Saw, its characters and settings, are being used here without permission and for no profit. Takes place before the first movie, timeline wise--my take on how Hoffman was "introduced" to Jill and Amanda. It does not take the events of the video game into account because I don't like what it did with Amanda's character, so HA! Comments welcome and appreciated.

Hoffman was dreaming about angels when his watch alarm woke him.

He fumbled for it, and cursed when his arm stung with pins and needles. The analog gleamed 2:00 am back at him. Disoriented, he sat up and tried to take stock of his surroundings: rusty steel, flickering bulbs, old books. He had fallen asleep at the factory again.

Hoffman groaned and tried to rub the kink out of his neck. Almost three hours had passed since John left, instructing him to stay put, and he had tried to spend the time studying one of many medical journals strewn about. The drool staining its open pages was proof of his level of success. He tossed the magazine aside and stood, squinting into the shadows. John should have been back.

It concerned him. In the few weeks of their strange acquaintance Hoffman had come several times to the old steel mill, but John had never left him alone there, and especially had never kept him waiting. Though not so hindered by his illness that he couldn't get around, John should not have been wandering the city so late at night on his own. Was he conducting another game that he didn't want his accomplice aware of? Had he been picked up by an over-eager cop? The possibilities made Hoffman nervous, and he reached for his cell phone only to remember he had no way of contacting him.

A door on the first floor creaked open.

Hoffman sighed, and started to head for the stairs to meet his supposed benefactor. He wanted to give him a piece of his mind for keeping him waiting so long, but he knew he wouldn't. John didn't care if he'd worked a full shift that day, trying and ultimately failing to get yet another gang killer behind bars. He didn't care if Hoffman showed up to work the next morning with bags under his eyes. Not that his coworkers wouldn't invent their own excuses for him.

Hoffman was so distracted with his petty concerns that he almost didn't realize the footsteps coming towards the stairs were the sharp clack of a woman's heels.

He stopped. Someone that wasn't John was crossing the entrance towards the loft. He retreated from the top of the stairs to stay out of view, his pulse picking up as he checked for his gun and looked for the familiar swine mask: he had left it in the back. He had no way of concealing his identity before she reached him.

He would have to kill her.

She started up the stairs; she seemed to know her way around, or at least knew well enough to avoid the right steps. A head of blonde hair appeared through the linked chain. She was carrying something long and thin, wrapped dark cloth--a weapon? She wasn't supposed to be there. If she saw one unfinished device, one posted blueprint--even the medical journals Hoffman had discarded only a minute ago--she might be able to figure out the truth.

He would have to kill a woman.

She reached the top of the stairs. She wasn't young but she was pretty. Hoffman's stomach twisted. When he shifted his weight his shoe made a scuffing noise against the concrete, and she turned toward him.

There was no time to contemplate. Hoffman lunged out of the shadows and reached for her throat, but she saw him coming and reeled back just far enough for him to miss. His grasping fingers caught instead on her beige overcoat. She was too startled to scream, but as he dragged her closer she swung her clothed bundle. Heavy wood caught him in the ribs and the unexpected force shoved the air out of his lungs.

He refused to let her go. Distantly he was aware of the horror of what he was doing, and the shriek that sprang from her lips as he yanked her forward sent a shudder through him. This couldn't be worth it. Her eyes met his and reflected recognition.

He reached for her mouth, anxious to at least silence her, but even when his thick fingers were digging into her cheeks she continued to struggle. She shoved a small black object between them. He knew instantly what it was but it was too late to retreat.

The pepper spray hit Hoffman full in the face. It stung his eyes and nose like daggers, and if not for the chain fencing next to him he would have collapsed. Groaning in agony he tried to rub his face clean, but the acrid particles were everywhere, burning and unbearable.

"Where's John?" the woman said amidst her own coughing. "What have you done to him!"

The implications of her words were lost to him, as was his concern for her. Blinded, panicked, and enraged Hoffman lashed out, his fist catching the woman in her jaw. The fencing clashed and he heard her body hit the ground. "Bitch!" he hissed. With one hand still scrubbing at his face, he followed the sound of her whimpering and fell over her.

"Who the hell are you?" Hoffman demanded, feeling for her throat. "How did you find this place?"

"I'm--" She tried to answer but his hands tightened, choking her. Her nails drew welts across his wrists and one of them broke off in his skin. "I'm John's--"

"Mark!"

He heard his name as if from the end of a tunnel. It barely registered as language at all until he felt the vibrations of footsteps approaching, and someone's heel came down like a hammer against his right ear. Fresh pain exploded throughout his skull and he reeled, slumping off his female victim. At first he struggled, trying to use the chain linked fence to pull himself up, but by then his agony was so great he couldn't maintain any semblance of equilibrium. He surrendered, coughing and gagging on the floor.

"What the fuck are you doing!" It was John. Had he ever heard John curse before? "What's the matter with you?"

"I'm all right," the woman croaked nearby. Hoffman still couldn't see but he felt her get up and move away with John's assistance. "Calm down."

"What are you doing here?" John demanded. "I told you..."

Hoffman let the rest of their conversation flow away from his senses. It took another two tries but he managed to sit up, grimacing against the continuing burn of the mace and his throbbing skull. "Goddamn it..."

A hand touched his shoulder. He flinched away, but it stayed, and someone leaned close against him. "Come on," said a new voice. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Another woman. Hoffman rubbed his eyes but that only made the pain more intense, and he clenched his teeth. "What the hell is going on?"

"Come on," she said again. Two skinny arms hooked under his armpit; there was no chance she could have lifted him, but she tried, and after a moment he assisted her. Once on his feet he swayed, but she was sturdier than she seemed, and he relied on her shoulder as she led him away from the scene of the confrontation. John and the blonde continued to speak in hushed tones that he did not bother to try to decipher.

The new woman led Hoffman to the bathroom. He couldn't see much of the too-bright fluorescent lighting through his watering eyes, but it stung anyway. When a stool was kicked into position for him he sank onto it gratefully.

"Lean back," she said, helping to position the base of his skull against the sink edge.

Hoffman allowed her to prod him, but he was still confused and dizzy, and he tried again to clear his eyes. "Who are you?"

She pushed his hands back down. "Stop that--you're making it worse."

The water turned on. The cooling sensation from his dampening hair was an instant relief. Using her hands as a cup, the woman began to ladle the cold water onto his face. At first it burned more than ever, and he hissed, his hands rising instinctually to halt her, but he stopped himself. "Fucking burns," he gasped.

"I know. Keep blinking."

Hoffman squirmed, and his fingers curled in want of a hold. Ultimately he his grip found the woman's hip, and he squeezed her denim belt loops. It helped, but it was still several minutes before he could breathe properly, and several more before his head stopped pounding enough that he could converse.

"That woman was John's wife," the woman said once he had mostly calmed. "It's a good thing we came back when we did."

Her words were so nonsensical that it took long moments for Hoffman to fully comprehend what she had just said, and what it meant. He grimaced. "I didn't know," he mumbled. He felt sick: guilty for what he had almost done, angry for having not been told. "Is she all right?"

"A little banged up, but I'm sure she'll be okay."

"It wasn't my fault," Hoffman insisted. "I thought she was a reporter, or a cop--"

"Aren't you a cop?"

Hoffman flinched, and though it was still painful he forced himself to look up at her. "Who are you?" he asked again.

His sight was not yet fully restored but he could make out the shape of her face now: long features, messy brown hair. She was young, and skinny--so skinny he could feel the sharp point of her hip bone beneath his palm. Her long sleeves were soaked from the water but she didn't roll them up.

"You." Hoffman recognized her at last, and he started to straighten up. "You're Amanda Young."

Amanda put her hands on his chest to urge him back to the sink. "Stay still, I'm almost done."

Hoffman relented. He didn't squirm anymore while Amanda used baby wipes to help clean off the residue sticking to his cheeks and jaw. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman look after him. Her fingers were long and thin, even soft against his throat when she undid the first two buttons of his shirt. When she leaned over him to give his hair a quick comb with her nails, her body pressed warmly into his, and he tensed.

"John told me about you," she said as she worked. "We've met before, haven't we? You carried me into the room."

"Take that up with John," Hoffman replied quickly. "It wasn't my idea."

"I know, and I already did." Amanda turned off the water and wrapped a dry towel around his shoulders. "That's why I'm here."

Suddenly, it all made sense. And it made him sick again.

Hoffman finally let her go as he leaned forward. "So you want in, huh?" he asked hoarsely. He coughed into his hand. "You like what we do?"

Amanda stepped back to lean against the wall, but the bathroom was so small their shoes still touched. "John helped me. I'll do whatever I can for him."

She sounded sincere. Her face was only a smear across Hoffman's swollen eyes but he could still feel the warmth of her body imprinted on his, as if she were still beside him. "If you really believe that he's helped you, you should get out of here," he said. "Get yourself a job and a place to stay. You shouldn't be here."

"Why not? John is doing good work." She lowered her head and her voice. "I know he doesn't have much time left. I thought with my help, we could save as many people as possible before..."

"You're right," Hoffman interrupted. "He doesn't have much time left." He slicked his damp hair back and straightened, trying to face her as seriously as the conversation demanded. "He'll either die out here or die waiting for his day in court. You're gonna throw your life away for that?"

"I wouldn't have a life if not for him," Amanda replied firmly. The defensive tone in her voice was too familiar. "I owe him everything."

I love him, Mark.

He was dreaming about angels again.

A young woman stood in front of him, all blurred edges and brown hair. A thousand possibilities lay before her and she was picking the dead end. And he hated her for it. "You don't owe him shit," he said, frustration making his tone harsher than he had intended. "I didn't put you in that room so that you'd end up here."

Amanda crossed her arms. "What are you so angry about? I thought you'd welcome an extra hand."

He wants to be a better man--he needs my help.

Hoffman lowered his head to his hands. It was just the continued burn in his eyes, he told himself. It was the smell of blood from his mauled wrists bringing him back to that horrible morning, the ringing in his ears reminding him of her long unheard voice. It was the mace making it hard to breathe.

Please. Give him another chance.

"It doesn't work that way," Hoffman growled, unintentionally echoing his own ancient warnings. "You can't save him."

Amanda shifted uncomfortably, and when he fell silent she leaned forward to touch his shoulder. "What did you say?"

"You don't get it!" he snapped. He shuddered and was suddenly of his feet, his greater size forcing Amanda back to the wall. His palms struck the cracked tile alongside her. "You think because you have blood on your hands now, you know how to save a life? You can't save anyone!"

She shrank back. Her eyes were wide but it wasn't him she was afraid of. Rather than reply she looked away, and her body went stiff against the wall. With a prickle of dread Hoffman followed her gaze to the bathroom door.

The blonde was there. She stared at them, more intimidated by the violence on display than the woman it was focused on. The bruises blossoming across her jaw and throat shoved stinging guilt into Hoffman's stomach, and with a grimace he lowered his hands and leaned back. Amanda did not move.

"Are you two all right?" the woman asked of Amanda.

Amanda nodded and kept her head down. "We're fine."

Hoffman coughed and lowered himself to the stool once more. He struggled over the words, but when they came out, he meant them. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

"I know it wasn't your fault," she replied carefully. "You were defending this place."

He couldn't tell by her tone if she truly approved. Maybe it didn't matter. "Next time call ahead or something, all right?" he said with a shake of his head.

"There probably won't be a next time." She took a step back. "If it still burns when you get home, try washing your face with baby shampoo," she suggested. "It might help." Without another word she left, her heels clapping loudly on the concrete.

She didn't apologize for the mace, but he hadn't expected her to anyway.

The bathroom was quiet in her wake. Hoffman plucked the broken fingernail out of his wrist, and was trying to compose his thoughts when Amanda put a fresh washcloth into his hands.

"You should clean those up," she said, with less warmth than she had in first tending to him. "Your ear's bleeding, too."

Hoffman touched the side of his head and felt blood sticking to his hair. He breathed a quiet curse and stood so he could reach the water again. She was still so close, but he didn't know what to say.

Amanda too was quiet for another minute while he hissed through his hand washing. At last she asked, "If you don't believe that people can be saved, what are you doing here?"

Hoffman's shoulders slumped--of course she would ask the one question he could not answer with confidence. There were a hundred answers but they all drained out of him, and even the most obvious didn't make it to his lips. "I don't know," he confessed.

Amanda took a step to her right to see around him better. "Is it because of your sister?"

The word was poison. Hoffman scowled and threw the rag angrily into the wall. "He fucking told you that?"

"Your name was in the paper," she corrected him. She moved again until she was next to him. "John only told me that you joined him around that time. Was that test--"

"It wasnt a test," Hoffman said quickly. He was tired of talking to her--everything she said made the ache in his gut that much worse. He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. "I murdered him."

Amanda leaned back in surprise. "You...what? But John said--"

"I murdered him," Hoffman repeated with determination. "And if I had the chance I'd do it again." He turned to face her better. "Some crimes can't be forgiven."

Amanda retreated a step, shaking her head. There was suddenly a look of horror behind her eyes that he could not tell if he had caused--she was more afraid of him then than when he had pinned her to the wall. "But he saved me," she whispered.

"No one's saved you," Hoffman retorted. "No one changes. If you want to save yourself, you'll get the hell out of here."

Amanda took another step back, but it wasn't fast enough for him. He glowered at her and his voice rose. "Get the hell out of here!"

She fled. An image of her remained, burned into the space she had occupied--an image of a crying brunette that was not her at all. Hoffman stared, his hands quivering against the edge of the sink, until it too turned and ran from him. Whatever warmth Amanda had imparted on him dissipated, leaving only a chilled and empty bathroom.

Mark please, don't be mad.

His shoulders hunched, and his lungs grew tight and labored. It was just the burn, he told himself again. The sound of agony clawing from his throat was only a phantom pain lingering past the moment of separation. He had already given up on salvation; what conflict was there to feel? Why would panic haunt the recesses of his brain?

Please trust me.

He had no trust left to give--trust had already killed him once. The stirring of hope and gnawing of guilt brought on by Amanda's wide eyes were symptoms of madness, he was certain of it. Only the perverted could dare to look towards enlightenment after what he had seen and done.

He took the towel off his shoulders, wet it, and finished cleaning his wrists and head.

At long last Hoffman emerged from the bathroom. He found John and Amanda in the loft, sitting at the table and conversing softly. Brown fabric was crumpled in the trash can and a handsome wooden cane leaned against John's side.

Hoffman snorted lightly. "Is that your birthday present?" he joked half-heartedly.

They looked at him. Amanda's stare was wary and cold, but John's was something else entirely. His eyes were not eyes, his rebuke silent but present. Hoffman shifted awkwardly and pushed his hair back.

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it even more than the first time. "I didn't know she was..."

John continued to stare, and Hoffman wondered if it was how a father's gaze was supposed to feel. When it at last started to overwhelm him he gestured towards Amanda. "Is she the reason you asked me to stay this late?"

John didn't look at her. "Amanda is going to be working with us from now on," he said.

Hoffman wanted to give John a piece of his mind, but he didn't. He wanted to shout all the truths he had already spewed over Amanda, wanted to rage that a young woman deserved better than rusty steel and empty promises, that deliverance was a fever dream doomed to be sweated away.

But the perversion remained: that grotesque and misguided hope that maybe, somehow, transformation was possible. It was not beyond his grasp.

Hoffman straightened. "All right," he replied simply.

"You'll help her, won't you? You'll look after her, help to teach her."

"If that's what you want."

Amanda was still wary. She glanced between him and John several times before speaking. "I'm looking forward to it."

Hoffman was still wary, too; but he thrust the memory of the image that wasn't her out his brain, determined that, for at least a little while, he would believe in her. And God help them both if he was disappointed.

"Can I go now?" Hoffman asked bluntly. He rubbed his cheek and winced. "It still burns."

"Go ahead," said John. "I'll contact you when you're needed."

Hoffman nodded, and spared one last look to them both before he retrieved his coat and headed down the stairs. He skipped the correct step. When he got outside he saw marks from where a second car had been parked, but it was nowhere to be seen.

He went home, showered, called in a personal day, and went to bed. He did not dream.