Timeline: Before the Saw series begins

Rating: Pg-13 for mild sexual content

Chapter 1

Some Rules are Meant to be Broken

"The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally here can be nothing there." –Jigsaw

Mark twisted the doorknob twice to ensure it was locked. He approached the small table but remained standing behind the chair. He didn't feel comfortable sitting behind his desk, as if he had done nothing wrong. It should have been the most familiar feeling in the world, but the idea of normality after what had just transpired seemed so strange now.

"I shouldn't have let you take the fall," Mark said. He looked over at his bookcase, staring at the awards, the ribbons for public service, the pictures of him and his sister that reminded him of all he had achieved and generating more conflicting feelings caused by his poor moral decisions. He thought about what he had done, abandoning Eric and leaving him to be torn apart by their superiors and Internal Affairs. He thought about a hypothetical situation, confessing the truth and relieving Eric some of the blame. But if Eric faced possible expulsion from the department, then Mark would definitely be expelled for is part in it.

"Mark, there was nothing more you could have done," Eric said, surprising himself with his own placidity.

"I know," he said.

Eric leaned over and peered through the blinds for a moment. His eyes scanned past several of officers, lingering on Kerry especially. She seemed disinterested in the conversation, and with a polite smile, gestured to the door to excuse herself. Rigg said something to her that caused her to send him a spiteful glare. Eric wondered what the hell that was about.

"Office drama. It's been going on since this whole incident began," Mark said in response to the expression on Eric's face. "Situations like this make you realize who really has your back."

"Who has my back?" Eric asked.

"Me. Kerry. Rigg…sometimes."

"What do you mean sometimes?"

"I'm not sure about Rigg," he admitted. "But Kerry, she'd do anything for you. She'd break all kinds of regulations to help you."

"She'd lie for me?"

Mark nodded his head.

Eric peaked out of the curtains on last time, and caught a glimpse of her walking out the door. She turned back and seemed to stare right at him, although he was concealed by the blinds. Then she turned around again and left.

"I don't want her to. I don't want her to get involved," Eric said, turning his head to face Mark.

"She's already involved."

"I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to keep me from losing my badge out of some kind of misplaced guilt you have over what happened with Seth."

"It was the first case that you planted evidence," Mark said.

"You didn't force me to do anything."

"I made suggestions. I put the evidence you needed right in your hand. I made it easy."

"But I'm the one that did it, Mark."

"That's just a detail. It's a question of morality. If you put a gun in someone's hand and they pull the trigger, does that make you a murderer? An accomplice?"

"What does the law say?" Eric said.

"I know what it says. And I know what it should say," Mark sighed, obviously filled with guilt.

"Don't you fucking crack. At this point, it wouldn't help anyone. It would make us both look bad for lying. Let it go. Stop feeling guilty. You've been punished enough already."

"You know why I called you here?"

"Yeah," he said. "About Kerry wanting to help, even though you know I'm going to say no. That and…well…" he said, nodding to the newspaper on the table.

Mark sifted through the papers on his desk, and looked at the newspaper headline that he had read over and over again since he first grabbed it at the gas station and stormed out, slamming money on the counter and taking it with him to read in the car, where he could break down and cry if he needed to. Which he did, collapsing on the steering wheel and sobbing out all of the anger and tension that had been he had fostered for weeks.

Conspiracy to convict Murderer grants him release on a technicality

The article had been a stab at both of them. The author's writing had been quite a two-sided piece, first expressing sympathy for the detective and his sister, then a judgmental tone took over, and the rest of the article proceeded to deprecate him and Eric and describe corruption within their criminal investigation department, with a conclusion expressing optimism at the prospect of Eric Matthew's dismissal from the police force after 12 years of service.

In Mark's opinion, Pamela Jenkins was quite a ruthless bitch. And she knew how to turn a flame into a conflagration. The situation had been kept fairly underground by the media, perhaps because they had cooperated with his department in the past, but once she sunk her claws into the story, Eric's reputation was at her mercy, and her article stomped all over it.

Mark saw Eric look at the newspaper and then look up at him. Mark took the paper and tossed it in the trash, symbolic of what he wanted to do with the topic at hand.

"You're not here to talk about that. That's over."

"Don't tell me you are just going to let him walk away," Eric said, putting his hands on the table and leaning closer to Hoffman, staring at him in disbelief.

"What else can I do?"

A silence interrupted their conversation, and at last, Eric saw no way to continue the conversation. Mark was right of course. But the injustice of the situation made him desperate to see a solution that wasn't there.

"We'll think of something," he said.

Mark nodded his head, more to show that he was listening than he agreed. His mind wandered from the conversation for a moment, his gaze focused again at his bookcase and the picture of Angelina.

Eric stood up and prepared to leave.

"If we're going to be miserable, we might as well be miserable together. Get your jacket," he said as he opened the door.

"You're joking, right? Euphoria?" Mark asked as they drove by the building with flashing lights and blaring music. Eric grinned, his face an expression of amusement so rarely seen recently. The contagious smile infected Hoffman as well. He smirked and shook his head, his rebuff defeated.

Mark stepped out of the car and glanced around, taking in his surroundings, a nervous practice he grew accustomed to in his training, an annoying habit he never learned to let go, even in non-threatening situations. In this instance though, he thought it may prove to be useful. The area itself wasn't shady, but there was a vibe he picked up, an intuition he'd developed over time that made him clutch his gun as he got out of the car.

His eyes shifted, but he remained faced towards the building. Using his peripheral vision, he scanned the place. He thought he saw movement in the bushes near a patch of woods, a perfect hiding spot. He spun around and his grip on the gun tightened, but there was nothing there. He quickly put the gun away before Eric got out.

Eric slammed the car door shut. Mark flinched.

"Jumpy?" he asked. Mark waved his hand as if to toss the issue aside. Pride prevented him from mentioning he sometimes thought of Seth coming to his apartment to get revenge, that he couldn't sleep some nights because the slightest noise made him bolt out of bed and go into defense mode. Mark wasn't as apprehensive to reach for his gun lately.

The inside of Euphoria was unexpected. The bright neon lights that sprayed upon the street did not prepare him for the utter dimness of the inside. The men inside were like bats fleeing from the day, retreating to their cave. The girls that walked around in their skimpy clothes were either wearing glow-in-the-dark tops, or had flashing bracelets that reminded him of the reflection lights people put on their bikes.

The bartender smiled at them when they sat down, an older woman with poorly dyed hair, an obvious attempt to cover the gray strains that were beginning to invade. And with her makeup distastefully caked on, it was no surprise she stood behind the bar serving drinks instead of on the stage performing.

"Two drinks. Anything," Eric said, his attention fixed on the women that passed by them, most of the working ones smiling, the ones on their breaks looking tired or pissed off. For awhile Eric and Mark were quiet, just drinking and listening to the music that varied from techno to rock to hip hop, and taking in the sights. After a few drinks they started talking, and suddenly Eric nudged Mark, who was lost in his thoughts again.

"She's cute," Eric said, looking at a young ditzy girl in a miniskirt and halter-top, looking like she just walked out of a rap music video. She had a huge grin on her face while she sat in some guy's lap, toying with her hair, soaking up the attention like a deprived little girl seeking Daddy's approval.

Which she really is, Mark thought. Eric's comment automatically repulsed him. She had to be nineteen at most, with what appeared the mentality of a pre-pubescent adolescent. A misguided, naïve kid.

Mark blamed it on Eric's drunkenness and hoped he'd turn his attention to some of the older women. He didn't want to think about Eric, or anyone, touching that young girl, who kind of reminded him of-

Stop it, he thought. Not here. Not now.

"She's cute too," Eric said. Mark sighed in relief. Eric wasn't even paying attention to who he was referring to. His slur indicated it was just the alcohol talking. Still Mark played along, and looked for the girl Eric had pointed out.

Now she was more Mark's taste. Her long dark hair and crimson lipstick made her stand out from the others. Red appeared to be her signature color, and she wore it well. Mark could see why Eric's attention had quickly shifted. She carried herself with pride, more self-aware than the bubbly girls who were flaunting themselves without any real understanding of their bodies.

No, she was a woman who knew exactly what she was capable of. He sensed defiance within her, more potent when they locked eyes. She kept walking towards the stage, and passed by the bar, her gaze fixed on them the entire time, as though they had some kind of history together, some encounter he had forgotten.

The woman stopped right before she reached the side entrance and bent over, under the pretense of fixing the strap on her high heels. The enticing view succeeded in grabbing their attention. She stood up again, and went on the stage. The lights immediately darkened, and new music played from the speakers, a soft, slow techno song that she knew how to move to, from both practice and her own natural grace.

Mark slid out of his seat and walked over to the stage. He sat in the front, but to the side, his actions discreet as to not draw attention to himself. He looked around for a moment; no one he recognized except for Eric that came stumbling after him. Mark relaxed, and allowed himself to enjoy seeing her flexing her body and radiating sensuality. His mind wandered again, this time with her, imagining all the things he wanted to do to her in the privacy of his own apartment.

Her dance began slow, her arms outstretched and positioned vertically, clinging to the pole as she slid down, her thighs really feeling the pressure as she concentrated on maintaining a slow pace. Finally her knees touched the floor and she went with it, lowering herself further, pressing her abdomen on the floor and as she did so, kicking her legs up and tossing her hair to the side simultaneously. She spread her legs, a perfect view for Mark. Whether it was intentional or not, he was undecided, but the idea captivated him. The thought that she was…flirting with him, not so subtly, intrigued him. He couldn't wait for her start stripping; he was already undressing her in his mind.

As she got up off the floor, straddling the pole and twirling on it a few times, she tossed her head back, the strands of dark hair crashing down her shoulders and back, instantly volumized and unkempt. She did several head flips and spins, stretching and caressing herself, and less of the gymnastics. She reasoned that should be left to the women who have to impress with their tricks because they lack in other areas.

Near the end of the song, once the tempo began to slow, she layed on her back and opened her legs, stretched them apart as far as she could go, the outer parts of her thighs nearly touching the floor. With practice and flexibility she mastered what she liked to call the "scissor move", although she had no idea what it was actually called in the erotic dancing world. She invented her own names for the moves she had seen other girls doing either on TV or in other clubs she'd worked in; she'd observe and then make the move her own. She'd never had formal lessons, but the men never noticed that; she presented herself well and her looks brought in the cash.

The song ended and she snuck off stage. The ditzy girl they had seen earlier wearing a bubblegum pink two piece was already tearing her top off as soon as she got on. No anticipation at all, no mystery. Eric continued to be captivated by the performance on stage, and Mark stood up and looked for the girl in red. The fact she'd never removed her clothes disappointed him. He found her talking to one of the bartenders about something and she looked worried. Mark only caught a part of the conversation.

"Another hang up call? He didn't say anything?"

"He asked for you," the bartender said, "but I told him you were busy. He said he'd call back later."

The bartender looked past her shoulder and saw Mark standing idly nearby, looking towards them. She caught him spying red-handed, and tried to suppress a smile but failed.

"I think someone is a little intrigued from your last performance," the bartender whispered to her.

"Interested in a private showing?" she asked Mark, completely comfortable with offering herself up like a mixed drink from the bar.

Mark looked her over as though considering it for the first time, but they both knew it was a charade. He'd made up his mind to get as intimate as possible with her as soon as she got on that stage. He tried to remain casual. He agreed he wanted a private showing with a nod of his head. He received a slight smile in exchange for the cash he gave her. He followed her, his eyes trailing her curves the entire time.

"What's your name?" he asked her once they were in the private suite. He sat on the couch and leaned back, acclimating himself.

"Isn't it more fun to not know?" she asked, letting one of the straps on her top fall.

"I'm Mark," he said. "I want to know your name. Please," he said. "As a paying customer-"

"You only paid for the suite," she reminded him, her eyebrow arching slightly as she allowed the other strap to descend. It was getting harder for him to focus, or care, about anything other than what she was drawing his attention to.

"Okay," he said, unable to see the importance in continuing, or the importance with words in general.

"There are only two rules. One, and this one is very important, no touching. And secondly, no names."

"Why no names? I have to call you something."

"Hmm…" she said, obviously toying with him, "Okay. You can call me Angel. Tonight anyway."

"I like that," he said, not sure whether he was responding to her coy suggestion or the fact that she had taken her top off as she said this, her silky black bra the only thing covering her chest now.

"What do you want?" she asked.

I want to play a game

…with handcuffs and blindfolds and…

"Do you want me to take off my top now, or go slowly? What do you like?" she purred in his ear.

"Slow," he commanded in a voice barely above a whisper. She shuddered, an inadvertent response to his voice. It did not go unnoticed. Mark watched her face now, observing the subtle effect he had on her.

She mounted him, staying true to her no-touch rule, hovering above him mere inches away from contact. It took pure will power not to tear her clothes apart. He soon found out her no touching rule clearly did not apply to her touching herself, which she did in a most visually pleasing way.

After an eternity in his mind that must have only been minutes in reality, he felt her dancing was almost becoming frustrating with how close she would get before pulling away. But her top was undone in the back, all she needed to do was move a little more and let it slip off…

After so much teasing, it was a physical shock to his body to at last feel her contact against his body. She softly pressed up against him and stroked his chest with her hand. He remained calm on the surface, but inside desire was pulsing through him. She slid her hand over his.

"You're breaking your own rules," he said, his eyes not wavering from her face.

"Some rules are meant to be broken," she whispered. She took his hand and slid it down, his fingertips grazing her bare skin. Her head tossed back in pleasure, feigned or not he couldn't decipher, but inside he felt that he had some effect on her; he wasn't just a cash opportunity. She wanted his touch, that skin-on-skin contact. He could feel it in the way her hand trembled so slightly on top of his, the way he could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

"Do you want to finish this somewhere else?" he asked. They stared at each other, their faces mere inches apart.

"I remember where I saw you," she said slowly, pulling her bra back up and scooting away from him. "You were in the paper. You're that cop who planted evidence."

"What? No. I never did that." he said honestly. Technically she was wrong. But her misunderstanding wasn't that far from the truth.

"I don't like cops," she said. She re-clasped her bra and started getting dressed.

"Don't be like that," he said.

"Show's over."

"You don't understand."

She stood up and prepared to leave, turning back to look at him once more. He studied her face in seconds, as we had become accustomed to doing, and saw disappointment.

So why is she leaving?

Mark got up and followed her out of the room. The club filled up while they were in there, and Mark lost her in the crowd. He did stumble into Eric through the chaos.

"That fucking bitch! She gave me one look and turned her nose up like I was some piece of trash," Eric slurred, and continued ranting obscenities about the girl who had just rejected him. Mark heard his vulgarities without truly comprehending the information he was receiving. He couldn't get her out of his mind, not the sight of her accentuated curves or the feeling of her skin. And the way she looked at him before she left…he knew she fought with the decision.

"Eric, what do you expect? She's a kid," Mark said, referring to the girl they say earlier, although not entirely sure if Eric had changed the object of his infatuation again in the last half hour.

Eric just shook his head in anger. He wobbled over to the counter and used it for balance.

"Eric, you're wasted. Let me take you home."

"I'm fine," he managed to say in a sober voice, but Mark saw right through him.

"C'mon. I'm driving you home."

Mark sat in his car, staring at the flashing lights, wondering what was wrong with him, and why he had driven all the way to Eric's place and then come back. He scolded himself for his stupidity or desperation or both, but once the cars began to depart and he saw her coming out through the double doors, he forgot all of that. He got out of his car and followed her. He didn't lose her this time; she was conspicuous in the nearly empty parking lot, and she was still wearing her signature color.

When she approached her car, he contemplated whether or not to talk to her, or just slip into the shadows and let her go. The latter option seemed especially craven after he had come all this way just to see her again. Before he could decide, she spoke.

"What do you want?" she said, making eye-contact with him through the reflection cast by the tinted window of her car.

"I just wanted…" he began slowly, uncertain of the next words he'd so carefully mapped out in his head. The alcohol slurred his thoughts. Suddenly revealing himself from the shadows didn't seem like a good decision after all.

"I'm a stripper, not a prostitute," she said in a calm voice, as though she were used to the misconception all the time. She continued to lock eyes with him through their reflections. Her face remained expressionless, but her eyes gave her away. They widened just slightly as he had approached her, and she had not become eased at all. He thought she must have frozen in fear.

"I didn't mean to come across like that. That's not what I was implying."

His impulses the result of intoxication or negligence or both, he put his hand on her shoulder and spin her around towards him. He pressed against her slightly with his hips, making her back up against the car. He had essentially pinned her down, into a position he found quite favorable, but he did not do so in a particularly threatening manner, more insinuation than force.

He leaned towards her and breathed in her scent. He pulled her hair back with his fingers and whispered in her ear.

"I want you."

Immediately he felt a cold blade pressed against his throat.

"Back off," she said, holding the knife up to him. The seriousness in her eyes immediately made him retreat. Something in her voice hinted she lacked the hesitation he might expect from a normal person. His gestures spoke for him. He backed off, looked her in the eyes, and turned away.

After he walked away, she got into her car and tried to start it, but her trembling hands couldn't get the key in. She took a deep breath and sobbed. Only after she felt the tremors go away did she attempt to leave.

His seductive voice still lingered in her mind, as well as the memory of her hand gliding his across her skin, the way he looked at her in that suite…Unlike most gawking guys, she could feel something more fervent beneath the surface, and it both scared her and excited her. She looked at the knife in her other hand and shook her head.

I was out of line. Get a hold of yourself, Amanda.

She tossed it in her bag anyway. It was more effective at keeping the creeps away than any other method she'd tried before, except maybe a gun, which she didn't own. She thought about Mark. Maybe he was harmless, maybe he wasn't.

What she did know, was that he was intense. Intriguing. And he had definitely gained her interest.