
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9077074.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Saw_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Mark_Hoffman/Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Mark_Hoffman, John_"Jigsaw"_Kramer, Amanda_Young
  Additional Tags:
      Original_Character(s), Transgender, FTM
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-27 Updated: 2017-01-25 Chapters: 7/? Words: 12558
****** The Colour Of Drowning ******
by SweaterGabe
Summary
     Broken families made for broken children, and Jasper Lazard made no
     exception to this commonly accepted rule. At sixteen, he was all but
     a mediocre boy with little aspiration and average grades to match.
     On the surface, he appeared to be nothing more than dull; many knew
     of his impoverished background led by an alcoholic father and
     uncaring mother, and so this was all they cared to see.
     He would pretend to smile around others, and did a good job of
     playing off the pity card he had been handed by a God he chose not to
     believe in.
     Nobody suspected anything sinister of Jasper, an advantage earned
     partially due to his distinct ability to copy the mannerisms of those
     around him. Thus, nobody ever acted on the evil lurking within
     him—until shortly after his sixteenth birthday, that is.
Notes
     This is an ongoing fanfiction written from the perspective of a
     sixteen year old, who likes to self-insert themselves (or at least
     traits of themselves) in to fanfictions involving underage romances.
     That is to say, if you are uncomfortable with a 45 year old man
     *cough* fucking *cough* a 16 year old, maybe don't read? Just a
     suggestion.
***** Biting The Bullet *****
Bittersweet and not unfamiliar to Jasper, the metallic taste of blood caked the
walls of his mouth. It was a slow realization, dulled by the anesthesia that
had been applied—unbeknownst to him at the time—of what exactly was happening.
   Attempting to swallow his built up saliva, he found himself unable to do so.
His attempt at clearing his throat was blocked by something cool and hard. It
was at this point that he opened his eyes, in one swift second. It wasn’t blood
he tasted, something he was used to merely due to the fact he often awoke with
bleeding noses running down his throat, but the harsh metal of a handgun’s
barrel.
   He could see this now, illuminated by a dim white light from a dying LED
bulb hanging still above him. In an effort to remove the gun strapped to his
face by some strange steel contraption, he moved his hands. This was cut short
quite quickly by the chains on his wrists pulling taut. It appeared that he
could not move his arms much further than a few inches from their initial
position at his sides, neither could he, his legs.
   Adrenaline filling his system, he hastily took in his surroundings. Though
the white from the ceiling light only lit a few meters around him, he could see
a chair seated not three meters directly parallel to his front. Another person
was seated in the chair, passed out and in much the situation as him, with a
handgun situated firmly in their mouth. Unlike him, however, their hands were
bound much more tightly and where in fact strapped to the arms of the chair, as
were their ankles to the chair’s legs. Lifting his gaze from their body he
tried to catch a glimpse of their face, hindered by the tears swelling in the
corners of his eyes, blurring his vision.
   His breath faltered as his vision cleared and the person moved their head up
to be elucidated by the light. Voice muffled by the weapon inserted in his
mouth, he queried rhetorically, ‘Mother?’
 
As he did so, a harsh grating sound like static filled his ears, also awakening
his mother—the woman strapped to the chair before him—in the process. It was a
television, located behind his mother’s seat where only he could see it.
   Easily recognizable to anybody who had watched the news for the weeks up to
that point, a puppet with black hair and red spiraled cheeks took up a large
portion of the hazy screen. Digitized, a voice spoke over the image while the
doll made mouth movements, ‘Welcome, Jasper. I would introduce myself further,
but I do believe that is unnecessary in light of recent media focus. As such, I
also believe that you are well aware of the situation you are in, having now
seen this tape begin.’
   Meanwhile, Jasper’s mother was fidgeting in her chair, making sharp and
short movements like a seizure as she attempted to remove herself from the
restraints digging in to her flesh. Her son refused to meet her eye and instead
kept his vision locked on the crude wooden doll pictured on the static-filled
screen that looked like it was from the 80’s.
   ‘You may not, however, be completely aware ofwhy you are in this
situation,’the voice continued after a short pause, ‘you are here because of a
death that you have caused; the death of a school peer…’Instead of the puppet,
the screen now displayed an image of a girl that Jasper recognized as Karen
from the year below him—aged 15 at the time of her, well, untimely death. The
next image that came on to the screen was that of a crime scene, cordoned off
by yellow tape and taken in flash mode. It was of a body propped up against a
wall with dried brown gunk plastered all over the wallpaper behind its head.
‘This was taken just two weeks ago, when Karen Wright shot herself in the head
with her father’s handgun, because of your actions, your words.’
   Jasper moved his eyes back to the gun propped against him, and then at the
one that his mother was struggling to free herself from. Deduction skills quite
advanced as they were, it took him no more than a few moments to realize at
least the most basic premise of what was going to happen. While his mother had
arm straps completely locking her in place, he was free to move his hands
around at least a little bit—just enough to reach the red buttons on the arm
rests either side of him. They both had printed black letters on them. One had
the word youand the other her. He could only guess—though his guess was
educated by his knowledge of Jigsaw’s recent “games” reported on by the local
and national news—that this would end with one of the two biting a bullet. In
quiet despair he let out a small sigh of defeat, hands clenched in to so tight
fists that his knuckles bore white tips, and relaxed himself in to his chair of
confinement. Still his mother struggled, and he attempted to block out the loud
sounds of her agonizing squeals as she began to rub the metal of her wrist
clasps in to her flesh.
   ‘Do you see now why you deserve this?’ The voice shattered the silence he
had just been beginning to achieve in his mind. He withheld the clarity of
thought, though, and while absently listening to the television screen and its
static crackles, he began to ponder his options. ‘But do not fret, Jasper… You
still have a chance to be forgiven, tochange yourself for the better.’
   Quite well timed to fit in with the end of the “hopeful” sentence just
spouted by the dummy, a more luminescent light flickered in to life overhead,
between the two hostages. As if not noticing Jasper until now, his mother
stopped struggling and instead just stared at her son, also too realizing what
was to come.
   ‘You have a choice, Jasper. You can be done with the mother that watched by
as your father beat you and your brother,’ a pause, featuring a display of
images of his dead brother on screen that made him unconsciously cringe, ‘The
mother that emotionally abused you even after your brother tragically died,
that molded you in to the devoid monster you are today…’
   Or you can take your own life instead, and spare her unworthy soul the
trouble, allowing her to roam free in the world and ruin more lives.’
 
The video stopped rolling, and the voice halted, seemingly finished with its
twisted speech of supposed salvation. Above the screen, a large red LED timer
came to life, starting at sixty seconds and slowly counting down with loud
beeps in between each second.
   Again, Jasper’s mum thrashed against her bindings. He did not move, but
instead stared deeply at both buttons at his sides. The one titled youclearly
meant Jasper himself, and the one titled herbeing his mother. A mere sixty
seconds to decide whose life to take. Sighing again, feeling the steel of the
gun pressing against the palate of his mouth, he closed his eyes and re-ran the
outcomes of all scenarios in his mind.
 
Either he could kill his mother, as the video suggested he should, to save
himself; or he could kill himself, and let her go. Both ways would be
acceptable to Jigsaw, he supposed—one would rehabilitate a child suicide-
provoker, and the other would rehabilitate a horrible mother.
   That is, until she would kill herself out of grief for losing both her
children to murder—or, technically in his case, it would be suicide. Jasper,
with fifteen seconds left on the clock, had come to the conclusion that it
would be most beneficial to both his own self and society if he just pushed the
button to his right.
 
Blank gaze, empty eyes, he raised his head, made eye contact with his mother.
She stopped, knowing. Right hand’s fingers lightly grazing the surface of the
red button he intended to push, feeling its plastic coating, he maintained eye
contact as he pushed the button.
   There was a rush of adrenaline, but no remorse, as he watched the trigger
get pulled by a string that had been mechanically attached to it. Still no
remorse as the bullet fired, beaten in terms of noise only by the dastardly
crack that echoed in the cold room as it came in to contact with the middle
aged woman’s skull. Her teary eyes mixed with the blood spewing from her mouth
as her head fell limply forward, whole body hunching over.
 
Blinking once, blinking twice, Jasper was surprised that there were no tears of
his own staining his porcelain cheeks. He raised his hand to wipe at his eyes
anyway, out of habit, and felt a burst of sudden relief as he was not held back
by chain; the restraints had opened and he was free.
   To a certain point, at least, he told himself. He was still absolutely lost
as to where he was, and there was always the chance that the game wasn’t over.
Still, he felt palliated to be free of the heaviness that had held down his
arms. What worried him was that the gun was still lodged deep in to his mouth.
 
As if to quash his worries, the television screen burst back in to life. Is it
not over? He angrily hissed in to the crevasses of his mind. Alas not, for as
the voice-over of the dummy began to play in time with its moving mechanical
mouth, the gun’s mechanical arm that held it in place began to pull away. It
dislodged itself from its place, resting atop his tongue, and allowed for him
to move—but he didn’t. Jasper was too busy awaiting the news the dummy held for
him then.
   ‘Good job, Jasper. You have freed yourself from your demons, and have
recanted your… sins.’
   He felt his face scrunch up at that, uncertain as to whether Jigsaw was
religious or simply using religious tropes to get his point across. Either way,
it clearly upset Jasper, the use of the words demons and sins. It reminded him
of his religious mother, and how she often tried to force it upon him.
   There was no further time for him to be disgusted by the likely coincidental
use of religious terms, for the voice continued in a more light tone, ‘I have
alerted the police of your position, and they should be arriving shortly. Until
then, I would like for you to consider something—do you want to help others in
the same way I have helped you?’
 
Once again, the television snapped off and this time a loud sizzling noise
followed. Quickly, it became evident somebody had purposely rigged the set to
self destruct after the playing of the final video. Jasper wondered curiously
as to whether that exact video congratulating him would have played even if he
had killed his mother, or if it was not a tape that was playing but an off-site
connection being monitored by the culprit, Jigsaw. He decided that was most
likely, and as he stared at the TV he could now see that beside the
clock—frozen on three seconds—was a small video camera.
   Not for long, as it too set itself in to flames as the television made
another loud popping sound, wires exploding. This made Jasper rethink—why would
the television set need to be disposed of if the videos were being sent in from
off-site? Perhaps Jigsaw had just somehow knownthat he would choose to kill his
mother rather than himself.
 
Brows furrowed, he curiously contemplated this possibility, just as police
sirens began to sound from somewhere close by, and many in number.
***** First Encounters *****
Jasper counted as the SWAT men filed in, all in a perfect line. They all had
their guns up, ready to fire at the sight of any suspicious movement. Seven, he
finished counting, as the last person entered the room—not a SWAT personnel,
but a well-built man in an NYPD uniform jacket.
   This man too had a gun, though it was nowhere near as impressive as the more
professional gunmen; a simple handgun, holstered in plain sight on his waist.
Upon seeing Jasper in the chair, quite still and making no attempt to move from
his position, he slowly drew his small weapon and held it against his leg. It
was cautious, but he clearly meant not to shoot.
   The other men, however, Jasper was not so certain. ‘Name yourself!’ One of
the obviously higher ranked men yelled loudly, his voice jumping from concrete
wall to concrete wall in an obnoxious echo. Jasper momentarily flashed back to
his mother’s muffled cries echoing throughout the room, but he shoved the
thought back in to his mind where they belonged; out of sight, out of mind.
   After taking a few seconds to compose himself, he replied, ‘Jasper Lazard,
sixteen, sole surviving participant in this edition of Jigsaw’s rehabilitation
game.’
 
Before the SWAT man could yell again, the NYPD police fellow stepped in, urging
them to lower their weapons. He had a concerned look on his face, and Jasper
assumed that it was aimed at the fact that he was perfectly calm and in no
state of despair or fear. Jasper himself was uncertain as to the reason behind
his sudden equilibrium, but he was glad for it. God forbid he appear like a
sniveling little baby in front of government officials—not an image he wanted
to create for himself.
 
‘Jasper, are you injured?’ The man asked carefully, annunciating his words more
than a person normally did. Was he assuming Jasper was in a state of shock?
Jasper found this mildly offensive but kept it to himself, instead simply
replying to the queried notion with a swift shake of his head to imply no. This
was enough for the policeman, who began to tread towards the chair atop which
the teenager was still firmly seated, giving a sideward glance at the dead
woman across from the boy. Gagging slightly, he managed to slide past without
getting any brain matter on his shoes, though there was a seemingly endless
supply of it drizzled all across the concrete floor.
   Satisfied that the place was not booby trapped, he made it finally over to
Jasper, who emptily looked up at the man, still seated. Half expecting to have
to shake his hand, he realized for perhaps the fourth or fifth time that he was
in fact not at a social gathering, but in the center of a crime scene organized
by the most notorious villain in America at the time.
   He was suddenly having difficulty piecing together his emotions and it
became rather evident that he wasin a state of severe shock, his breathing
unbalanced as too his pulse.
 
‘Jasper,’ the man was speaking again he realized, using his first name to imply
some sense of calamity he supposed, ‘I’m going to lift you now, is that okay?’
   He had a nice voice, Jasper thought to himself, but he was a stranger
nonetheless and he had to decline the offer, ‘No, I don’t want to be touched.’
While saying this, he made to stand up. Planting his feet firmly on to the
ground he tried to raise himself, in the process accidentally pushing the red
button labeled you.
   The gun fired upwards, barely missing Jasper’s chin as his jaw dropped in
fear. It was the first time he’d felt fear in the whole ordeal, and it was only
because he feared for himself. As he fell forward, legs going limp beneath him,
he watched the SWAT men all raise their guns in habitual readiness to fire in
return.
  
Despite his earlier refusal to be helped up, Jasper was grateful when he did
not make full frontal contact with the rough concrete floor, but instead found
himself falling in to the ready arms of the police officer.
   The man helped to steady him, thick hands clasped gently but firmly around
his upper arms. ‘Still think you don’t need help?’ Snarky, the officer queried.
Jasper’s lip quivered and he shook his head, ‘It’s not that I don’t need it—I
just don’t wantit.’ At this, the man’s concerned expression metamorphosed in to
that of confusion, eyebrows furrowed in consideration. ‘But, whatever…’ Jasper
muttered under his breath, placing his right hand on to the officer’s chest,
gripping at the thick waterproof material so as not to fall over again, legs
still wobbling beneath him.
 
As he was lifted off of the ground, Jasper closed his eyes to block the sight
of his imploded mother and decided to change the subject to one less painful to
talk of, ‘You know my name now, but I don’t know yours.’
   ‘Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman,’ was the solemn reply, a reflexive
answer that he no doubt had to give to many people many times in a day. Jasper
took his turn now to furrow his brows, ‘I recognize…’ he paused; eyes still
clamped tightly shut, ‘You’re the lead detective on the Jigsaw case, right?’
   ‘Only because I’m the last one…’
 
Jasper chose not to follow that line of conversation any further, having
clearly drudged up memories for the detective. Still, it would not have
mattered even if he had wanted to, for they had seemingly arrived at their
destination and the detective began to slowly lower Jasper from within his
grasp.
   Now having calmed down some, he found himself able to at least stand on his
own, and took the moment to look around at his surroundings, make sense of
where he was perhaps.
 
There was nothing he recognized; they were in a large outside parking lot. An
abandoned hospital, Jasper presumed, judging from the outer demeanor of the
building he now gazed over with blurry vision.
   The entire place was lit up by flashing blue and red lights, swirling around
like a disco ball—it made Jasper queasy. He raised his hand up to his throat,
expecting to vomit, though he found himself unable to. 
   Once more a familiar hand rested on his shoulder, ‘Are you alright?’
   Jasper nodded, turning back to the Detective. ‘Can we just… Can we go?’ His
voice was gravelly and dry. The inquiry was hurriedly answered as the hand upon
his shoulder urged him towards a police car stationary just in front of them;
Detective Hoffman’s.
   ‘I’ll take you back to the police station and get you cleaned up,’ Hoffman
began, pausing before taking a more serious note, ‘And then I’ll ask you some
questions.’ It wasn’t an offer, presented more as indisputable fact. Jasper
clearly had no say in the matter, not that he much minded.
   Hoffman opened the passenger side door for him—not the back seat door as
Jasper had been expecting—and the boy slipped in, shaky hands grasping at the
seat belt. Hoffman then walked around the car and entered the driver’s seat,
blank-faced. The car started. Jasper leaned back and stared up at the roof of
the vehicle, glad for the comfortable padding that his previous chair had not
had.
 
As the car began to exit the premises, Jasper saw horrifying images on his
eyelids.
***** Procedure *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It was a relatively long, and silent, car ride from the crime scene to the NYPD
police department; approximately thirty minutes, not including the five that it
took for the Detective to stop off at a coffee shop and pick up two drinks, one
with soy for Jasper.
 
When they finally pulled up to the 1PP on Park Row, Jasper felt a sense of
false relief. It was a tall building, and retained the appearance of something
from the 80’s despite being the newer NYPD building, replacing the more elegant
one only eight minutes distance.
   Undoing his seatbelt, he went to open the door only to be halted by Hoffman
beating him to it from the outside. Jasper looked up at him, unmoving, before
smiling meekly and exiting the vehicle.
 
Inside the building was a lot more sophisticated than Jasper had first
imagined; a bustling hive of police men and women all scrambling about to
handle phone calls and file reports. He winced at the noise, a small movement
caught by Mark Hoffman who proceeded to quickly move him through the front
lobby.
   As they made for the elevator, past the reception desk, many eyes turned and
watched. Jasper wondered how far behind their ogling would put them in their
work; he hoped a lot.
 
They were alone in the elevator and Jasper side-eyed what floor they were
headed to—five.
   When the confined box jolted in to life, Jasper stumbled somewhat, brushing
his arm against Detective Hoffman’s. The Detective pulled his arm away,
seemingly uncomfortable. Jasper assumed he was mildly claustrophobic, a guess
also based on the tall man’s disconcerted expression.
   Jasper wasn’t claustrophobic. He’d spent too many hours tucked away in his
messy closet hiding from his father, and later in life his mother, to be afraid
of confined spaces—they were his sanctuary at that point.
 
Heights, on the other hand, he couldn’t deal with. So when Hoffman led him out
of the elevator on to the fifth floor, a sense of dread washed over him like a
tidal wave, ready to suck him out to the sea of fear.
   A habit he couldn’t break, Jasper chewed slightly at the insides of his
cheeks, anxiously following the Detective close behind to a door at the end of
the hall.
 
It was dark inside, and when Hoffman flicked the light switch on, Jasper was
temporarily blinded. Once his vision had calmed, he took in the contents of the
room all at once.
   Somewhat messy but in an organized manner, that is to say that while there
was a lot of junk in the room Hoffman clearly knew where everything was, the
office was medium sized and contained three major features of furniture; a
large wooden desk, a wall-length bookshelf cabinet, and a black sofa along the
wall beside the doorway.
 
Jasper didn’t enter the room until Hoffman urged him to with a “come hither”
motion of his hand. ‘I’m not going to interrogate you in the normal rooms,’ he
stated bluntly, picking up a framed photo of a young woman with similar facial
features to himself before putting it down again, backwards this time on the
shelf. Sister, perhaps,Jasper wondered, more interested now in the photo than
the trauma he’d experienced not an hour earlier. He contemplated asking about
it, but decided now was not the time.
 
‘Normal procedure would have me taking you to the hospital, but I have no time
for procedure,’ Hoffman announced, mostly to himself as affirmation that he did
not, in fact, have the time to follow procedure.
   He took a seat at the large office desk, in a black faux leather swivel
chair. Running his slender fingers back through that near ivory hair of his,
Hoffman sighed heavily. ‘Do you remember how you ended up in the hospital?’ He
inquired, confirming Jasper’s previous suspicion of what the abandoned building
had once been.
   He lowered his head, abruptly realizing he had not even thought once about
how he had gotten there. ‘I… I don’t know,’ he uttered, barely audible. Staring
down at his ghostly hands, he tried to visualize the events leading up to what
he assumed would be called his kidnapping.
 
He had been going for a walk at last he remembered, but it wasn’t one he had
scheduled or went on regularly. So, how long was Jigsaw following me
beforehand?Must have been at least all day, likely more than just one day,
Jasper eventually concluded. He never followed any particular routine for daily
activities, so for his captor to have been there on his walk, he must have been
followed for sometime earlier.
   This frightened Jasper unexpectedly—immediately beginning to feel paranoid
as to how much of his life had been invaded in the days leading up to his
kidnapping.
 
‘I was going on a walk,’ He unhurriedly lifted his gaze from his lap, to stare
not at Hoffman but somewhere indistinct behind him. Eye contact was
unfavourable.
   ‘Do you remember where?’ Hoffman asked, readying a black ballpoint pen
betwixt his forefingers. He twirled it around in a bored fashion, making Jasper
question just how much he really cared about his case at all. He was likely
just stressed, so Jasper dropped the thought.
   ‘Forest Park,’ Jasper replied; it was a personal favourite of his, and he
would walk there whenever he needed time to think. Often, he strayed from the
set walking paths. In hindsight, this habit was likely what allowed his captor
to so easily snatch him without being noticed by passersby.
   The Detective wrote this information on a piece of police paper, and Jasper
read it upside down. Nice handwriting, he noted dully. It reminded him of his
late brother’s handwriting. He looked down again, at his lap.
  
A knock at the door interrupted the informal interrogation, and a semi-bald man
poked his head through the doorway before being allowed to do so by Hoffman.
This did not seem to upset the Detective, who watched as the podgy man entered
the room.
   Jasper refrained from any eye contact, choosing to gaze down at the man’s
feet, of which were dressed in brown suede dress shoes. Well worn, likely an
old gift from an important person; it would explain why he hadn’t gone out and
bought a less rugged pair. Sentimental value blinds a persons’ ability to see
when something is past its time.
   ‘Hoffman, the paramedics are upset that you took the victim without their
consent,’ the man said, sounding quite stern. Hoffman grunted in submission,
‘My apologies sir.’
   ‘Just take him to them now—they need to do checkups.’
 
There was no addressing himself to Jasper, which the teen found to be rude. It
would have been at least polite to introduce himself to Jasper, and upon his
not doing so before leaving the room in a disgruntled manner, it left the boy
frowning.
   He was not only upset at the lack of properness, but at the fact that he
would have to go to a hospital. Having just come from one, albeit the
dismantled remains of what oncewas a hospital, he was in no great rush to go to
another.
 
Feeling ever so slightly guilty for getting the Detective in trouble, as it was
he who asked if they could leave the crime scene, Jasper looked up from his
downwards glance and made an uncommon eye contact with the man. ‘I’m sorry… For
not letting you follow procedure.’
   While he knew he wasn’t entirely in the wrong for the situation, as it had
been the Detective who actually got them to leave the scene, he figured it
couldn’t hurt to suck up to the man a little bit. It might make things less
awkward in the long run.
   ‘No, no. No need,’ Hoffman absently replied while standing and readjusting
his coat jacket. ‘Come on, I should get you to the hospital.’
   Jasper stood, giving a sideways glance towards the photo frame that was
facing backwards in its stance. Hoffman noticed this and defensively stepped in
front of his gaze, before hurriedly beckoning him out of the room.
 
‘They’re not going to make me stay there, are they?’ Jasper asked, a hint of
fear tinged on the edges of his still gratingly dry voice, as they exited the
office and re-entered the wide hallway.
   He abruptly paused; stopping dead in his tracks with an expression not
unlike that, that someone has halfway down the street before querying whether
or not they left the stove on. ‘Though, I suppose… Where would I stay now
anyway?’ It was a rhetorical question aimed mostly at his self, as he came to
terms with the fact that while he had mostly despised his mother, he had most
definitely needed her for many “adult” things like paying for housing and food.
   Hoffman gave him a pitying stare, before ripping away his eyes. Afraid of
getting attached to an orphan, Jasper thought. He could see why someone might
not want to grow too attached to him now; he’d nowhere to go, and having just
killed his mother not many would feel particularly inclined to taking him in.
   The Detective made no attempt at comforting him or reassuring him that
things would be okay. In fact, Jasper noted that on their travel back down the
elevator and all the way through the front lobby, the man seemed quite reserved
and withdrawn.
   They had to stop off briefly at the front desk where Hoffman signed out on
the register. He hadn’t signed inwhen they had arrived, so Jasper determined
that the register was something they signed only at the beginning and end of an
entire day’s shift. That then further implied to Jasper that there would be no
further interrogation after going to the hospital; he might actually have to
stay in one of those god awful detergent smelling rooms.
 
As they got back in to Hoffman’s car, the street was mostly empty and all of
the lights in the buildings surrounding 1PP were out. The moon was heaving
itself through the inky sky like an anchor, and Jasper watched its clumsy yet
graceful rise as the engine started again, still warm from their earlier drive.
   ‘Which hospital?’ Jasper bluntly asked in more of a stating tone than a
querying one. Hoffman, while driving out of the parking lot, replied equally as
absently, ‘Lower Manhattan; Presbyterian.’
   Jasper recognized the name but had never been there. Coming from Queens
District rather than Manhattan, he had only ever been to hospitals local to his
borough. Strange, though, would the paramedics at the crime scene have driven
him to the nearest hospital or would they have taken the near hour drive to
this one? Jasper wondered if that’s how paramedics worked. He would have to
look it up at a later date.
Chapter End Notes
     Might redo this chapter. Who knows.
***** Clinical Curiosity *****
Chapter Summary
     Essentially just filler. Introducing another original character,
     though a mildly unimportant one.
After five or so minutes standing in the crowded first floor lobby while the
Detective attempted to confirm with the secretary lady that their presence was
expected, they were finally led to an equally as white examination room.
   The only window had a view back in to the lobby, but the wooden shutters
were closed. Jasper was grateful for this, not particularly eager to have
passersby looking in on him. It made him feel small—he’d always hated crowds.
   ‘Please wait in here, Dr. Whitehead should arrive shortly,’ the secretary
lady said. Jasper looked to Detective Hoffman as the woman left, not saying
anything but thinking to himself about how the first image that had entered his
mind upon hearing the doctor’s name was that of a Nazi skinhead. He thought to
himself then, too, about how he would have to stop making silly unprecedented
connections of no validity.
 
‘Are you required to be here?’ Jasper asked the Detective, breaking the solemn
silence that had eased itself between the two like a wedge. He did not want the
silence to continue, as it made the screams of his mother echo louder in the
back of his mind.
   ‘Would you rather I leave?’ Hoffman inquired in return, fiddling with some
of the medical equipment on the bench. Jasper sat down on the olive coloured
padded examination table in the centre of the room. The Detective hadn’t
actually answered his question, but the response did imply that he didn’t
actually haveto be there.
   ‘Not at all...’ Jasper muttered, just audible enough to earn a nod of
recognition from Hoffman. From Jasper’s perspective, it was somewhat suspicious
as to how much attention the Detective was paying his particular case, to the
point of accompanying him to the medical check-up. Unaware as to the true
extent of Hoffman’s curiosity, he pinned it down to being mere pity for the now
orphan.
 
The door opened with a slight creak; perhaps they should oil their hinges.
Jasper peered over blankly to face a middle-aged woman with strawberry blonde
hair styled in to large ringlets, stretching down to her bosom on the front and
to the crook of her back from behind.
   ‘Good evening, dear...’ She had the same pitying tone that he recognized
from years ago at his brother’s funeral. It disgusted him how people would
falsely pretend that they actually care, just to give themselves an ego boost
of moral high ground. There was to be no complaint from Jasper, though, as he
metaphorically bit his tongue. Not the time to be playing the sarcastic devil,
but rather the traumatised boy. In truth, he felt not much of anything. The
fear had subsided for the time being, leaving him full of angst.
 
‘My name is Alison Whitehead,’ the woman, Alison, turned to Hoffman before
continuing in a more professional tone that further proved Jasper’s internal
point that people like her only put on a mask of sympathy to make themselves
feel better, ‘And you must be the infamous Detective Hoffman. It’s nice to
finally meet you, having looked after a lot of the previous victims.’
   She held her hand out for the well-built man to shake. A moment of
hesitation before the offer was accepted and the two clasped their palms
together in a friendly introductory handshake. Jasper noted from the corners of
his vision that the woman was looking the Detective up and down, checking him
out. He was both upset that she was not doing her job and examining him, but
grateful that she wasn’t playing coy pity anymore.
   ‘Nice to meet you too, Dr. Whitehead,’ Hoffman gloomily responded, clearly
not sharing the same feeling of physical attraction the woman had conveyed an
interest in of him. ‘Please, call me Alison.’
   Jasper scoffed under his breath. Is now the time to be hooking up?His scoff
did not go unnoticed and Dr. Whitehead turned her attention to him.
   ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ She rejoiced to herself, stepping away from Hoffman
with once final glance over his chest before sitting down on the metal chair
beside the examination table.
 
‘I’m a resident psychiatrist here, Jasper, and I’m going to ask you a few
questions if you don’t mind,’ she spoke on autopilot, like a broken record that
repeated the same sentence to thousands of patients every day. Jasper noted the
similarity to how Hoffman had earlier said almost the exact same thing.
   ‘Sure.’
   Dr. Whitehead pulled a clipboard off of the steel bench and ticked a few
boxes before looking up at the boy again. Jasper did not look her in the eye,
despite knowing that she would most definitely notice this and think it had
something to do with his being a victim of Jigsaw.
 
‘Jasper, just tell me if you don’t want to answer anything, okay?’
   He wondered how many of the other Jigsaw victims she had previously
“treated” had refused to answer some of the questions. Unconsciously, he
decided to make it sort of a game to ensure he replied to all of them—another
coping mechanism of his; to turn everything in to a puzzle to be solved, a game
to be played.
 
‘You say you were out on a walk when you were... taken...’ She seemed to
pussyfoot around the word, wanting to find a less abrupt one. Jasper was more
focused on how she could have known that. Did Detective Hoffman give her his
half-written interrogation? If so, what a betrayal of what little trust he had
placed in the man—he would have to be more careful with whom he said these
things to, clearly. ‘Do you remember anything else that happened?’
   At this, images flashed like gunfire before Jasper’s eyes—somebody in a
black coat, wearing some kind of animal mask. He tore himself from the vision
and frowned at her, ‘What is the point in me being here if you’re just going to
ask me exactly the same questions the Detective would ask?’
   Whitehead wrote something down, a single word from what Jasper could see of
her pen movement. Ah, he realised, he’d already messed up and not answered one
of her questions. Did all of the Jigsaw patients mess up that question? He
hoped so, that he wouldn’t appear to Whitehead as being any weaker than the
rest of them.
   ‘I’m only here to help you understand, Jasper. Not to get information. You
don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,’ Whitehead had that false
pity voice on again. He looked back at Hoffman, making eye contact with him,
scowling. Whitehead was confused at this, because he had refused to make eye
contact with her not moments ago.
   Still staring at Hoffman, who was watching him in return with a poker face,
Jasper spoke to Dr. Whitehead, ‘If I don’t have to tell you anything, can I
leave?’
   ‘It doesn’t work like that, Jasper. I have to ensure that you’re of sound
enough mind to leave—that you won’t... hurt yourself.’
   He sighed in defeat. That sounded perfectly reasonable, and he didn’t
understand why he had lashed out verbally at her like that—she was just doing
her job after all. ‘No, I don’t... I don’t remember anything, I think.’
   As Whitehead was writing this down, something Jasper knew only from the
scratch scratching sounds of pen on paper, he observed that Hoffman was barely
paying attention. The stern man had his arms across his chest in a
subconsciously defensive position and was staring out at nothing, thinking
heavily. What about?Jasper wondered.
   He was not given much time to ponder the possibilities before Whitehead
spoke again, ‘Do you remember what you saw when you woke up in the hospital,
Jasper?’ He assumed that it was probably common knowledge that Jigsaw drugged
his victims to place them in to his traps, so it was no mystery how she knew he
had been unconscious between his capture and his awakening.
 
Jasper looked away from Hoffman, down at the linoleum floor that was recently
cleaned, judging from its sheen. He remembered quite vividly, almost to the
point of hallucination. It felt like a dream, the way that just thinking about
being in the chair made his ears ring with static like that of the television
screen.
   ‘Yes,’ he bluntly replied, ‘I remember the taste of metal. I thought it was
blood at first—I get blood noses in the night, you see—but it wasn’t.’ He
paused, the words caught in his throat, like ithad been, ‘It was a gun.’
   Those emotions that his mind had been building walls against suddenly
flooded him again, fear and torment.
   ‘What did you see, Jasper?’
   He choked, the feeling of an invisible gun lodged in his oesophagus.
‘Nothing... Just the television, then the lights came on. My mother was there,
I could see her then.’ Jasper spoke fast, telling a fast-paced story as hazy
images clouded his vision. ‘It spoke, then a clock... A clock started counting
down how long I had to decide.’
   No longer in a pitying tone, but in a cold and clinical one, Whitehead
queried, ‘What did you have to decide, Jasper? What was the game?’
 
Jasper furrowed his brows. He hadn’t considered what the game was actually
intended to be from Jigsaw’s perspective. ‘I believe it was to show me my
worth.’
   Whitehead momentarily halted her writing, looking up from her clipboard with
a grimace. She continued some more, before placing down the medical report back
on to the metal bench with which she had lifted it from. Had his perspective of
the game’s purpose upset her? Perhaps she shouldn’t be a psychiatrist if
statements like that are enough to put her off,Jasper sarcastically thought.
 
‘That will be all, for now, Mr. Lazard,’ Whitehead eventually spoke up,
changing her beforehand use of his first name to the more formal addressing of
surname.
   Jasper nodded, sliding off of the examination table and back on to the
linoleum flooring, making a soft tapnoise as his flat-sole sneakers made
contact.
   ‘Do you know where you can stay?’ She asked, more out of curiosity than
care. Jasper’s eyes went cold—he had nowhere to stay, but he definitely didn’t
want to take up a hospital room. The beds were always stiff and the food
inedible, he joked.
   Before he could reply with a solemn no, Hoffman spoke for the first time in
many minutes, ‘He will be staying with me.’ Jasper was in no position to
decline the request—though it had been phrased as matter of fact rather than
proposition—and held his tongue.
   ‘Is that professional, Detective?’ Whitehead questioned with a slight snark
on her tone.
   Hoffman didn’t grace her with a retort, instead ushering Jasper towards the
door. The boy complied, with a grateful nod. As they exited the room, he began
to ponder as to what a Detective’s housing might look like.
***** Masked Memories *****
 
The answer to Jasper’s question was not one he had expected. On the drive over,
the third travel in the Detective’s car just that night, he had begun imagining
expensive furniture and luxuries like dishwashers.
   Upon arrival, however, he was quite disappointed. Even just from outside,
Jasper could tell that this man was not particularly wealthy. Dingy and
emitting an awfully musty scent, the apartment block sat wedged between several
others, all of equally low quality.
   Still, he told himself, it was likely better than his home—not that he could
call it that any more. What will happen to the house now?He queried as Hoffman
led him up the three front stairs and through the lobby door.
 
Inside there was a reception desk that vaguely resembled that of the hospital,
both were surrounded in the same clinical whiteness, but this one was dirty and
no grinning ladies sat behind it eager to help. In fact, nobody at all was
there to greet their arrival.
   Why there was even a reception desk in an apartment building, Jasper was not
entirely certain. If he were to guess, he would say that it was likely that the
building was once a hotel that had been converted to cheap apartments.
   This point was further proven on their entrance to the elevator, beside
which lay a dirty sign that must have once adorned the outside concrete wall
space above the front door. He read it aloud as he followed Hoffman in to the
exceedingly small floating box, ‘Jigsaw Hotel?’ It was phrased much like a
question, and the adult male curiously raised an eyebrow.
   ‘They changed the name when the word Jigsaw became taboo.’ It was blunt, but
answered Jasper’s only half asked question. It raised more though too, like how
long Hoffman had lived here and if he quite understood the irony in his doing
so—how funny, even, it was. He kept these more unimportant questions to
himself.
 
Matching the outer demeanour of the building, the door to Hoffman’s apartment
was a generic one. It was white, and the loosely hanging number used to
identify his apartment from the others swayed on its conjoined screw as Hoffman
unlocked and opened the entrance.
   Inside was shabby, and appeared well lived in. There were various coffee
stains permanently etched in to the hay-like carpet as eternal reminders of his
clumsiness. A half-drunk coffee sat stone cold atop the wooden knee-high table
centred between a corduroy couch and an ancient looking television set.
   Jasper had to look away from the television, its appearance quite striking
to the one that had delivered his life or death speech. Hoffman noticed this
aversion of eye as he locked the door behind them, but said nothing. Jasper,
unaware of the Detective’s fixed glance on him, absent-mindedly touched the
back of his head, wondering if his mother felt any pain or if she died
immediately. He felt no pity for her, and was not ashamed of his decision to
take her life, but he still preferred the thought that she did not die in
agony.
 
‘Sit,’ Hoffman eventually commanded in a semi-polite manner, signalling to the
three seat couch. Jasper sat, the cushions stiff beneath him, well compressed
from many hours of use. Hoffman remained standing, a grim look in his eye as
though he were upset at something. Everything felt off to Jasper, who was
beginning to become quite uncomfortable with the idea of staying at the
Detective’s apartment.
   A clock chimed the hour eleven somewhere indistinct in the background, and
he craned his head to find out where. It was as he did this, gaze scrolling
over the kitchenette, he saw a strangely realistic pig-head mask sitting limp
on the bench. He vaguely recognized it from some place, but the memory was a
hazy blur that he could not define the edges of. Perhaps it was something he
had seen in a store, he decided, though still suspicious.
   From behind him, Hoffman gave a worried glance in the mask’s direction,
kicking himself internally for having left it out. Alas, his worst fears were
left unprecedented when Jasper returned his gaze forward without a word
mentioning it. Instead, he was content to start an entirely unrelated
conversation. ‘Why are you letting me sleep here?’ He inquired.
   Hoffman thought a moment, not quite sure how to reply. His reasons were
obviously not innocent, but he wanted to make them appear so as much as
possible. ‘I’m an officer of the law—it’s my duty to provide safety to the
innocent.’
   Jasper could see through the façade of false police pride, and the corner of
his lip twanged upwards in a small flicker of distaste. ‘You don’t seem the
type to hold duty above all else,’ Jasper retorted gracefully, his vocabulary
returning to him now that he was beginning to calm down over the hours, ‘Nor do
I seem the innocent type.’
 
Hoffman couldn’t help but smile at the sudden change in Jasper’s mannerisms.
What had earlier been a tear-stained boy with quivering hands and no words to
share was now a connoisseur of the English language.
   ‘No, I suppose I don’t. Nor do you,’ he smirked at his mirroring of the
polite speech, quite happy with himself for doing so. Jasper felt as though he
were being mocked and swallowed saliva to ease his throat.
   ‘But sometimes it’s nice to pretend we are, isn’t it?’ Hoffman stepped
closer to the boy, and for a moment he thought the man was going to snuff his
life out. He was wrong, however, for instead the Detective merely took a hard
seat beside him. There was a cushion between them, so there was no
uncomfortable feeling from either of them.
   Jasper nodded, though slowly and with one eyebrow perched higher than the
other. ‘Are you saying that I’m not here to fulfil your sense of pride?’ He
sensed some other ulterior motive.
 
Correct he was. ‘You caught me,’ Hoffman raised both his hands in a mock
display of defeat, ‘You’re here because I want answers.’
   Jasper didn’t even consider that Hoffman was referring to the final query
the video tape had delivered to him, but assumed that he was but cornered in to
a trap by the Detective to make interrogation easier.
   ‘To what questions might these answers be?’ He smiled weakly, trying to
maintain his calm composure.
   ‘How you feel about what happened,’ Hoffman was being blunt and vague in his
replies. Jasper bit at his cheek. ‘Isn’t that the sort of question Dr.
Whitehead should be asking?’ He was being sarcastic, finding dry humour a good
way to dull his anxiety. Hoffman didn’t laugh, but smirked slyly.
   ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t want the answer I want.’
   Jasper tilted his head like a dog does when confused, his greasy hair
falling limp against his forehead,‘And what answer would that be?’
   ‘You tell me.’
 
More and more it felt like someone, or something, were draping a cloth of
impending doom over him. ‘Would it help you catch Jigsaw, or are you just
curious?’ As much as possible, he was avoiding the question.
   ‘That depends on the answer,’ Hoffman was doing the opposite, edging Jasper
in to talking. He was an adept interrogator, always finding ways at making
people talk. The boy could see this, and knew that if he did not answer that he
would just keep receiving the same bombardment of influence in to doing so. It
was, therefore, in his best interests of making the conversation end as quickly
as possible, to simply reply.
 
‘It feels more like redemption than punishment. If Jigsaw thought I did
something wrong and that is why he put me in that situation, then it now feels
like he would agree I have atoned for it.’ There was a complete lack of emotion
in Jasper’s voice, his tone cold and forward.
   While he had expected Hoffman’s response to be one of disgust or at least
distaste, he was—arguably pleasantly—surprised when the man smiled. It was a
thin smile, one that stretched across his face like a string of pink.
   ‘Exactly the answer Dr. Whitehead would notbe looking for.’ In this
statement by the Detective, the implication to Jasper was that it was, in fact,
the answer hehad been looking for.
 
‘Do you understand the purpose of the games now that you’ve been in one?’
Hoffman somewhat changed the subject.
   Jasper was definitely beginning to suspect some not-so-innocent motives for
the man’s questioning. It frightened him, but at the same time there seemed
also to be nothing to fear. There was no aura of violence coming from him,
easing Jasper’s worries somewhat. ‘I can see that it works, if that’s what you
mean.’ He was referring to how the “games” supplied rehabilitation to lost
souls in need of a firm hand to guide them.
   Hoffman grunted in approval, leaning over the cushion between them before
grinning toothily. Jasper noted how clean his teeth were, and how unnaturally
sharp his canines. ‘So then why should anybody stop him?’
 
The devilish look in his eyes, cunning like a fox’s, and the sinister edge to
his voice was what suddenly struck Jasper in to a wildfire of mismatched
memories.
 
A blur of green, a figure clasping his arm—he looked up with glazed over eyes
to see his attacker, clad in black hooded trench coat. No face. Hidden behind
something; a mask. He outstretched his arm to touch the latex, pulling it off
slightly in the process. Before he fell in to deep unconsciousness, needle
driven hard in to his upper arm, he gazed up in appreciation at the stunning of
the blue eye he had revealed.
 
Jasper returned to the now time with a great gasp for air, letting out a breath
he did not know that he had held. He could taste the gun again, in his mouth,
the remnants of his memories fading away. White seared the edge of his vision
as he turned to stare Hoffman in the eyes, inspecting them closely. The man
remained still, smiling ever, allowing the boy to do so.
 
‘Who…’ Jasper started, but he did not need to finish. He knew the answer to his
question.
Instead, he posed a new query, ‘How exactlydo you expect me to help you?’
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     A decision is to be made.
Hoffman remained leaned over, uncomfortably close to Jasper, who had pushed
himself back as far as possible in to the corner of the couch. From this short
distance, the boy could see every little detail in the man’s face; his unkempt
deep-brown hair sprouting in all directions, the dry and cracked skin around
his eyes where he had rubbed them raw. It was like looking in to a mirror, he
thought, as he recognized the similarities between their imperfections. A much
older mirror, he too thought.
 
‘It’s not me that you would be helping,’ Hoffman eventually spoke, drawing
Jasper’s eyes to his lips. They were parched and in need of lip
balm—subconsciously, he felt his pocket to check if his own was still there. It
wasn’t, unsurprisingly.
   ‘Jigsaw?’ He queried in a quiet voice, still not certain about the
situation. It seemed to be safe enough, but the closeness of Hoffman was
menacing.
   He earned a nod as a reply, and thankfully the older male leaned back out,
creating more space between them before opening his mouth to speak again,
‘Don’t know why he chose a kid to join him...’ It was clearly not meant to be
answered, and was more an aloud thought than anything substantial to the
conversation. Jasper left it alone, staring in a different direction
altogether, at the kitchen counter.
 
‘Why a pig mask?’ He was changing the subject. Hoffman made a soft hmmnoise and
turned to the kitchen counter, following Jasper’s gaze.
   ‘Why aren’t you afraid?’ Hoffman completely ignored the question, much to
Jasper’s discontent. ‘Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.’
   It was a bluff, really, for Jasper knew that he could not answer Hoffman. He
did not himself understand why he was not screaming and running away in
devastation from the man who had kidnapped him and handed him over to America’s
deadliest serial killer, but he assumed it had something to do with the old
primal concept of capture bonding—the basis to Stockholm Syndrome. Not that he
felt romantic towards Hoffman, like Stockholm suggests, but merely indifferent.
One bonds with ones captor and survives, one doesn’t bond and one doesn’t
survive.
 
‘I don’t have a clue why, you would have to ask Jo—Jigsaw,’ Hoffman almost gave
away the deadly criminal’s name, halting in his tracks before correcting
himself. Jasper figured that the only name with the prefix “Jo” would be John
or Jonathon, in the English language. Though, that was assuming Jigsaw to be
English, and he didn’t take lightly to assumptions.
   Following the same pattern of aversion, Jasper smiled meekly and retorted,
‘I don’t have a clue either, so you would have to ask my psychiatrist.’
   Hoffman was amused by this, as he had earlier been with himself when doing
the same form of mannerism mirroring to the boy. They had similar tastes in
jest, finding such little sarcastic acts to be effectively humorous even in
situations that called for seriousness. ‘I don’t think Alisonwill be able to
help you with anything psychological,’ he turned back from the kitchen to look
at Jasper, almost jumping when finding the boy already staring at him intently
with a look of confusion on his face. He realised he’d let slip something he
shouldn’t have, and swallowed down any further words he’d had on the doctor.
   Jasper was having none of this and chimed in, ‘You say that as though this
isn’t your first time meeting her.’
   ‘Nothing gets past you, does it,’ Hoffman rejoiced with a sigh of defeat. He
placed one arm over the side of the couch and leaned back, looking up at the
roof with an ever dull expression slanted over his eyes. ‘It was her first time
meeting me, maybe not the other way around though.’
   ‘You must have a lot of free time on your hands, to spend so much of it
stalking people,’ Jasper joked lightly, raising one eyebrow sarcastically.
Hoffman feigned a smile, though not particularly well, ‘I wouldn’t call it free
time; I just do as I’m told.’
   Jasper’s eyebrows dipped inwards, a slight movement that Hoffman barely
caught attention of. He’s just a minion?Jasper didn’t want to ask this question
out loud for fear of upsetting the man, uncertain as to how dangerous he was.
Hoffman had seen his accidental expression however and instinctively knew the
query at hand. ‘I’m not in this by choice,’ he calmly explained with a much
more serious manner of tone, ‘I was in a similar situation to you.’ He didn’t
know why he was telling the child this, perhaps he felt the need to sympathize,
or perhaps he was simply reminiscing. It was a little bit of a lie, really, to
say that he was in a similar situation, but Jasper didn’t know that. Hoffman
tilted his head back with a gentle but throaty sigh as he remembered his first
face-to-face encounter with Jigsaw.
   In one swift movement the man jumped off of the couch and in to a standing
position, straightening out his police uniform with one hand; with the other,
he trailed the length of his hair back over his scalp, letting the strands fall
wherever they felt.
   ‘You have a choice, you know.’
   Jasper hadn’t expected him to speak, and was slightly startled. The way he
put it, so bluntly, made Jasper reconsider the man’s position. He sounded so
distant, almost jealous. Was he really just doing Jigsaw’s bidding, a pawn in a
larger chess game? Or perhaps it would be better said, just another unimportant
centre piece to a jigsaw puzzle.
   ‘Do I really, though?’ He replied, ‘I mean... you wouldn’t reallylet me walk
away, now that I know who you are?’
 
Hoffman hadn’t considered this, seemingly, as his facials muscles became taut
with realization. He swallowed dryly, making eye contact. Jasper saw something
in his pinpoint pupils that made him withdraw in his seat, tightening his
slender fingers around the corduroy covering. Only when Hoffman relaxed his
face and sighed again in soft defeat did Jasper ease his burning knuckles.
Perhaps he shouldn’t poke the bear again, he decided, even if it was
unintentional.
   ‘That isn’t my choice to make,’ he announced gruffly, looking almost sad
now. A child held his whole life, his career and reputation, in his undeserving
palms. It had suddenly hit him that Jigsaw could not have possibly overlooked
this fact when ordering him to take the boy here and explain, that he had
intended this. Was it a game, he wondered, on whether or not he could convince
the boy to join? But his orders had been very specific; he was not to
manipulate or force anything, it would be entirely Jasper’s will to join the
band of moral vigilante’s or not. Clenching his teeth at the subtle betrayal by
a man he had slowly come to trust, he refused to make any notion of eye
contact. He felt powerless under the weight of a child’s frightened decision,
which would likely be to flee. Even though he was staring in a totally opposite
position, he could feel the burning gaze of the boy etching in to him.
 
If only he had looked, he would have seen that Jasper’s expression was not one
of fear but of sympathy. Not pity, to clarify, but a sort of mutual despair.
Both of them were entwined in Jigsaw’s game of human survival, and he could
feel the crushing force of the importance to whatever decision he would make on
the matter.
   Though, he supposed, even if he left and refused the offer put up to him, he
didn’t actually haveto out Hoffman as an accomplice. What reason was there not
to, though, for the man was the reason he was even in this situation, the
reason his mother was likely on some metal slab somewhere. But then again, if
he truly was an unwilling accomplice to Jigsaw through some unfortunate
manipulation, was it truly his fault?
   Jasper bit his lip; everything was suddenly too hard. Everything was
connected and his decision held a weight he didn’t want to lift. He was no more
in control than Hoffman, he realised, a victim to his own conscience.
   Would Hoffman hurt him, should he try leave? Would Jigsaw allow that? Was it
in his best interests just to comply and follow along in the game? So many
questions were raised, and none seemed to bear the answer he was seeking.
 
A moody fog of disparity had clouded the room, sticking wet to their skins like
the anxious sweat beginning to form. Jasper dug his nails deep in to his palm,
feeling his mind clear with the breaking of skin.
   Sighing deeply, he stood up and walked over to face Hoffman. ‘If I said yes,
would I be safe?’
   Hoffman’s tenseness melted away and he turned his head back slowly to give a
calm glance over Jasper. ‘Safe?’ He queried; the notion almost laughable. ‘No
safer than if you said no,’ a sorry smile, almost pitiful but more
understanding than that, pierced his lips. Jasper could tell he was at least
somewhat referring to his own situation. Nodding he maintained eye contact, an
uncommon feat. ‘If I said yes, there would be no changing my mind, would
there?’
   Hoffman nodded too, breaking eye contact only for an instance when a small
dingof a text notification sounded from his coat pocket. Quickly he returned
his eyes to Jasper, deeply immersed in the boy’s unravelling decision.
 
There was another question on the tip of his tongue, but he quickly
reconsidered saying it; it defied Jigsaw’s reasoning behind his games. Would I
get to hurt people that deserve it?He thought to himself sinisterly in his
mind, a feeling of justice rising within him. He could be in control of so many
lives, so many undeserving lives.
   But that was not how it worked, he knew. The games were designed to give an
opportunity of rehabilitation—not punishment. Swallowing down the question,
until a later time perhaps, he closed his eyes softly so that his long lashes
tickled his cheeks.
 
‘Yes, then, I suppose...’
 
Hoffman unconsciously raised a hand to place upon Jasper’s shoulder, an
unfamiliar notion of comfort to either of them. Jasper smiled weakly and opened
his eyes to find Hoffman calmly eyeing him, ‘What now?’
***** Chapter 7 *****
Minutes had gone by with Hoffman replying to the text message he had received,
followed by calling seemingly the same number. The conversation—or the one side
of it that Jasper had access to hear—was blunt, mostly just gruff grunts of
compliance from Hoffman and the occasional voiced agreement.
   When he finally hung up, placing the phone on the coffee table now rather
than in his pocket where it had come from, he sighed shallowly. It was a sigh
of annoyance rather than relief or upset; a particular sound that Jasper was
well familiar with, having made it many a time in the past. For a moment he was
concerned whether it was him that Hoffman was annoyed with, but his attention
was drawn away swiftly.
                                                                                
‘He says he is pleased with your decision,’ Hoffman voiced with his back to the
boy, ‘And that we should go meet him.’
   Jasper automatically knew that the implication of “him” was Jigsaw, so there
was little point in asking if that were the case. Who else would be pleased
with him for choosing to join a band of vagabond vigilantes?
   ‘Now?’ he queried instead, trying to ignore the rudeness of the detective’s
turned back. He glanced down at the phone on the table, noting its “last-
season” flip phone design. Though, he wasn’t particularly surprised that a
middle aged government official wasn’t entirely up with the times in
technology.
   ‘Yes, now,’ Hoffman tutted uncomfortably. Jasper furrowed his brows but said
nothing, keeping his opinions to himself of the man’s sudden change to being a
total jackass. What did Jigsaw say to piss him off this much?He wondered
briefly.
 
There was no further conversation, stinted by the clearly disheartened male
snatching the pig mask from the kitchen table and shoving it in to one of the
many cargo pockets lining the outside of his jacket.
   The idea of going for yet anothersilent car ride with the man made Jasper
subtly uncomfortable and he rocked back on his heels before following quickly.
In the process, he grabbed Hoffman’s phone from the coffee table and held its
cool body within the palm of his hand. ‘Wait!’ He called out, anxious not to be
left alone for some reason uncertain to himself. Whitehead would have pointed
out that he was afraid of being kidnapped again, but Jasper knew that not to be
true—the only person he was afraid of kidnapping him again was clearly not
going to do so. Maybe he just didn’t want to be left alone with his memories,
he considered.
  
Hoffman did wait for him, though only because he needed to lock the door behind
them. As Jasper exited the small apartment, the musky scent leaving his
nostrils with some sense of joy, he held out the cell in an open hand. ‘Mm,’ he
grunted in approval, looking at the phone absently for a few seconds before
taking it calmly, ‘Thank you.’
   Jasper raised an eyebrow as Hoffman turned away to lock the door, confused
as to why the rollercoaster of the man’s angst-y emotions had gone full circle
back to being well composed and somewhat snarky. At least he had reigned
himself in and stopped being rude, though it only made Jasper question more
what Jigsaw had said.
 
When he turned around again, Hoffman noticed Jasper’s curious gaze but
refrained from letting his cool exterior show this. Instead, he thrust the keys
out before him and then threw them lightly—Jasper barely caught them, fumbling
a little to contain the rattling set of metal.
   ‘Go to the car, I’ll be there in a minute.’
   ‘Why? What are you doing?’
   He rolled his eyes, remembering how much he hated teenagers and their non-
stop questions about unimportant nothings. ‘I’m going to get a drink from the
canteen,’ he retorted, making a shooing motion with his right hand as he
started off down the empty corridor.
   A light above him flickered on and off occasionally, its dim yellow
luminescent life coming to an abrupt end suddenly.
   Jasper followed him silently, and wouldn’t have been noticed by Hoffman if
he hadn’t commented on the light, his footsteps seemingly madefor stalking.
‘Shouldn’t they get that fixed?’ He pointed up at the light bulb that had
shuttered off. Hoffman jumped and spun on his heels, instinctively touching to
his gun before letting his arms come together on his chest, crossed. ‘Didn’t I
tell you to go to the car?’
   ‘You did. But did I say I would?’ Jasper joked slyly, feeling more confident
now. Hoffman was having none of it shook his head, ‘Why not? I’ll just be a
minute.’
   Jasper considered this for a moment, debating on what answer to give. I
don’t want to be alone out there, he thought, but did not say. ‘I didn’t
believe you when you said you were going to the canteen,’ he lied instead. He
had, actually, believed Hoffman. What really was there to do in a rundown
hotel-turned-apartment building other than spend a few bucks on an iced coffee
or bag of chips?
 
Hoffman knew this not however and was quite offended at the child’s lack of
trust, though he couldn’t blame him. He wasthe person who’d kidnapped him and
pitted him in a life or death game against his own mother. No, that was John,he
re-phrased in his mind. Hoffman was inwardly incapable of taking blame himself
for his own actions, always pushing fault on others.
   ‘Fine,’ he finally blurted out, somewhat harshly. Jasper let his eyebrows
dip in a moment of upset, saying nothing to counter the blunt rebuttal.
 
The canteen was nothing more than one of those vending machines that every
public building tended to have, with a large glass window to view all of the
options and on the side an array of buttons, each corresponding to the inner
delights.
   Most of it was candy and snacks, though along the bottom was a cordoned off
refrigerated section with cool drinks. Hoffman didn’t kneel to view his
options, already knowing exactly what he was getting before they even stepped
up to the machine. He fuddled around in his pockets for a moment before pulling
a five dollar note from within.
   Seconds after the note was inserted in to the machine, a low rumbling hum
threw the thing in to life—two cola cans began to be pushed towards the front
of the display case, dropping down in to the retrieval box. Hoffman leaned over
and grabbed them.
   ‘Here,’ the man gruffly said, practically throwing the second can to his
younger acquaintance. Jasper was more expectant of the unexpected throw this
time than last, and caught it more fluidly. The feel of the cold aluminium
under his fingertips was surprisingly pleasant, and it was then he realised he
had been overheating with anxiety the whole time. ‘Thanks...’ He breathed under
his breath, giving Hoffman a small smile of appreciation.
   The man avoided his gaze entirely and started walking back down the
corridor, his left hand hovering over Jasper’s waist to beckon him in to
following.
 
                                  -----◌-----
                                        
It was just over half an hour before they arrived at the empty warehouse,
Jasper’s cola can still unopened. Hoffman’s lay at his feet in the driver’s
seat of the car, empty a long time ago.
 
‘We have arrived.’
   Not exactly conversational,Jasper thought to himself snarkily, forgetting
for a moment that neither was he. Some part of him was grateful that there was
no awkward small talk amongst the pair. Caught in his dull thoughts, he hadn’t
noticed the detective slip from within the car and jumped in his still buckled
seatbelt as the man poked his head back inside, ‘Coming?’
   ‘You say that as though it’s a question,’ Jasper sighed sarcastically,
opening his door and stepping out with a satisfying clickof the seatbelt
unbuckling. From over the other side of the car, the man stared at him smugly,
‘Well, you did have a choice to back out—you chose to ignore it.’
   Jasper looked down at the gravel of the large, empty parking lot and smiled
reminiscently to the conversation they’d had not long ago about his joining the
criminals. ‘True, that,’ he settled on bluntly admitting, looking up again.
 
It felt all too familiar there in that open space, the cool air brushing
against his cheeks like a cool caress. It threw him back in to the memory of
the parking lot to the abandoned hospital he’d been carried out of, weak and
crying. At the time, he hadn’t thought much about it, but the run-down
architecture was quite beautiful from the outside.
   The warehouse they then stood outside, not so much. It was bland and
generic, a metal construction with little shape to it. Just a rectangle with
large garage doors and just as large windows, a tattered sign above them titled
“Gideon Meat Packing Plant” in 70’s style arcade lettering. It clearly was not
an arcade, however, with a foul stench hanging low in the air. Like death, he
noted.
 
‘Come on, inside before somebody notices,’ Hoffman announced, trekking along
the tarmac towards a small door beside the garage doors.
   ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere, I don’t think anybody will see us,’ Jasper
commented. He paused, before starting to walk and continuing, ‘Plus, if anybody
was suspicious they’d just write down your number plate, right?’
 
Hoffman growled—apparently he hadn’t actuallythought of that. Probably not the
best idea to just park your licensed car in the otherwise empty parking lot of
the abandoned building you plan murderous games in.
   Jasper found it funny and stifled a chuckle, at how naive Hoffman was to
have overlooked that “small” detail.
 
‘Just hurry,’ Hoffman retorted, waving his hand in a hurrying manner. Jasper
obliged and sped up his pace to a slight jog to catch up and walk beside the
detective. A heavy gust blew his hair in to his face and he spat it out of his
mouth, shaking his head like a wet dog to get the rest of it off.
   Sideways glancing at him, the older man smiled. There was something so
innocent and pure about the boy, whose life had shattered in only one day. It
was quite obviously a facade, however, and Hoffman’s smile loosened. Jasper was
either very good at hiding his fear, or he was too broken to feel anything; the
thought turned Hoffman off.
   Still struggling to free his vision of hair strands, Jasper was somewhat
grateful but mostly taken aback as Hoffman’s hand swiped over his forehead
gently, slicking the fringe back. Looking up at him with a skittish expression,
mouth partially open, he raised an eyebrow. Hoffman ignored him and kept
walking.
   Above them, the dark and empty sky began to swell with plush grey clouds.
Droplets of rain fell in scarce amounts, and the two sped up until they were at
the front of the door. Hoffman slipped a key from one of his pockets and
inserted it in to the lock, a rusty clicking noise allowing their entrance just
as the rain began to thicken.
   Jasper shuddered as he entered the building, looking back at the door
closing behind them by nothing more than its own weight. It made an awful
screeching noise and came to an abrupt stop just before fully shutting. He,
with one hand wrapped around his waist in uncomfortable cold, used his other
free hand to close the door completely. ‘It locks automatically,’ he heard
Hoffman say from beside him—though it was hard to make much out, and he could
hardly see the man. Lights were dimly shining off in the distance, ahead from
the door, but where they stood in the entrance there was little light.
 
Hoffman, without another word, headed towards the almost beckoning light.
Jasper stood still for a moment, dew clinging to the risen hairs along his
arms, before following. It was becoming a trend, him following after the
detective like a lost puppy; an analogy he’d like to distance himself from.
 
Just short of another doorway, open this time, Hoffman halted. He calmly gazed
over Jasper as he, too, stopped. Perhaps it was the twitch of his lips, or the
falter in his gaze, but Jasper could tell Hoffman was upset at something.
Something to do with me,he thought. Perhaps it related to how upset Hoffman had
been back at his apartment; but Jasper was making these associations with no
evidence and decided to dismiss the possibility for the time being. No point in
over-thinking things.
 
Breathing in heavily, though shallowly within his throat, Hoffman made the
first step in to the room; his demeanour changed inexplicably as he did so. The
change was in no way subtle to the on-looking Jasper. He went from slightly
slouching, a pouty look on his face, to being well-postured and bearing an
almost narcissistic expression.
   Putting on an act for his keeper?Jasper curiously wondered. Something
definitely felt off; Hoffman was an acquaintance in crime to Jigsaw, but from
what he’d seen in the short time knowing the double agent detective, it was
almost forced. Hoffman hadsaid that he had no choice in the matter, but Jasper
hadn’t considered that the situation might be more than simple blackmail.
Things were looking more and more grim, and oh so curious.
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