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Drip. Drip. Drip.
He feels like he's floating, caught between the collar cutting off his air and the ice beneath his feet melting, eroding away his last foothold on this earth. Eric was vaguely aware of the presence of the other people in the room, but he couldn’t really make out any details. He knows one of them is Hoffman, but only because he’d heard the other person say it. Whoever he was. Hoffman was off to his left, the person-shaped amorphous mass sitting down.
He was feeling a little slow on the uptake. Probably because for the last who-the-fuck-knows-how-long, he’d been caged like an animal, out of his mind with worry and fury, half-starved and sleep-deprived. He felt untethered to reality, phasing in and out of the present through no power of his own.
Despite all these factors working against him, he understood that he was dying, was going to die. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one. Either Hoffman was going to die right along with him, or their captor, or maybe even all three of them.
Drip, drip. Drip.
He doesn’t get this game. Doesn’t understand why he’d been kept alive for so long, why he was forced to endure another test. He’d already failed once, hadn’t that been enough? Jigsaw had beaten him, had beaten him the moment Eric had agreed to sit and listen to him. He’d played right into his fucking hands, too blinded by his arrogance to see it. The old familiar heat of his anger flares in his chest and clears his vision momentarily.
Fuck John Kramer. Eric was done with him and his bullshit. He was going to die in here? He was going to do it on his own terms.
He steps off the ice.
There's shouting from both men, panic and pandemonium. The man with the beanie grabs him by his legs and hoists him up, easing the pressure on his windpipe; Eric instinctively gulps down air, thrashing his legs, trying to wrench free, his body at odds with his mind. Hoffman shouts something at him, something about how if he dies, they both die. Beanie Guy confirms it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Hoffman’s not exactly his favorite guy, but even in his addled state he doesn’t want to be responsible for his death, so he scrapes his feet against the ice and tries to stay alive a little longer.
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound is starting to really bug him. The way it splats against the concrete floor is digging into the back of his brain, burrowing like an insect, but fuck if he knows why. Maybe it’s because he’s dehydrated, or because it’s a repetitive sound on top of everything else, hell if he knows.
The timer on the wall is ticking down so fast. Were seconds always this short? Why does he feel like he’s the only one out of the loop here? Hoffman is... calm. Too calm for someone inches away from death by electrocution. There’s something not right about this whole setup, but he can’t think straight, can’t put his finger on... well, anything.
He begs to be released from this hell, to be set free from these games. He’s so, so tired. He’s not surprised when his request is denied.
Drip, drip, drip, drip.
Beanie Guy is getting more agitated the closer the timer gets to zero. So is Eric. What is the point of this game? What is he supposed to be learning here? Or is he an expendable part of someone else’s test? If that’s the case, then who? Another cop? Has to be, if both he and Hoffman are part of it.
God, what if it’s Allison? If he knew her- and he did- she'd be ruthless in her search for him. However long it had already been, he had no doubt she’d keep going until they found him, dead or alive. She was stubborn that way. He hopes it’s not her; she doesn’t deserve this fate.
His half-hearted escape attempt ends in a pretty predictable way, but he gets confirmation that Beanie Guy isn’t Jigsaw’s newest partner, at least. Good to know.
Dripdrip drip Drip drip
It’s funny, the connections a man’s mind can make, even when its under so much stress. The dripping reminds him of a time when Daniel was still small, and he’d begged and begged for an ice cream cone while the two of them were out at the park. Eric had bought him one, a chocolate cone with sprinkles on top. Daniel had been slow to eat it, and the sun bearing down on them had caused it to start to melt, running down over the cone, the napkin, and finally Daniel’s arm.
The boy had started to bawl, inconsolable, even as Eric had tried to get him to eat it faster. The more Eric tried, the harder Daniel cried, and the more the ice cream had melted until it was all a sticky, liquid mess.
Eric had been so mad, he remembers. Why hadn’t the boy just eaten it faster? He’d pleaded and whined for the damn thing only to waste almost the entire thing. His heart clenches and he has to take a moment to breathe, make sure he keeps control over his emotions. He doesn’t even know if his son is alive. Kramer and Young had refused to speak to him, no matter how much he pleaded. How much he begged for just one hint of his son’s fate.
If he makes it out of this, he’s going to buy Daniel as many ice cream cones as he wants.
DripdripdripDRIPdrip
Something’s off. Something major. The dripping is coming from both sides now, not just underneath his feet. Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t add up. Hoffman’s still cool as a cucumber, sweating from the heat but otherwise there’s barely a worry line on that massive brow. He knows something that even the Beanie Guy doesn’t know.
Wait. He knows Beanie Guy. He's a lawyer, they’ve met. He can’t remember whose lawyer, but he remembers that part. He also has some stupid pretentious name, Banksy or something. Eric can’t remember. His head hurts.
Another drop of water hits the ground to his right with a soft ‘plap’ and he slowly cranes his head, trying to find where it came from. He studies the source for a moment, then turns back to face the door. Someone’s gonna come through that door. Even when the lawyer presses the gun and bullet into his hand, he knows it’s not going to help. He’ll try, sure, but the gun is heavy in his hand and his toes barely reach the ice anymore.
Guess he won’t be buying those ice cream cones after all.
He hopes Daniel can forgive him.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Multiple things happen in quick succession.
There’s a shadow at the door.
A gunshot. Another.
Shouting.
Then, blackness.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.