Amanda Young
She awoke. Her neck hurt. Something was making her head feel heavy. The corners of her mouth were throbbing. All she could taste was blood… and metal.
Opening her eyes she realized her wrists were strapped to the arms of a chair. "Mmm!" She tried to look down, realizing something was attached to her head. She pulled at her restraints. Tried to stand. She kept trying to scream but something hard was against her teeth and tongue. Help me!
How did she get here?
She had been at home. She had scored. And was supposed to be lying on her bed, riding out her shiny new high.
But she knew what this was about. The Jigsaw Killer, she thought, and then the TV erupted in a static analog shriek at her side.
A puppet, gruesome, turned its head to her. She could have laughed. A dream. This is all just one real fucked up hallucination.
But as she twisted her wrists, the burn of the straps biting her skin, she knew this was real.
"Hello, Amanda. You don't know me… but I know you."
All she could do was stare at the screen, panting, trying to make sense of his words. What is happening? Why me? Why?
"When the timer goes off…"
This wasn't fucking fair. What did she do to deserve getting this psycho's attention? She felt the skin on her arm sting from the friction. Her eyes were wet.
"...Think of it as a reverse bear trap." The ticking made her stiffen and when the mannequin's head exploded into dust she began to scream again, fingers trembling. Fuck fuck fuck. This asshole's gonna blow my head off!
"There is only one key to open the device." The hope was thick and coagulated in the back of her throat. "It's in the stomach of your dead cellmate."
She looked around and noted the man on his back several yards away. Dead. A dead body.
"Look around, Amanda. Know that I'm not lying. Better hurry up. Live or die. Make your choice."
The TV erupted into static and the aggressive jerking of her wrists were rewarded by the sudden slip of her hand through one of the arm restraints. She used her free hand to loosen the other and jumped up with a triumphant muffle.
The feeling of tension on the back of her head snapped. She froze. When she felt a strong ticking right against her skull her eyes widened.
NO. She touched the device on her head and tried to pull it off. She writhed and spun, dizzy from her craze. I can't get if off. I'm going to fucking die! But then she saw the body.
She remembered what she had to do.
The clock kept ticking.
She made it to the man, the sight of his pale face making her stomach roll. But she didn't have time to get sensitive now. Fuck that. No. Key. I need the key. At his side a small pocket knife glinted. She took it.
She knelt down, realizing she knew who it was.
Donnie. You poor bastard.
Donnie - wasn't her friend. He had been more Cecil's. But he had kept her supplied. He even pretended he cared, when he needed a booty call and felt generous.
Sorry, Donnie, she silently prayed as she held the knife over her head and prepared herself to play operation on his corpse.
His eyes fluttered. Her hands hesitated. The ticking continued.
How much time is left? FUCK! She didn't pause to think, bringing her arms down and plunging the blade into his chest with all her might.
Everything rushed by her, no longer there, only stabbing and striking, and digging and squeezing, and where the FUCK is that damn key?!
She felt a thick protrusion through the thin wet and warm slippery tubing and dug her fingers through to break the membrane and retrieve it.
Her fingers slipped as she tried to push the key into the lock. The ticking. Her heart beat. She wasn't breathing. She couldn't. Why won't it fucking fit?!
When she felt the lock click open she pushed the metal deathtrap off her head and no sooner the device pulled out of her mouth and it flew off her shoulders she heard the thunderous slam of the contacts as they ripped apart.
She let out a scream, a guttural shriek, releasing all the terror and tension, realizing that high pitched witch cry was coming from her and that meant she survived.
She was alive. Her voice died to a low wail and she began to let all the self pity drown her and she curled into a ball as she raised her bloody fingers to her mouth, not wanting to touch her face but wanting so desperately to soothe the raw corners where the bear trap had dug so viciously into her cheeks.
She stopped when she realized her wails were mixed with a rusted metallic creak.
In the distance, the puppet rode its tricycle towards her. It looked so life-like she cowered back. A child? A small man? No, it was just a toy.
This isn't over, she knew.
"Congratulations," the puppet's voice was cold and cruel. "You survived. So many people are ungrateful for being alive. But not you. Not anymore."
The lights flickered. She got to her feet. In the distance, the red exit sign beamed like a beacon. She looked around, wondering where the next trap was.
But maybe, she half-wished and half-disbelieved, he's letting me go.
She rushed out, wondering if someone would come for her. If arms would pull her back into the warehouse and prevent her escape. But the doors flew open.
Sunshine blinded her and the cool air was fresh as she gasped it in. Never had breathing felt so good. She was free. She was alive. Truly, a-fucking-live!
She stumbled, needing to lean against the bricks, confused. What now?
Her first thought was back home, where she had enough to fill a syringe or two and just forget all this happened. She wanted to forget.
But no. She slapped herself, the tenderness from the metal jaw vice additional pain that she welcomed. She let out a small laugh at herself. She really was a sick fuck. But this was her wake up call. No more drugs.
No more. She'd go to the police. They had to know. Because she sure wouldn't wish what she had experienced on anyone else.
But the cops can't be trusted, a small voice whined, reminding her about the last time she had tangled with the pigs.
But she shook her head. No, this guy was nuts. Fucking nuts. And it was a miracle she was alive. Never heard of anyone surviving Jigsaw. If she was the first, she had to let the detectives know. She survived - and maybe she could help stop this.
She had to at least try. For once, I need to at least do that.
Mark Hoffman
He awoke, his mind thick with a velvet fog. He smelled something good. Tea.
He rolled his neck and opened his eyes, his muscles sluggish and uncooperative. He was looking at his wrists. They were restrained. Leather. Buckles. He tried to move them and felt the resistance, the gentle thum of a metal cord raised the hairs on the back of his neck. His vision cleared, then his stomach dropped to his balls.
A double barrel shotgun was pointed right at his head.
He tried to look farther, past the dark fog, his depth perception only clearing after a few long seconds.
The figure in the distance morphed into that of an old man. He was reading the paper, sipping tea, and watching him like a hawk observing a mouse.
"You know why you're here, don't you?" Calm. Controlled. This man, Mark recognized from the elevator, was the reason he was in his current predicament. With no doubt, this man was the Jigsaw Killer.
His mouth was twitching. He felt sweat begin to form on his brow. Images of the past crime scenes writhed in the back of his mind. A corpse with only its legs to recognize, the upper half blown away from shrapnel. The guy from the dumpster, whose face had been lacerated to swiss cheese. And here he was, looking like there wouldn't be a head to identify his body when this was all over.
He had never felt more terrified than at that moment.
"They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." The old man stepped closer, smiling. "But I find it," his smile soured, "distasteful for getting credit for work that's not mine."
The man looked sickly. Mark felt confident he could overpower him easily. But he had to assess his surroundings first.
He had no idea what had put a target on his back, until the man held out the newspaper for him to see, where Seth Baxter smiled back as if to mock him, and the bold words: 'JIGSAW KILLER RESPONSIBLE FOR PENDULUM MURDER' recited his sin. His breath froze in his throat. He darted to lock into the icy stare of his captor, waiting.
"Especially inferior work."
He almost didn't register what was being said, not even daring to blink, wondering what was in store for him now. He couldn't restrain his jaw from twitching.
"Like you, I know what it's like to lose family. I know what it's like to not be able to protect loved ones." There was an understanding in his whisper, almost kind, and had even coaxed, to Mark's horror, tears that began to blur his vision.
No. Don't cry. Don't fucking cry in front of him.
Almost like an act of mercy, the man turned and walked away, giving Mark a moment to collect himself and blink the tears back. "It's a powerless feeling." Now that he wasn't under this psychopath's scrutiny, Mark looked down at his restraints, the instinctive need to fight back having him play with his binds again, feeling the pull of the tension, wondering -
"Ah, I wouldn't do that."
Mark looked up just as the man took the mirror and whirled it to face him. He blinked, unsure of what was going to happen.
"Hair trigger." His captor seemed unconcerned, as though pointing out a splinter, nothing more. There was twine tied to Mark's straps and the trigger of the shotgun. If I move far enough, I'm toast. But Mark now understood that he had to remain in his seat and to let whatever would happen, happen. "What do you see? Hm?"
Mark humored him. What else could he do? He stared into his reflection, thinking he looked like he was about to shit his pants. There wasn't much to point out.
"Vengeance can change a person. Make you into something you never thought you were capable of being. But unlike you, I've never killed anyone." A birdlike nose and a thin smile. This waif of a man was starting to piss him off.
You're fucking kidding me.
"I give people a chance."
"You call this a fucking chance?" Anger, fresh and hot, poured out of his mouth.
The man smiled. Pleased. "We'll see. Our game's just begun."
Mark narrowed his eyes. "Our game?" I thought this guy was a vigilante. So far, Jigsaw had only targeted criminals. Not cops. And Mark wasn't like the other victims - the drug dealers, rapists, murderers, and the miscellaneous scum of the earth. This man thought he was in league with them? "You don't even know me."
"Oh. I know you. I've followed you. As you pursued me." A chill went down his spine at the idea. "I know you. I know about your sister." His heart sank. "I know how you cared for her."
Mark had to look away as he remembered Angie and how she threw her arms around him the day he was promoted to Detective Sargeant. He remembered her smile. Her words. "I'm so proud of you."
He didn't want to think about it, because he knew he'd remember more. His chest tightened and his throat stung. "I know she was your only family." The day he found her, dead, her throat torn open, blood everywhere, and how he could do nothing but cry.
He glared up hatefully at the person responsible for bringing these memories to the table. How dare he. He wanted to get up and strangle the son of a bitch but felt the pull of the twine and remaind seated as he nervously looked down at the shotgun in frustration.
"You sit at bars until closing. You drink so you can sleep. You stagger to your car and then you start it all over again the next day." He was being judged, the man acting all pious, like they were in a church or something. "Then I discovered what you do for recreation."
Baxter, on the table, the pendulum swinging across as he screamed. Mark had to look away from the man's penetrating gaze that polluted the pleasurable memory pool with deep shame. So now, he was bare, a fellow murderer, and any sense of moral high ground had evaporated in that instant.
"Mm-hm," the man nodded, as though he could read his mind and understood exactly what Mark was feeling. "You can dispense justice and give people a chance to value their lives in the same moment." The man closed in, impassioned resolve in his voice, "by the way, the blade on your pendulum was inferior."
He squinted in confusion, not understanding what this guy was on about. Did he just bring me here to criticize the trap?
It would have been laughable, being lectured by this nutjob - if he wasn't currently sitting at the end of this damn gun. He had to glumly wait, wondering if this meant he was going to be kept alive just to hear this fucker berate him. He was beginning to consider lunging and letting the shotgun put him out before he had to listen to this a second longer.
"If you want a true edge," the man's voice was distant as the sound of scraping nearby followed with Jigaw returning with a shaving razor in hand, "you have to use tempered steel. Tempering's better for the long haul." Now in front of him, brandishing the razor, Mark swallowed and returned to watching the man. "You in this for the long haul, detective?" The blade glinted back at him, close to his neck. His face.
"I've been a cop for twenty years. Is that long enough for you?" He figured to play along but his patience was frayed. He wasn't like Will, who could gab and keep a conversation indefinitely. But that damn blade was getting closer and he'd rather put off getting kissed by it.
"You and I both know the statistics for repeat offenders in this city." God, he's going to keep going on, isn't he? "Sixty seven point five percent of criminals are back in prison within three years-,"
"What do you want from me?!" He snapped, tired of hearing this man drone on.
The man straightened, looked around, annoyed. "So you might look at what you did to Seth as a sort of public service?" He smiled sarcastically, teeth sharp.
"She was my only family," the excuse fell out lamely, as though he was trying to justify to his father why he broke curfew. "He didn't deserve a chance, he was an animal-"
"EVERYBODY DESERVES A CHANCE!" The man lurched forward, still in control but the explosion setMark off. His eyes bore holes into his soul, demanding Mark bare himself to this judge.
"You didn't see the blood!" He shouted back, emotion thick as he refused to apologize. He'd rather die than ever say he regretted it. "You didn't see what he fucking did to her!" A tear broke through and his voice had cracked but he would take whatever punishment came for him, now, because if he had to redo it all, he would have done it again - he would have killed Baxter even if he could go as far back as to before her murder - just to ensure the bastard never had a chance to take her from him.
"Killing is distasteful!" The man's voice stopped, the bladed hand pointed in conviction, and Mark's heart quickened at the sporadic pause. For a moment, it seemed the man was trying to find the right words, now a whisper, "To me."
Something was off. But Mark could only stare back, angry and afraid, helpless.
"There is a more efficient way." The man turned to retrieve a stool and got close and personal. Fury flared his nostrils and the finger on the shotgun trigger made Mark flinch. "What do you see? LOOK!"
Mark was violently shaking but he obeyed, his breath erratic and labored. His heart thudded in his ears. He tried to suck in a breath and hold it, panicking.
"What do you see?"
"Tell me what you want!" He shut his eyes tight, bracing himself for the sound of the end.
"I want to know if you have what it takes to survive."
Mark gasped for air and realized this was it. This fucker was insane. There was no way out of this. He straightened and looked at his reflection, seeing the long years. The many nights drinking in that piss-stained bar to return home to his quiet dusty apartment. What the hell had he been doing his entire miserable existence ever since Angie went and left him alone?
He had nothing to show for this life. No family. No friends. He tried to think of just one thing he wouldn't regret. Killing Baxter? Catching some perps with Matthews? He remembered Thanksgivings with Angie and Peter. And Will. The thought of her pretty face, that nearly broke him. She brought up all the regret he had pushed down for years.
He regretted what he had last said to her. How they fell apart. And now, they were just strangers, once so close and so in love, only to now pretend they never mattered to each other. What would she do, when he died? Marry Peter Strahm? Have some kids? Forget she ever knew Mark Hoffman?
She should.
The only consolation was knowing that he would finally see Angie again. So he looked up, final courage steeling him, and watched in the mirror as the man's finger pressed against the trigger and accepted this fate with sweat and trembling fervor.
The click of the shotgun made him jolt and the hot wet sensation in his pants informed him that he had pissed himself. Warmth spread along his thighs and the shame of it all made him turn to his cruel executioner. All he could sob was, "Fuck you. Fuck you."
"You see it's a different method that I'm talking about. If the subject survives my method, he or she is instantly rehabilitated."
Mark almost questioned the logic - not a single survivor had shown themselves so far - but he remembered the razor blade and forced himself to breathe intstead. Though the relief of not being vaporized was still vibrating his joints, he knew this ride wasn't over yet.
"Now you want a chance? Hm?"
Mark nodded, eagerly.
"You want a chance? I'll give you a chance." The man got to his feet, strolled closer to the mirror, playing with the razor blade, and looked at Mark through the glass. "I am the man you call Jigsaw. It's your duty to bring me in but I know who you are. And I know what you've done." He turned to look at Mark, expectantly.
"So this is blackmail," right away, Mark knew the game. He understood the rules.
"No, no," the man knelt over and severed the string. "This is redemption. I'm just giving you an option. That's all." Now, the shotgun was being removed, the pull of the weight a relief to his chest. "Now you can arrest me, but doing so ends your life as you know it. Or. You can explore a method of rehabilitation that will put you to sleep at night."
Mark cocked his head, in disbelief in what this guy was suggesting. He seriously wants me to join him? The smile confirmed his suspicions. And all the familiar apprehension he had once felt - to have someone control him, to lord their power over him, to tell him what to do, where to go, who to hurt - it made Mark suddenly feel like a cornered dog.
The man cradled his gun and sat on his stool, looking weary and was looking off in the distance.
The razor blade was just within Mark's reach, easy and open. "Or," Mark rubbed his wrists, turning away from Jigsaw, and leaned towards the table where the blade had been abandoned, "I could kill you now."
"But you're not a true killer," the man whispered, his voice holding a warmth that Mark didn't trust. "That's your dilemma. The information I have on you is exactly where it needs to be. It will be released in the events of my disappearance." A smug look, full of the confidence of having thought of every detail and every possible outcome, made Mark second guess the 'just kill the fucker' approach.
But still. "They'll never believe your word over mine." He grabbed the knife and stood up, knowing he could take this feeble old man.
"You willing to take that risk? Risk of ruining your whole life? In order to protect a corrupt legal system that puts murderers back on the streets?" The man cocked the shotgun. "What would your sister feel?"
Mark knew Angie would have been devastated at the whole situation. But he remembered Rosello. And this song and dance sounded painfully familiar.
Only this time, this was a situation even Will couldn't get him out of this.
And then the thought of Will and what she would think if she knew what he had done and gotten himself into, made him decide.
"You're at a crossroads, detective. Make your choice."
He clenched his jaw but knew he had to hide this. He couldn't just come clean. Not now. Even if Will didn't love him anymore - she still respected him. Angie would never know what he had done. But Will?
He closed the blade, feeling numb, but convicted in his decision. Will could never find out. And he had to find a way to not only survive Jigsaw but to take him out at the first opportunity possible. He had to make sure of that. He would play along for now. And as soon as he made sure that there was no way his secret could get out, he'd kill this old man and whoever else had the knowledge that Seth Baxter's blood was on his hands.
"Fine. Have it your way."
The old man turned, looking pleased but unsurprised. "Welcome, detective, to your redemption."
"So what now?"
"Go home. Live as you have. I will come for you when I need you."
"And what's your real name? Or should I just call you Jigsaw?"
Jigsaw let out a small amused sound. "My name is John Kramer. Now, go home, Detective. I promise, when I next come for you, I will show you the way to your rebirth."
Mark looked around, for the nearest exit, and hurried to get out of his piss-stained pants.
