Lament

A/N: Apologies for lack of updates, I've been massively busy ^^;; Hope you enjoy!


"Swallow me under and pull me apart
I understand there's nothing left
Pain so familiar and close to the heart
No more, no less, I won't forget..."


Would he call it a lamentation? No, that would be redundant. And if he was anything, it was a man of principle, as much as the rest of society would deem him otherwise. He knew what they yelled at him from their couches, leaning forward as far as their guts would allow, howling insults at a box filled with voices and faces, of pixels, meaning nothing.

He knew. He didn't care. He was used to it. It didn't matter. It never had. It was over anyway.
What was the point in denying reality? It was present, it was here, obvious. He'd left it behind after she'd died, turning his back on his fellow man. His soul died with her, leaving only an empty chasm where he had once been human.

(What was human?)

Shoved ahead, hands cuffed behind his back by men he had once called comrades, they lead him through crowded streets, through the masses of furious human beings with their batons, their stun guns, their shields. Protectors of monsters from the ripping, clawing hands of the mobs that would love nothing more than to have his blood on their hands.

Endless words, blending together until he could hear nothing but white noise, muted among a million faces.

Fury.

Hatred.

Fear.

They were afraid. Humans always attacked what they didn't understand, feared those above them. What is a threat? The ruthless means of a psychopath like him, the blood of hundreds split in the attempt to rehabilitate, to save. Not that it had worked, he had never thought it would. He had seen enough of people to know that if humans didn't want to stop, they would never stop. They would shoot up, fuck, steal and kill even if it meant they were wasting their lives, spending everything they had for a momentary high that would only ever send them back to square one.

(Dystopia. n. an imaginary place where everything is as bad as it can be)

John had known. John had seen, but he chose to live in the hope that there was hope for them, that one day they would turn around, and realize that the only way to survive…was by cherishing the short lives them had. It was hypocritical in a sense but…it was the truth. He at least was a single voice among the masses of people that sought to prosecute him, to kill him for his crimes against society. He knew he had done 'wrong' in killing them, twisted the system to his own ends.

He didn't care. What did it matter? He was dead anyway. And if he were religious, he'd go to Hell. A welcome escape from the world above, the burning flames licking hungrily at his flesh would replace the reaching hands.

(Long is the way and hard, that through Hell leads up to light – Milton)

He would embrace it. He was not a foolish man, but he was a self-confessed idealist. Hell was beauty, this world was chaos. It made more sense for someone like him to be relieved before the masses of others joined him.

His father had raised him and his sister as Roman Catholics, taken God into their hearts at a young age before he realized that if there was a God, he was not listening to him. Nor had he ever. Why else had Angelina died? Why else did he find himself not caring that he had lost the game? His face was ruined, disfigured by the trap that had come so close to destroying his only competition before the real game had even begun. He had been arrested. By fucking Fisk, no less. The shock in his eyes almost made it all the more amusing.

He'd done his job. No one had known. A few had. They had been eliminated. Strahm, Kerry, Perez, Erickson. For their deaths, he now stood on trial, along with another long line of offenses he barely cared to listen to. What did it matter? The city hated him, wanted to see him choke on his last breath on National TV, to curse his name over a few glasses of champagne. A true celebration of the defeat of a new evil, in decadence, indulgence.

Disgusting.

John would turn in his grave at this sight. This was no justice. Or maybe it was? Wasn't he indeed guilty of the senseless deaths of many? Genocidal maniac, they called him. He wondered if they knew that that was such a large exaggeration of the situation. They liked to think that he was Jigsaw, that it was him that orchestrated everything under the façade of a dying old man. Not far from the truth, he conceded. If anything, it confirmed his suspicions of what the human race was really like. He remembered something Amanda had told him when they first started out doing…whatever the fuck it was. John's work.

"You know, society works like this. It works for a while, the drones maybe shoot a few of each other in the meantime. But put them in a life-threatening situation? They'll eat each other."
She was right. More than right. She knew. It was a simple truth and, while they might never have gotten on,
(understatement)
Amanda was a visionary for John's work. She believed she could make it work, that she could save everyone.

"Naïve little girl."

Once upon a time, she might have replaced his sister, becoming his project at succeeded where he had failed before. But…it was not to be. She chose John. He respected her choice, but it killed her. He killed her. It was for the better. He could have escaped, she could have escaped with him. But she chose not to. She chose to stay. She chose to die. Society didn't care. The masses didn't care about another corpse on the floor of the sickroom. He did. He missed her. It would have been nice to share the hatred with someone, someone to share a cell with for the rest of his days, if they didn't decide to kill him. Put him to death. They made it sound so humane. Quick. Painless.

The masses would scream for pain. They wanted to hear him scream as he had made countless others scream. Beautiful agony in their dying howls. He reveled in it. It meant rebirth, renewal, the end of self-inflicted horrors. It mean a clean up, it meant cutting pieces from skin. The trademark of infamy that doomed them all.
Amanda was dead. John was dead. Gordon was…he didn't know. He was the last of a great legacy that had produced nothing except newspapers, books and TV reports that rattled on for what felt like days.

It didn't work and it did. His method worked…on those willing to give life another chance. He wished Amanda had lived to see the proof that everything she had worked for wasn't for nothing. It wasn't a fucking lie anymore.
He smiled to himself as he was escorted into the courtroom building by his 'protectors', grazing his shoulder against rough limestone bricks.
Through persecution, they would all be saved but for now?

("Detective Hoffman, do you have anything to say for yourse—"

"Mr. Hoffman, what do you know about the death of John—")

"Game over," he murmured to himself, the sun casting its harsh white light on his eyes before it vanished as he entered the building.

Shame…

It should have been raining.