Disclaimer: I do not own Saw or Saw II

How much blood will you shed to stay alive?

She had heard it on many tapes, countless times. She often wondered why it was never said at the end of her own. How ironic, that the one who was willing to shed the most blood was not rewarded the challenge that those undeserving of the task were.

"Amanda," he called her. She turned to face him, slowly, patiently, surely, deliberately, as she was taught. Was it fair? No, but life isn't fair, she thought, remembering him and his own disease. The man who was willing to survive was slowly dieing on the inside… How ironic. He has no joy left in his life, no future; let him have his fun. Let him have his irony.

"Yes, Master?" She said back, never smiling. Wasn't it ironic, too, how the man who, if he were to shed blood would drop dead, was the superior to the woman—no longer the girl—who was willing to shed so much just to breathe one minute longer? He is old and he is sick, decaying, let him have his pleasure, let him have his oxygen mask. He began to cough violently. She rose—slowly, patiently, surely, deliberately—and grasped his oxygen mask in her hand, squeezing it tight, relishing the way the plastic felt under her fingers. She handed it to him. He took a deep breath and looked at her square in the eyes.

He reached out a hand to her, and she watched it. His eyes twinkled in delight. He's old; he has no joy, let him have his fun.

"How much blood will you shed to stay alive?"

She reached out and took his hand. The words caught in her throat, but she managed to get them out— slowly, patiently, surely, deliberately.

"All of it." She said. And then some, she thought. He smiled, inhaled, and then gripped her hand hard. She made sure to remember the feeling of his old, withered hand against hers.

"Then follow me."

And that was the last thing he said to her before she woke up in a room, surrounded by people who didn't deserve to live. Just breathing the same intoxicating air tainted her own will to live. But she lived. She shed blood, and she watched as it was shed. And she breathed.

Now, here she stood, with her dieing Master, her twisted Teacher, lying in front of her, sucking on that mask and smiling.

"Master…"

She said, and crouched down to look him in the face— slowly, patiently, surely, deliberately. His eyes were closed, but the smile remained, even in his sleep. She smiled back, briefly, and then wiped a lock of snow-white hair from his wrinkled and creased face. Then she disappeared into the deep.

He groaned and opened his eyes to darkness, wiggling his fingers to make sure that he could still feel, to make sure that he was still alive. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away. He tried to stand, but fell into a coughing fit. He inhaled from his mask, and then lay back down on the ground. Something caught his eye in the dark. A dark red X was drawn in front of him and he crawled his way towards it as far as he could before something yanked him back. Stretching with all his might, he managed to reach the X.

In the middle of the X was a tape recorder. He opened his hand. In the middle of his palm was a tape. With fumbling fingers, he inserted the tape, and then pressed play— slowly, patiently, surely, deliberately.

"Hello, John," Her voice echoed in the dark, almost-empty room. "I want to play a game. First off, you're old, you have no joy in your life, and you suffer from a terminal case of cancer. You happen to also live a life as the man known as Jigsaw, the murderer who teaches lessons to his victims. But what have you learned, Jigsaw? To truly appreciate life by desecrating others? What lesson will you learn today? Since you seem to love the ironic twist of things, John, let's put you in their position. You are currently in a bathroom, chained to the wall. You have with you a saw on one side, and the dead corpses of your victims on the other. You must get loose and search those corpses, who used to be living people, to find the key that will unlock the door leading you out of the bathroom. All in the dark. Can you live, John? Will you cut off your own foot and violate the bodies of the dead to breathe freely for just one, last second?"

The voice diminished into static for a while, and John's smile disappeared when he heard a soft laugh in the distance. The twinkle in his sadistic eyes faded away, and horror caught him in his throat. He was still screaming when her voice returned, louder then ever. Slowly, patiently, surely, deliberately, she spoke, even as the words faded into his ragged screams.

"How much blood will you shed to stay alive?"