Timeline: Hours later

Rating: PG-13 for mild violence

Chapter 17

Eric's Game

"Seems to me that the knowledge of your sons impending death is causing you to act... Why is it that we're only willing to do that, when a life is at stake?" -Jigsaw, Saw II

Amanda smiled as she set Daniel on the ground, gladly relinquishing him from her custody and into John's care. His limp body sprawled out over the floor, and John simply nodded before returning his concentration back to his latest work.

"You know what to do next," he said, not turning his head away from his blueprints. He seemed unable to deviate his attention from it for long, like an artist enthralled in his greatest masterpiece.

"What's that?" Amanda asked, stepping over Daniel like a small hurdle.

"I'm only in the beginning stages of design," he said, showing no indication of elaborating. Then he paused and added, "I've revised it several times this week. The final design seems constantly out of my reach. It's…frustrating," he said, his voice calm, contrasting with his confession of emotion.

"Is it special?" she asked, tilting her head away from the rough sketches and toward John's tired face.

"They're all special in one way or another," he said. "Unique. Each specifically designed for the rehabilitation of the particular test subject."

"Do you have a subject in mind for this one?" she asked, slanting her head to get a different perspective of the drawing. John had sketched the framework of a head contraption with gears, bolts, and several pieces of metal protruding in the front. Amanda knew her own experience impaired her opinion, but as she glanced over at the reverse bear trap sitting on a table across the room, she couldn't help but notice many similarities between that device and the drawing. The design looked like an updated version with adjustments.

"Not yet," John replied.

"Maybe that's why you can't figure out exactly how it should work."

John's eyes lit up, shunning away the exhaustion and sickness that was there before. She could see that she had generated some mild epiphany, and it pleased her.

"Perhaps you're right," he said. He slid the papers away from him and swirled his chair around to face her and Daniel completely.

"Put him in the safe. It's time to start Eric's game."

"Yes," she said. She braced herself for the strain of lifting and carrying Daniel across the room. Somehow he seemed even heavier than before. She winced as she lifted Daniel's body and nearly dropped him from the sudden burden of his weight against her injuries. She slid her arms under his armpits and dragged him across the room instead of attempting to lift him again. If John noticed her struggling, he didn't show any indication of concern.

Amanda placed Daniel in the safe and then lifted his legs one after the other into the small container as gently as a mother strapping her son into a car seat. She touched his check softly and said a mental farewell to him, wishing him the best while knowing that his future would probably be quite bleak.

After her silent goodbye, she left John to his work. She shut the door and collapsed on a nearby chair, pressing her hand against her side in a futile attempt to soothe the pain of the puncture wounds. Mark emerged from the shadows veiling his presence, as though Amanda didn't already know he was outside the door waiting the entire time.

"So you're not okay after all," he said, with a smirk.

"I'm fine," she grumbled.

"You're fine enough to carry Daniel into the room and pretend you carried him from the bathroom yourself, but not fine enough to do whatever it is that John wants you to do next."

"I can handle it," she said.

"Isn't that what you said about the last game? The one you nearly died in? The one that left you like this?" he said, pointing to her injuries.

She groaned.

"See?" he said. "I can tell when you're in pain."

"The only pain I'm dealing with right now is you," she snapped. "Get off my case. John asked me to do something for him, so I'm going to do it."

Mark's eyes protested louder than his words could, intensely drilling into hers, coaxing her into taking his advice and understanding his concern. The small dents around the edges of his mouth deepened into a frown. She leaned back as far as the stiff chair would allow, looked up into his eyes and said, "I appreciate what you did for me, but I'm fine."

"Can you at least tell me what the next step in John's plan is?"

"Why do you even ask? You know I can't tell you. John will let you know if he wants you to know."

"I know John doesn't want me involved in Eric's game, but I'm not letting you do this alone. You're not going to kidnap Eric. It's dangerous enough when you're in good condition, but now that you're hurt it's twice as dangerous."

"You would kidnap one of your own friends on my behalf?" she asked. She raised an eyebrow and smirked skeptically.

"It doesn't make a difference who kidnaps him. He's still going to be tested, and there's nothing I can do about that, but at least I can prevent you from getting hurt in the process, he said, looking down into her eyes with obvious concern.

"I'm not going to kidnap Eric Matthews," she said.

"What?" Mark said. "Then how are you going to get him here? John certainly can't do it alone."

"Eric Matthews is going to come to us." She smiled.

"How?"

"Ask him," she said, her head tilting in the direction she had just come from. Mark's glare intensified as every uncomfortable second drifted by. He crossed his arms and said, "You're really going to force me to coax the information out of John?"

She continued smiling, her silence answering the question.

It was his turn to groan.

"He asked me to be your backup in case something goes wrong," he said, paraphrasing John's comments and intentionally excluding the part about permission, the word synonymous with subordinance and weakness in Mark's mind. "Let me get the first aid kit and fix you up before we leave."

She turned around to look for the medical kit in the drawer beside her. She rummaged around through all the junk, but couldn't locate it.

"Have you ever been anyone's back up before?" she asked absentmindedly, still searching. As she spoke, she felt Mark's presence right behind her, his warmth pressing against her without actual physical contact. She immediately blushed crimson at her particular inconvenient choice of words.

"It's been awhile," he said as he reached into the drawer, his pelvic region pressing against her back and his arm grazing her shoulder as he clutched the first aid kit. Rather than spin around and face being pinned between him and the table, she scooted to the side, away from him and the white box containing the gauze and antiseptic she needed. He smiled at her obvious discomfort.

"When I was inexperienced, I used to do back up all the time, but not anymore. It's administrative duties now, and some investigation on major cases that make it into the department. Every now and then I get the satisfaction of bringing someone down that truly deserves it."

"Would you get satisfaction from bringing me down?" she said, her checks burning a cranberry color now. "You know, if John wasn't blackmailing you."

She sat down in the chair next to him, and he began cleaning her wounds with alcohol and other antiseptics. She yelped from the pain and he gently blew on her wound for a moment to dull the stinging. At first it didn't bother her because it was merely a solution to the ache, but once the pain subsided, his breath against her skin made her squirm, especially when he finished cleaning the wounds on her arm and moved on to the ones on the side of her abdomen where she was more sensitive. The small gust of air coming from his full lips became a warm whisper on her flesh. He looked up at her and finally answered her question.

"No."

It took her nearly a minute to recall what she'd even asked him.

"Why not?" she inquired at last, after regaining her senses.

He paused, hesitating with his words. Then he smirked and said, "I get satisfaction from you in other ways."

The red tint in her cheeks turned brighter and spread further. She couldn't utter a single word. Her thoughts were wrapped around the insinuation in his voice. Mark continued speaking, pleased that he'd left her speechless.

"For instance, I get satisfaction from watching you turn all shades of crimson whenever I say anything that could even remotely be misinterpreted as something…"

He leaned in close to her neck as he wrapped the final piece of gauze around one of her wounds. The tips of his fingers brushed against a part of her skin not tampered with pain.

"..sensual."

A slight quiver spiked through her, visually unobtrusive, but obvious to Mark because he felt the brief vibration under his hand. He remembered the first time they met, how she'd teased him into arousal so quickly, and yet he could feel her becoming excited simultaneously. It felt like they'd switched roles completely, and it both excited and pleased him.

"Shut up," she mumbled, even though everything he said was truth. Although at the moment Amanda longed for him to continue talking to her in the husky, low voice he'd adopted that was complete aural pleasure, she hated being toyed with. She wished he'd stop sending subtle hints that surly meant nothing…that would merely lead nowhere.

Stop it, Mark. Just stop talking...but don't. Please don't. God, he could read out of a freaking dictionary in that tone of voice and still make me hot…

"Besides, I wouldn't turn you in because you're as much a victim as a criminal anyway. Remember what I told you about Stockholm Syndrome?" he said, reverting to an almost clinical tone, stripping away the sensuality with seriousness. It was as though someone had flipped the channel in Amanda's brain from porn to a medical show. She rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"Here we go again," she said, more content with the explanation that made her blush than the logical psychoanalytic response.

"Nevermind. Anyway, we're done," he said, tossing the remnants of gauze into the medial box. "I have to stop by the department for a few hours before I can check on you and your situation."

"We have to hurry so no one starts looking for Daniel," Amanda said, trying to put a little pressure on the time constraints, so Mark would meet her at the trap house sooner. Amanda secretly despised the idea of waiting alone in the dark with the rotting corpses and the smell they emitted.

"I don't have to hurry that much," he said. "Eric's furious with him."

"So much that he wouldn't even notice if his son went missing?" Amanda asked.

"He's probably got half the city right now looking for me, just so he can kick my ass for disappearing on him." Amanda remembered Daniel's trembling voice, scared to his core but faithfully believing his father would come through when it mattered.

"Maybe," Mark said. "I doubt he'd really hold a grudge on Daniel for long. Eric's usually all bark and no bite."

"I remember overhearing you tell John that you're just like Eric. Are you all bark and no bite too, Detective?" Amanda asked, smiling when she saw it was Mark's turn to blush.

"First of all," he said in his defense, "You didn't overhear, you were eavesdropping."

"It's a subtle difference," Amanda said, her smile expanding.

"No, it's a euphemism for spying. Anyway, what I meant was that Eric and I lead very similar lives."

"Oh. You still didn't answer my question."

"Well, Amanda. I'm interested in knowing what you think."

"I don't think you have any bite," she said, looking up at him with unwavering eyes.

"We'll see," he said, rising from the chair and grabbing his coat. He turned to leave and then stopped. He began rummaging around in his jacket and pulled something out, offering it to Amanda.

"By the way, take this," he said. She took the small blue bottle and read the label: Vick's Vapor Rub. He noticed her confusion when she looked at the bottle and then reverted her gaze back to him, waiting for an explanation.

"It's for the smell," he clarified. "When you go back into the bathroom."

"Oh, of course," she said, feeling like an idiot. Then she smiled. "That's thoughtful. Thanks, Detective."

"Mark," he corrected, a wasted effort. 'Detective' was starting to stick, either as a pet name or a taunt, he couldn't be sure. Although since it came from Amanda, he thought it very likely she meant both. She stood up and walked out the door without correcting herself. Mark shook his head and grabbed his car keys, ready to get his task over with, so he could look out for Amanda and make sure she didn't ruin her bandages or have another panic episode in the bathroom. He wondered for a moment if she could also hear the screaming voices of the Jigsaw victims whenever she entered that room.

How could she not? He mused, walking out of the room, but glancing back once at the instigator of all this grief, shielded physically in his workshop and mentally in his designs and philosophy.

Amanda felt so exhausted, she worried she might fall asleep waiting for Eric to enter, but her worrying proved to be pointless. Despite Mark's little gift masking the odor and allowing her to breathe the air without nausea, the cramped bathtub combined with her barely healed wounds made her too uncomfortable to rest. She felt like an abused animal trapped in a negligent shelter, battered and furious, waiting to strike out against anything that dared to come close to her. When Eric finally did enter, it felt almost surreal. The moment she'd waited hours for, prepared weeks for, had come.

"Daniel! No…no…" he said, seeing Amanda's finger and mistaking it for Daniel.

He approached the bathtub, bracing himself for the sight of his son, possibly injured or even dead. Instead Amanda greeted him with wild, animalistic screams as she punctured his neck with the syringe.

"You…?"

The drug pumped through him, bringing him down just like it did to Daniel.

Like father, like son.

Amanda yanked the needle out carelessly. The thought of him waking up with a nasty bruise made her smile slightly. She tried not to think of Daniel's reaction, of him waking up right about now, disoriented and confused, fatherless and scared. No, she wouldn't let guilt ruin this perfect moment.

He took my freedom…and now I'm taking his. Eye for an eye, she reasoned.

"It's about time you got here," Amanda said as Mark walked in after Eric. His flashlight shined in her face, making her squint. "Oh, that's so fucking annoying. Do all cops have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Shine a light in your eyes like they're a doctor checking for retina damage."

"Sorry," he said, lowering the light and pointing it towards Eric's body slumped over against the bathtub.

"I see that you took your sweet time getting here," she said.

"I didn't want to rush off from the department right away. I wanted to secure an alibi."

"Good to know," she snapped. "Whatever. Help me drag his body over here, so I can shackle him."

"I was following him through the hallways to make sure he didn't turn back," Mark explained with a growl. Ungrateful little…

"Okay, okay!" she said, throwing her arms up in the air, a gesture wasted in the darkness. It also caused her a brief moment of pain to move so suddenly. She grimaced and was glad the absence of light hid her weakness. "I get it, Mark. You're not entirely useless. Now help me drag the body. He weighs a ton."

Mark grabbed Eric under his arms and pulled him over to the shackle. He snapped it over Eric's ankle, saying a silent apology he didn't dare verbalize in front of Amanda. He looked over at her, despite barely being able to see an outline of her figure.

"Did you bring the tape?"

"Yes," she said. She handed it to him, and he slipped it in the tape recorder. He left it within reach of Eric and stood up.

"How's John?" Amanda asked.

"A little roughed up, but he'll be okay," he said. He didn't elaborate because he felt that Amanda didn't need to know the extent of John's injures at the moment. She needed to focus on her own. "I'm going to take John somewhere to rest, then I'll come back to check on things. I take it you can finish up here if you need to?"

"Yeah," she said. "I can take care of it."

Mark left. Amanda looked around the dingy room, less intimidating with most of it concealed by darkness. At least she couldn't hear the screaming voices, accusing and frantic. She looked at Eric. Anger bursted through her as she remembered what Mark said about Eric attacking John.

"You haven't changed a bit. You're exactly as I remember you," she said, thinking back to that day when Eric planted drugs on her and didn't hesitate to smack her around when she protested to his accusations during arrest.

Don't you talk back to me, you bitch. I'm a cop, and you're a fucking junkie with zero credibility. You know what that means? You're at my mercy.

She kicked the recorder a little further away from him out of petty spite.

"I'm gonna stick around," she whispered to Eric, "Because I want to watch your expression when you wake up, scared and confused, and at my mercy."

She smiled, and waited.

"Game Over," she said as the tape reached its end. She'd said everything she wanted to say on that tape. It was cathartic and refreshing, like the conclusion of a successful therapy session. No, it was actually far better than those crappy group therapy meetings. It was justice.

She shoved the door closed and strolled away feeling elated. She heard his screams cease altogether. She decided he may have passed out from shock. The thought plastered an even wider smile on her lips. A few minutes later it wiped away as quickly as it formed when she heard him scream again, much louder and closer than before.

She halted midstep, frozen in disbelief. She could hear Eric, and worse, she could hear Xavier channeling through him, that same pissed off, cut throat rage with a limitless thirst for revenge…

She retreated into a niche in the hallway and waited, covering her mouth to stifle a scream.

"I'm gonna kill you! Do you hear me?" he yelled.

The sharp sound of the metal pole he utilized like a cane hitting against the ground alerted her to his approximate location, like a bell tied around a kitten's collar. She listened intently and followed him, hoping to ambush him or at least slide past him and get out. She kept moving until she could no longer hear him. She crept forward, slower than before, trying to find him despite the dimness. She didn't even see Eric until he had already smacked her against the chest with the pole and knocked her backwards.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you!" he screamed. He tried to hit her again, but instead he clobbered one of the pipes running along the wall. Steam sprayed into his eyes, burning and blinding him. He recuperated faster than Amanda, who was still slumped over on the floor. She attempted to rise up, and he smacked her back onto the ground, striking the metal pole against her shoulder blades. Eric tried to stand and applied too much pressure to his broken foot. He felt a large bone snap before he collapsed onto the floor. Amanda tried to scamper away, but Eric crawled after her, pulling her legs to keep her from escaping. He sunk his teeth into her calf, and she screamed. The intensity of the pain as well as the dust and blood caught in her throat made her voice sound raspy and animalistic.

Before she could retaliate, he grabbed her and thrusted her upwards, only to knock her down with a brutal punch to her jaw. Then he grabbed both her shoulders and slammed her head into the wall.

"Where's my son?"

Her eyes closed. Her body throbbed with pain from new and old wounds. Holding her by the back of her jacket, he smashed her head into the wall again. Blood concealed half of her face in red streaks, the salty liquid pouring into her mouth and down her throat as he tilted her head backwards.

"Where is he, you junkie bitch?"

"Fuck you," she whispered, the blood spraying out of her mouth as she spoke. He bashed her head against the wall repeatedly, each assault more vigorous and furious than before.

"WHERE IS HE?" Eric screamed.

She spit her blood in his face. He responded by throwing her entire body against the wall several times, before allowing her to collapse onto the ground.

"Tell me where he is!" Eric said, removing his knife from his jeans, reminding her of Xavier. A part of Amanda wanted to freak out as she remembered that psycho killer, but a greater part of her was so consumed with hatred that she didn't go into shock. She needed to fight back. She needed to hurt him where it mattered.

"Right here," Amanda said, and she kicked Eric right in his broken foot. He cried out in pain as he tumbled down on the ground. Amanda took advantage of the opportunity to crawl away. She used one of the small pipes on the wall to help her stand. She walked towards the staircase, the light shining down from above never looking so tempting and divine as it did in that moment.

"You're nothing bitch! You're nothing!"

She kept walking, in far too much pain herself to enjoy the pain she inflicted on Eric.

"You're not Jigsaw, bitch!" he yelled.

She stopped. Her head and neck twisted around, her shoulder remaining in place. Her anger rose up to the surface, eliminating all pain and replacing it with pure hatred.

How dare he! That motherfucker! He doesn't even understand Jigsaw. He had no concept of what she'd been through, what she'd endured to get to this moment. He had no idea the significance of John choosing her to carry on his legacy. She had a purpose now. John had instilled meaning in her life. She had been reborn. Nothing Eric could say could strip her of that.

But it sure pissed her off anyway.

She turned around, planning on inflicting a little more torture before making her way upstairs, Eric's metal pole or knife being her ideal objects of choice, but her body had other plans. She fell to her knees, her physical entity begging her to stop exerting herself and pleading her to fall into respite. She thought for a moment that she might pass out.

"You're not Jigsaw," Eric continued to moan. "You're not Jigsaw."

It's the only retaliation this pathetic bastard has left, she thought. She stood and slowly limped over towards him. Her body refused to cooperate when she placed her hand on the pole and tried to lift it. She couldn't find the knife in the darkness; it had gotten lost in the struggle. Accepting her body's limitations, she turned to Eric and used her last weapon, her ability to lie.

"Daniel's dead," she whispered cruelly. "He didn't make it."

"You bitch! You lying bitch!" he moaned. The blood on her face slid into the crack in her lips as she formed a sadistic smile, made even more malicious in the dim lighting.

"You're lying!" he yelled again as she turned to ascend the staircase, leaving him to wonder if she was telling the truth or not. As Amanda reached the top of the stairs, she heard a familiar voice yell out in alarm.

"What the fuck happened?"

"What do you think, Mark?" she spat at him.

"Oh my God," he said. He sprinted over to her, yet hesitated to touch her in fear of hurting her worse. He had no idea what areas, if any, were not tainted by soreness or injury.

"Could you stop staring at me and do something useful?" she snapped.

"Can you walk to the car?" he asked. He raised his hand like he was going to place it somewhere on her to support her, but it remained suspended in the air as he remained undecided where it was safe to touch. His voice was quick and full of panic, a tone she didn't recognize.

"Fuck. My head fucking hurts," she moaned. She leaned against him, forcing him to hold her upright. She whimpered.

"Goddamn it. I'm going to kill him," Mark said.

"Don't," she moaned. He looked at her puzzled.

"Just help me first. Let him stay down there and suffer."

"How did he escape and manage to do this to you anyway?" Mark asked, his voice thick with concern. "He was shacked to the pipe. Shouldn't he be weak from blood loss?"

"He smashed his foot with something to get out. It was broken."

Mark paused for a moment. That clever bastard. He is resourceful…

His admiration was short lived. He felt nauseous even thinking about Eric doing this to Amanda. Even under the circumstances, it made his stomach turn. Every memory of Eric's brutality flashed in Mark's mind, and the thought of that bastard turning his rage against Amanda made him want to walk down the stairs and finish him off for her.

"Help me, Mark," she whimpered, still supported by Mark's arms. "I feel…dizzy. I can't…"

She closed her eyes and her head rolled onto his chest, the fabric of his shirt soaking up some of the blood on her face. He lifted her up and carried her to the car. Her eyes closed, but he knew she was still conscious because of a slight groan he heard every time she shifted against him in pain.

"Mark," she moaned. "Mark…"

"Shhh…I'm right here. You're going to be okay."

"Mark…" she whispered in his chest. "Make that bastard pay. Make him pay."

He smiled at her words. How could he expect anything else from Amanda?

Hours later, after Mark cleaned Amanda's injuries and promised her he'd make sure Eric paid dearly for what he did, he descended the staircase and found Eric lying on the ground, his head slumped against the wall. The sound of his footsteps alerted Eric, bringing him out of much needed sleep. His eyes squinted, trying to identify the man before him.

"Mark…how'd you get here?" he asked, confused.

"Hello, Eric," he said, trying to forget that this was his friend, his one and only real friend, and at the same time, wanting to think of him as human and not a deranged man assaulting Amanda.

"We have to get him…We have to get Jigsaw before he gets away. We have to find Daniel. Where's Daniel? We gotta find him…He's gotta be around her somewhere…"

"You're not going to find him," Mark said.

"We're going to find him," Eric pleaded. "You got to find him. I can't get up yet, so you have to do it. Help me, Mark. Help me."

"It's too late, Eric. Daniel's dead."

"No. No!" Eric whispered and then moaned, tears emerging from his eyes. "No….no…no." He shook his head, crying harder, shaking away the thought. "We can find him. We can find him together-"

"I said it's too late, Eric. The game…is over."

Eric's eyes bulged. He looked up at Mark as if seeing him for the first time. His lips trembled, then opened and shut, but he didn't speak a word. Eric's frightened expression had an uncanny resemblance to Daniel's, Mark realized, yet this failed to elicit a sympathetic emotional response, as it would for almost any other human being.

"Mark," Eric whispered, the realization striking him painfully and surprisingly, like a cigarette burn from a careless smoker. "You're not…what are you doing here?"

"Jigsaw was right. You're no better than the fucking junkies we used to lock up all the time. Game Over."

"No!" Eric yelled, the denial gone, the cold truth sinking in. Mark had been involved the entire time. He had been helping Jigsaw. And he wasn't going to help him find Daniel. He wasn't going to help.

"Mark! MARK! No! No! No!" he screamed, the last sounds reverberating in the empty halls, sounding more beast than human, a song of helplessness and betrayal.

"NO!"

Author's Note: Thanks to Kalika Barlow again for being an awesome editor/beta reader!