the meeting room, where all the players would meet. Glancing over to the right, he took the oxygen mask off its hook and breathed deep in the sustenance. Every time he breathed it in he could remember Dr. Gordon saying "You've got a particularly virulent strain of cancer… we're talking about a question of "when" not "if", I'm afraid." "If it had been if," John reflected, "Would things still be the way they are now?" It really didn't matter though. He had no time to wish for things – he only had time for games. As if on cue, the door closest to the camera swung open. "Let the game begin." John whispered.