Author: SawManiac211 PM
A series of oneshots based on ten songs from my iPod - better than summary, see inside for more details.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama - Chapters: 10 - Words: 10,533 - Reviews: 29 - Favs: 7 - Follows: 2 - Updated: 12-10-11 - Published: 08-14-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6236936
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Brief explanation: A ShuffleFic is where you put your iPod, MP3 etc on shuffle and use the first ten songs – no matter what ten songs they are – to write one-shots. At times I will be writing one-shot based on some of my favourite Saw Fanfics, but I will say now: I do NOT own ANY of the things that the various writers have done/writers themselves, and hopefully you will read the actual Fanfics. Enjoy, and PLEASE don't make fun of my taste in music...
Track 01: Human – The Killers
He'd had it coming – that's what they'd all been saying: the journalists, the judge, the jury, even his own lawyer (although, of course, he was sensible enough not to say it out loud when the verdict finally came through.
But he wasn't offended: he'd thought exactly the same. And he wasn't too bothered about the hatred evident wherever he looked – hell, why shouldn't they hate him: a detective turned traitor, a dispenser of justice gone crooked. A man into a murderer.
To be honest, he was tired of the whole thing: he'd settled his score with Jill and it was too exhausting to keep running from what was bound to catch up with him in the end.
He wanted release, and he knew that the victims – living or dead – would want release too.
It was almost boring hearing all his crimes read out: he knew that they knew every detail as much as he did, so why go through the whole procedure.
"How do you – "
"Guilty." He interrupted with a sigh. He'd almost laughed at the man's face – he had clearly been expecting him to fight just a little bit.
"Are you sure?"
That had been easy: just one word.
Up to the platform of surrender I was brought but I was kind
Naturally, there were more journalists screaming for his attention when he was frogmarched outside. He'd expected that, and it wasn't much of a deal; questions couldn't be understood in the clamour of noise, so it was easy to ignore. He caught sight of Pamela Jenkins elbowing her way to the front and half-smiled – which was ironic, because that was all he could do after having half his jaw ripped apart. She started looking nervous, and that amused him – even in captivity people were still scared of him.
"Hoffman," one of his guards barked in his ear. "Move!"
Hoffman glared at him. "One second." He turned back to Pamela. She'd irritated him so many times in the past trying to get full 'details' out of him – he might as well give her his full attention now and finally give her the big story she always wanted from him.
She swallowed. "S – Sir, we've had reports that you have just received the death penalty over charges brought against you. Is there anything you'd like to say?"
Hoffman shrugged. Why not leave her with something to puzzle over?
"Pay my respects to grace and virtue, send my condolences to good. Give my regards to soul and romance; they always did the best they could. And so long to devotion: you taught me everything I know. Wave goodbye, wish me well – you've gotta let me go."
He left her behind and got into the van – the last thing he saw as it drove away was her confused face peering through the window at him. He knew she couldn't see him, though: the windows were all tinted.
"Weird choice of words." The guard next to him commented. "Killers' lyrics." He added.
"I thought I was one." He replied coolly.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
It didn't bother him that the sun was still shining when he was about to die: it had been sunny the day his sister was murdered, the day he never said goodbye. He'd met up with her earlier in the very same apartment, just sharing a cup of coffee and chatting. She'd laughed at something he'd said, and the sun had come out from behind a cloud and hit the back of her head, giving her a halo like an angel.
"Promise me you'll be careful, Angie."
"God, stop calling me that! And you know that I will be: Seth's a good man, you've just gotta look a bit closer."
He'd looked at the bruise painted carefully over with foundation at her left temple and said nothing. She'd smiled sadly.
"You don't have to keep looking out for me the whole time, Mark."
"You're my only family; I don't want you to get hurt."
"I won't learn from my mistakes until you let me."
"It'd be better if you never make them."
She'd laughed again, the sun catching the ends of her hair on fire, her eyes playful. "But that will never work Mark: then I'll never learn." The phone had rung next to her. "One sec." She'd picked it up and walked out of the room. "Oh, hey Seth!"
He'd noticed the time and left, scribbling a note saying he'd call her later.
He'd believed her. Foolishly, naively believed her.
Believed in her.
And look where that had got both of them.
He blinked. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't looked where he was going, his body moving on autopilot, and now he was inside and it was cold as death, and they were even closer now to his means of passage from this world to the next.
He should've taken in more of the world as it had been his last hour in it. Oh well. Nothing to be done about it now.
The straps they tightened around his wrists and ankles dug deep into his flesh: he winced and someone sniggered quietly. He knew that they wanted to put him in one of his own devices and watch him die screaming in pain, but they couldn't so they wanted to inflict as much pain as possible in his last moments as they could without being found out. That was understandable; he could live with that. Or die with it.
There was a priest doing last rites or whatever and he inwardly groaned: he had never been a religious man and he wasn't going to change his mind on his deathbed.
But sometimes – especially now, with a man shrouded in darkness reached for the lever – he did wonder whether something much bigger than anything he could possibly think of was out there, manipulating the lives of the living like a master with his puppets, like John had manipulated him.
His last thought, if it could ever have been written down or recorded in time, was this:
Are we human, or are we dancers?