Opening Notes: This is a companion piece to my friend Phen0m20's story Twisted Wings. It should have come out years ago but real life issues kept sidelining it.

Two men stood on a balcony, watching a pair of twins wearing BDSM gear leap from one rooftop to another, away from their location.

"Is it just me, or is the world getting crazier and crazier?"

"World's always been crazy, Yamori. S'just happenin' close to home now, seems," his companion reasoned, lowering his binoculars from his eyes and pocketing them. Moving his mouth in a chewing motion, the taller one of the duo pulled his hood up. "Let's go, already. Show's over."

"What show? You call that a spectacle, Highlander?" Yamori asked with a smirk

"Y'know I hate that nickname," the other one grumbled as the two quickly yet cautiously made their way to the ground and through the streets. The Twentieth Ward was quiet that cool afternoon. All the better for both of them. While they did not mind fighting, neither were oddly in the mood for it that moment; too many sights that seemed otherworldly. "Wonder why the Doves aren't goin' after any of 'em."

"They aren't Ghouls," Yamori replied. "That's reason enough to ignore them."

The trek to their destination was rather uneventful. Traffic was no heavier or lighter than from what was the normal amount. The air blew gently. To any outsider, it would have seemingly been two friends on a stroll, idly making conversation.

"You never did say just why you and your buddies are back in town, Scratch," Yamori pointed out, not caring about his wanted face being out in the plain open. The streets were thankfully empty on the route they had chosen. Unless luck was actively rooting against them, nothing would come of it.

"Simple reason enough. Someone wants someone dead," Scratch replied as if discussing the weather, doing his best to hide his irritation. "Rather, a lotta someones want a particular someone dead."

That piqued his friend's interest. "Is that right? What did they do?"

His friend glared at him for the briefest of moments. "Not quite sure. The Colonel just gave us a quick rundown. Killed quite a few gents. Stole somethin'."

"Must have been valuable."

"S'pose so, bein' worth–" He never completed his sentence. Something caught his eyes that made him stop dead. "That a Quinque?"

Yamori, having also ceased his footfalls, looked at the same contraption. "Doesn't seem too practical."

It was a hammer, red and black, and the size of a small car. Quinque, in the two Ghouls' experience, tended to be flashy, but this one just seemed pointless in fighting. How could a Dove even lift the thing? And who had a Kagune massive enough to forge it from? Yamori figured Noro might, but that bastard was impossible to hurt, let alone harvest.

Following the handle, both quickly discovered who was dragging it along, and were thrown for another loop. It was a young woman, small and exhausted with a few bruises here and there upon her flesh.

Yamori and Scratch rotated their heads to look at each other for a moment before going back to staring at the sight before them. The female was trailing behind another potential meal that both could instantly describe as 'thug' with total accuracy. Scowling face, hard and greedy eyes, both boring into the woman. He started yelling at her but neither Ghouls bothered to listen in on the rant. No, the duo instead smelled the female. It was, put lightly, oddly invigorating. She did not have the scent of a human or a Ghoul. Very curious…

"Intriguin'," Scratch murmured, seamlessly pulling a small camera from his jacket and capturing the moment before them.

"You know, if the Doves knew about that habit of yours, they'd nickname you Snapshot or Stalker or something."

His friend smirked. "Aye, they've such vivid imaginations. I cannot begin to imagine how long it took 'em to come up with 'Jason.' Or even how long it took you to come up with my sobriquet."

Watching the situation go on, the thug in the green hood went from just yelling at her to grabbing her hair and shaking her head. The sight had a different affect on both skin-eaters.

Yamori's lips curled upwards as a small laugh exited from his mouth. This sort of thing was pure stimulation for him, others in pain. Suffering was always funny, so long as it was not happening to him.

Scratch's brow lowered to form a glare. Violence was not something he ever shied away from, given his line of work. But this was just pointless. No meaning, no goal, not even any sport to it.

The hooligan eventually ceased his abuse when he noticed the small audience. "What the Hell are you two lookin' at?!"

Yamori chuckled again as he removed his hand from his pocket and pressed his thumb down in his middle finger just above the knuckle. That was never a good sign for those in his way.

Before he could so much as take a step, Scratch's arm came up in front of him, parallel to the sidewalk. "Do forgive us, lad. We'll be movin' on."

"So this is where the good doctor has set up shop?" He was less than sure just what he had expected. The medical man had been more of an underground type, catering to Ghouls and whatnot. But this? This place looked straight up abandoned. "Would've figured he'd moved up in life."

"Maybe he just likes it here," Yamori offered with a knowing smile. He opened the door and stepped inside, Scratch following close behind. "Hiya, doc."

Fueguchi Asaki tensed up. He dared not breathe for a moment as Yamori, whom he was plenty familiar with, and a newcomer made their way inside.

"Yamori," Asaki greeted formally, sitting stiffly in his desk, clearly wary of his visitors. Yamori was looking at him with that usual, odd mixture of calm and predatory. The other one, who looked like he had not seen a barber or even a hairbrush in a few months, was looking all about. Almost as if he were searching for something.

"Ah, yes! Allow me to make introductions. Doc, this is my good, arguably best, friend, Mister Scratch. Scratch, this is Asaki. Good man. Better doctor," Yamori said. "And don't mind him. You know how military boys are. Always on their toes."

Asaki remained skeptical. Anyone who willingly went with Yamori anywhere was not quite right in the head. The unkempt man seemed to fit that. He had no emotion on his face aside from a slight smirk. The only other indication that he was aware of anything was the sharpness of his eyes.

"Nice clinic you have here, good doctor," Mister Scratch (Asaki highly doubted that was his real name) said with what seemed to be a genuine tone. "I've seen surgeons do worse with far better equipment."

"Thanks?" The doctor was unsure of how to approach Yamori's companion.

"Sorry to cut to the chase, doc. But I believe you have some things for us?"

"Of course!" Rising from the chair, Asaki spun around and began rummaging through his desk.

Scratch glanced at the Ghoul in the white suit with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"You'll see," Yamori assured with a grin.

The doctor found what he was looking for and offered both of the dangerous men one item.

"Oh, beautiful..." Yamori reached out and grabbed the massive pliers, opening and closing them with a manic spark in his eyes.

Gulping, Asaki focused on the other one of his expected but unwanted visitors. Scratch looked down at the specially made object in his open hand, tilting his head to the left.

Noticing his friend's confusion, Yamori laughed. "Call it an early birthday present. Or a 'welcome home' one."

That seemed to convince him. He reached out and gripped the handle of the large, black-bladed Ka-Bar knife. The tallest man present gazed upon his latest acquisition... and experimentally prodded his free hand's palm with the tip, drawing blood. His eyes, kakugan now active, left the knife and bore into the doctor.

Yamori knew what was going through his old friend's head. "Funny story. After you told me you were gonna fly back into town, a Dove managed to bury some of his Quinque into me before I, you can guess, showed him what a stupid idea that was."

"Waste not, want not. Better to refurbish than throw away.

Yamori chuckled. "See, doc? Like I said, quick on the uptake."

Another toy broken. Always so disappointing. Rolling his sleeves down after having finished drying of his hands and forearms, Yamori wandered to the room Scratch had more or less made himself home in. He'd stopped keeping track of the days since his old friend had begun crashing at Aogiri Tree's base.

"Await further orders." That had been what his 'official' employer had repeatedly told him apparently. Just how long he would have to wait was up in the air, not that Yamori minded; it granted ample time for him to try and get Scratch to open up and join in on the fun instead of sitting around cleaning his guns or wandering out to take more pointless photographs.

Coming to the door, Yamori did not bother knocking before letting himself in. He found that his friend was on his phone, talking with either his boss or some other client.

"Yeh keep sayin' 'stay put' but it's been damn near a month now! The least yeh could do is cut a check for m' time."

Yamori smirked but remained silent, intent to listen in on half a conversation. Scratch's accent was slipping through. A surefire way to know he was getting angry.

"No, I'm not, why? What's so special now? More 'terrorist' attacks?" He sighed and picked up the remote for the television. "Fine, what channel?" With a huff, he turned on the screen and pressed down on a couple buttons, making the idiot box reveal a news story.

"- from the basement ceiling and disemboweled with a strange contraption." The reporter quickly accosted a haggard and exhausted member of the police. "Detective, can you tell us anything about what has happened inside?"

"I can only say the victim has been deceased for too long for the killer to have stuck around for us to find."

"We managed to get a word with the two young men who discovered this grisly scene. They think that this is the work of the infamous American serial murderer, the Jigsaw Killer. Any thoughts on that?"

"... no comment."

Yamori was both confused and enticed by the story shining on them in the darkened room. Jigsaw… sounded like a bad name the Doves would give a sad, lonely Ghoul who wanted to stand out.

Scratch turned down the volume as the person on the other end of the phone started speaking again. It took him a moment to find his tongue. "Copycat. Jigsaw vanished years ago… What do yeh mean, not the point?" He leaned back into the couch cushioning. "... And just how are we s'pposed to do that?" He groaned at the answer. "I ken, I ken. Fine. I was a little late to the party. Where was that? Righto." He hung up and stood. "Yamori. Seems I'm goin' out."

"If this is going how I think it's going, I think I'll tag along."

"Whatever blows your skirt up."

"Educate me," Yamori said passively as he tested his new tool. The clamps let out a very satisfying, even arousing, clang every time he closed them. "Who's this Jigsaw Killer?"

Pulling his eyes away from the binoculars, Scratch gave him an unreadable look before going back to his staking. The cops were beginning to disperse and check out the surroundings, taping off the scene of the crime. "I'm surprised you've never heard. Some old Yank. Killed people, lotta people. Though some argue he's go no blood on his hands."

"And why not?"

"He built things. Traps, they called 'em. Weird shite that even you couldn't dream up. He shoved his victims into 'em and let them make their own choices."

Now that was intriguing. "What kind of traps?"

"Torture devices belongin' to the Dark Ages. I remember one where the poor bastard was smeared in homemade napalm and locked in a pitch black room. See, Jigsaw poisoned him and put the antidote in a safe in the same room and wrote the combination on the wall. All he had to do was put it in to open the safe, ken."

"And just how was he supposed to do that in the dark?"

"Oh, Jigsaw gave him a source of light. A candle. Do the math."

Yamori did just that… and smiled widely behind his hockey mask. "I'm starting to like this Jigsaw."

Scratch scoffed. "Whatever." He leaned slightly forward. "As good as it's gonna get for us. C'mon." Slipping the spying device into his jacket, Crow pulled the tubular mask around his neck up to stretch over his face to hide everything beneath his eyes, which were concealed behind tinted riding goggles.

"You ever think about dusting off that metal mask of yours?" Yamori asked with amusement.

"This works fine. Better than Eto's mummy act."

Sneaking proved to be child's play. Ghoul mobility and whatnot.

Despite Scratch's recollection of a past exploit of Jigsaw, Yamori still found himself taken slightly by surprise at the sight of the device in the middle of the chamber. Hooks coated with gore and muscle, blood stains on the floor and walls. If this was what the cops had left after gathering evidence for the day, he longed to see what had occurred when the so-called trap had activated.

"This… is old," Scratch examined a small yet burly television set fixated to the wall in front of the device. Pulling out his camera, he took a quick shot of it before leaning in to get a brand name.

Yamori inhaled deeply through his nose. "Ah, smells like pain and death."

"Aye. And that's a problem." Scratch looked around, searching. "Gotta be something around here…"

"What exactly are we, or rather, you looking for?" Jason leaned down to look over the outdated, dusty television. No doubt the fuzz had already taken the tape within.

"A clue," he replied, inhaling through his nose repeatedly. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out and slid on a pair of gloves. Yamori's face was well known to the CCG, but Scratch apparently preferred to be off their radar for as long as possible.

"I think you're going to find plenty in here," Yamori sardonically shot back.

"Come on, come on…" Ever the type to soldier on, Crow ran his hands along the walls, continuing his rapid sniffing. "He always watched these back in his homeland."

"He stuck around for all this?" Yamori looked back at the lethal contraption and smirked. "A man after my own heart."

"What a surprise," Scratch murmured dryly as he continued to caress the solid barrier for several moments before stopping abruptly.

"What?"

The taller Ghoul stood in place, looking up and down at the apparently fascinating portion of the wall. Placing both his hands on it, he gave a firm push. Something creaked and dust flew into the air. "Fake wall."

Yamori walked over to his comrade as he pushed more, revealing it to be true. A section of the wall, slightly smaller than a house door, gave way to reveal another room. Both cannibals walked in.

They found a simple table and two chairs, with three thick monitors and several pieces of paper on the surface of the former.

"Either Jigsaw likes to put his feet up, or he wasn't alone here."

"Not shockin', he's had accomplices before…" Scratch again pulled out his camera and took a shot of the minimalistic chamber.

"Has anyone lived to tell the tale about going through his games?" Yamori asked, genuinely curious.

"Six, last I counted," Scratch answered, switching on the monitors. One showed an elevated view of the trap on the other side of the wall. The second, the stairway they had come down to contaminate the crime scene. And the last, outside the building. "Two cucks, a cop, his kid, a druggie, and a doctor." Seeing nothing of notice on the screens, he searched the rest of the table. "What's this, then?" A manilla folder caught his wandering eyes. Opening it, he found a small stack of photos that he surmised was of the Jigsaw Killer's latest victim. Rifling through them, he came upon some handwritten notes. "Says here the poor bastard worked for MBI."

"So what?"

"So why's that so important? Why's that the first thing Jigsaw wrote down about 'im?" He again pulled out his camera and hastily took a photo of every piece in the folder before closing it. "C'mon. Let the coppers handle the rest of the cleanin'."

"He left that there for the police to find?" Yamori could see the sadism in it. The mockery. Of how they had failed to locate him before it was too late.

"From what I've heard, Jigsaw always had a knack of bein' aware who would be where and when. Guess it's how he was able to abduct so many people so easily."

"Maybe he knew we'd be here, too," Jason joked.

"Doubtful… but not impossible…" Scratch looked over his shoulder, suddenly uncharacteristically tense. "Let's get outta here."

It was times like this Uzume was happy to be a Sekirei. She was sitting on a rooftop in solitude, looking up at the night sky. Dark yet calming. It was almost soporific. Alas, the peace was but momentary.

"'Scuse us, lass!" A man shouted as he and another male landed behind her. She barely had time to react and get a look at them. One had on a white suit and hockey mask. The other, a long grey coat and goggles. Part of her suspected that she was now among her kind, but she did not recall any other participants of the Plan looking like either of the strangers before her.

The taller one with disheveled ebony hair made to jump away again, but the other one hesitated.

"She smells like that girl with the hammer," the possible sports fanatic said with a tone she did not like.

"Who cares?! Let's go!" His companion was having none of it. He leapt away, unseen to all the humans below them.

The sharply dressed man regarded her for another moment. "See you around." He took off after his comrade.

"We got something. At least, we think so." The Colonel poured himself a drink. He would have offered one to the inhuman subordinate sitting across the rudimentary desk from him, but that would have been a waste.

"Do you? Finally," he sighed with relief. The Colonel could hardly blame him, being more or less stuck among less than reputable examples of his own kind.

"That crime scene you happened upon held plenty of doors to open."

"Eh?"

"Small details. Like the TV. They don't make that model much anymore."

"Righto. So this copycat probably got it from a car boot sale or something. Pawn shop, maybe."

"A good assumption. Bruce had the same one. Started scooping out such places. Took him and his crew a while, but they finally got something worth looking at." Opening a drawer, the leader passed a somewhat blurry photograph to the Ghoul who answered to him, who promptly took and examined it with haste.

"... never seen 'im."

The Colonel smirked as he presented more parchment. "Does this refresh your memory?"

Newspaper clippings, interviews, tabloids. All about a man who had unfortunately gotten into the spotlight, however briefly. He watched as his personal skin-eater's face went from puzzlement to revelation. "Doctor Lawrence Gordon."

"Correct."

"What's he got to do with any of this?"

"Remember the other Jigsaw survivor before him?"

The blood-drinker scrunched his face, traveling far down memory lane. "Aye. Her name was… something with a Y. Yeller? Yancy? No, Young!"

"And I'm sure you also know what happened to her."

"That copper she tried to off broke her bloody. She's locked up, right?"

"And will be for a long, long time. But here is another one who escaped alive. And now the killings are starting up again? Mr. D demands we see what is amiss."

That drew the flesh-feaster's eyes away from the words and pictures. "Mr. D wants the doctor followed?"

The Colonel nodded. "Yes. Bruce found his evidence in the Fifth Ward. Go. Tonight. Before Jigsaw uproots himself."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because Yates is at that damned restaurant, shooting the breeze with the Gourmet. Kurtis is under lockdown in the First Ward. And you, Foyet, the only other Ghoul I see around here, have only been shacking up with Aogiri Tree and thus don't seem too busy."

"Fair 'nough. But why d'you need a Ghoul?"

"Call it a precaution for Jigsaw's bottomless luck."

"Righto. So what do I do? Kill 'im?"

"No. Mr. D wants Jigsaw to succeed in what he thinks he is doing."

"An' just what is Jigsaw doin'?"

"I'm rather sure that you'll see and inform us. Be sure to not to reveal too much about yourself. He might get the stupid idea to try and play one of his Games with you."

The body was just lying there. Half eaten, mouth open in an eternal but silent scream, eyes wide in sheer terror. Abandoned for whatever poor walker would happen upon it in the morning.

A new face, white and desperate, stumbled into the alleyway. Its owner was clutching his side, leaving a trail of blood behind his every limping step. The newcomer's breathing hitched as he saw the cooling body and a smile flashed on his lips. He looked behind himself for a moment before collapsing in front of the cadaver. Instantly, he went to work on healing himself. Grabbing the arm, he brought it up to his maw and bit down, effortlessly taking a chunk off and swallowing it. Again and again he bit, chewed, and swallowed. Soon, the arm was riddled with bite marks.

He could feel himself regrowing. The wounds were at long last closing.

Forcing himself to pause, he breathed deeply, getting a hold of himself. With a semblance of cognitive control back in action, he reached to his hip and unfastened a holster. Pulling out a rather large knife, he began cutting off around the spot he had partaken in. No sense in leaving dental records for the Doves.

Just as he was about done with the impromptu flaying, without warning he felt something grip his hair and force his head downward into the body's exposed innards. A rib nearly poked his eye.

"Looks like somebody got themselves into trouble," the assailant said.

"Aye, an' this might sound impertinent, but it seems I'm back in it now."

"That's my kill."

"Seemed to me you weren't using it. Be a shame if it went to waste."

"So you just thought you'd come in and take it, like a scavenging vulture-" He screamed and retreated a good meter back, his left hand gripping the right wrist, where the hand was literally hanging on a thread of tissue. He glared at the thief, and the gunmetal grey tendril coming out of his back.

"Don't be such a bairn. It's just a scratch."

"You call this a scratch?!" He paused... and then grinned. "I like the way you think."

Some people found the rain cleansing. At the moment, Doctor Gordon did not. He only found it cold. Alas, he and his savior were in need of supplies, and the weather answered to no mortal. Closing the door of their, for lack of a more fitting term, hideout, he fumbled with the keys. The droplets fell down upon him, and then stopped only for a moment. It was as if an umbrella had passed over him fleetingly. He nearly looked up in curiosity, but saved himself from water landing on his eyes. Taking care to lock the door, he made off into the city.

There was a plan. It was all coming together. All he needed to do was iron out the details, get the right resources, and put it into motion. Oh, how he wished for more hands on deck. He had hoped some of the players here would see the light like Gordon and Logan had… but alas, they all had failed. They lacked the will to live.

So for now, it was just the two of them. The oncologist and the engineer. Lawrence Gordon and John Kramer.

The latter was currently. Looking at the board before him, covered in photos and documents. Damning evidence of wrong doing. And it was all connected. People would see the truth, and the guilty would see the err of their ways, whether they wanted to or not.

A laugh filled the air. It was brief and repeated itself over and over again. John knew it well. It was one he had recorded and heavily edited long, long ago. Looking to its source, he saw one of the numerous white-faced dolls he had constructed and dubbed Billy. It's mouth of moving up and down with the cackle still going.

John walked over and, reaching behind the doll, flipped a switch, instantly making the sound and movement stop.

John looked at what had originated as his son's plaything, trying to remember if this one had a timer installed.

"Impressive," said a voice he had never heard. He turned around and found that his spot in front of the board had been taken by someone far younger, much taller, and less reserved than him. "Needs work. More information." The stranger laughed. "Don't bother. Take a moment to think where you are situated."

Ever the calm one, John did just that. It did not take much contemplation to see that he had been led away from the doors. If he were to run, he'd have to outpace the younger one present. "Can I safely guess you know who I am?"

"You may."

"Are you an officer of the law?"

"No. I'm a man of the sea."

"Did Detective Matthews hire you to find me?"

"No. Nobody hired me."

This was a rather unnerving situation. Was this how Hoffman had felt the first time they had met face to face? "Judging by your accent, I know that I have never tested anyone from your direct bloodline. So why are you here?"

"At first, it was a macabre curiosity. But, after seeing this…" He poked at one of the photos. "... I think our… interests align. See, I also hate that big, shiny tower."

"Forgive me if I am not entirely convinced of your story and claims."

"No offense taken. I can and will do what needs to be done for a rapport to be here." He smirked. "I'm sensing tension. Do I make you uncomfortable, John?" He asked in such a way that the Jigsaw Killer found it akin to lawyers, in that the stranger already knew the answer.

"I don't seem to remember you sharing your name. You know mine, obviously."

The stranger finally looked at him, and John saw that his eyes were not those of a human, for no man or woman he had ever met had pitch black sclera and irises so red they seemed to almost glow. "My friends call me Scratch. You may call me Mathis. Michael Mathis."

Closing Notes: The writing style of the A Song of Ice and Fire novels inspired the style of this; certain characters being the points of view and the reader not fully knowing what's going on in other characters' heads.