"Pre-paradigmatic," Jean agrees under his breath, following behind.

He has to leaf through a lot of scattered papers, though mercifully he does not always draft as much out as he should. Jigsaw is not much of an improvement on the organization front.

Eventually, though, he works out a couple of papers.

The first has the figure in the trap (5'6"? written by the curve of its back) bent forward instead of lying back, chin on a block, sprayers still arranged in front of the face. Its legs are shackled down to the boards it kneels on. The pumps and circuitry are all contained neatly in the block that supports its chest. Rather than one chute, an arc of sprayers follows the back, two-abreast.

"I thought about this a lot. Back's supposed to be a safer place to get large burns. But it was going to be a serious pain in the ass to make adjustable. I'm not about to eyeball somebody's thigh length from red carpet shots. And I wanted you to be able to see everything that was happening."

"Thank you," he says, immediately.

(It's so good, to have seen it all. He's never once stopped thinking about it.)

He doesn't know how to reply to that, so he nods, and he doesn't.

"And I was thinking about what to do with the tank."

He uncovers another two papers. In one, the jug of acid is a more straightforward pouring water jug, with a tube protruding from the bottom, attached to the lever with pulleys such that pushing the lever forward tips the jug forward as well.

"Simple to set it up this way, but if you really went for it on the lever — you'd get it all at once, and the momentum might get your face splashed. Not fair, not making the choice even when you know how bad it hurts, and  — one wash wouldn't do enough damage with the dilute stuff I was using, and if I didn't dilute it that just fucking kills you if you don't do it in one pull. Doing it with pumps gives me a little more control."

He knows exactly how badly it hurts.

"What makes something," he asks, once he can ask again, "fair?"

It's a very important question. He sits in the chair by the drafting table and takes a moment to think about it.

"Few different things. That one, splashing your face because you pulled too hard, is — if you do everything right, if you do what you need to even when it hurts, you don't get the bad ending. Razor wire thing was bad even if the door wasn't locked because — the more you wanna live, harder you're trying to get out, the worse it is for you. And it's also — the instructions need to tell the truth. If I tell you your face is safe if you empty the jug, that has to be true."

"It has to tell the truth," Jean repeats, carefully, "and there has to be -- a chance to win? A path to victory -- one path to victory?"

He doesn't understand about the razor wire. He will -- soon, he will find a way to ask.

He nods.

"Tell the truth. A real chance to win. At least one path to victory. Doesn't need to be just one, but I think sometimes it helps them if it is. Means they only have to make the one choice."

"It's -- better? More beautiful. If they win," Jean guesses.

(He sits down on the floor at Jigsaw's feet, attending.)

"I want them to win. The whole point is to — change them. Make them somebody better. At least make them different. I don't want to kill them, that's just...killing them. Helps the people they hurt, I guess, but..."

He trails off.

"...it's just. Good when people get to live."

This much, at least, he understands. What else is art?

"Yes. Death is too simple a change. And tired, overplayed. Everyone does it."

He laughs, surprised.

Odd.

"Is it always pain?" Jean ventures, after a moment.

"...always in the ones I've done so far. But there's one I haven't done. For — somebody I know. That's something else. Pain's just...what worked for me."

He has a thousand more questions. He will ask Jigsaw questions all day, if he's allowed, cross-legged at his feet and almost unblinking, eager to learn.

He can talk for at least an hour. He tells him how it started, the rape, the need to set the world right in just this one way. He tells him more about fairness, about its rules and particulars. He tells him about his first project, his revisions, what seems to make things easier — automation, clear exits, less permanent functional damage. He tells him about his emerging theory — that the traps designed for just anyone aren't good enough, in the end, that to really make the change happen it has to be tailored to fit them, not just in body but in mind.

As he goes he holds tighter and tighter to the arm of the chair, speaks in shorter, more clipped sentences, takes more pauses to center himself.

And then he has to leave him, for a while, to lie down in the dark.

Jean sits by Flashdance, alone, for as long as he can bear.

It's almost three-quarters of an hour.

They're lying in Jigsaw's bed in another dark room, for another migraine, when Camillo brings it up. He gets up on one elbow to say it, even though it doesn't actually let him see Jigsaw any better, because of the dark.

"I want to marry you."

There's a sudden scramble as Jigsaw goes for the light.

"You what," he says, leafing back through a whole pile of inherited memories.

"I'll ask you with a ring and stuff later."

His hair is a big mess from being on the pillow, and he's squinting a lot from the sudden light. It's not the most dignified Camillo has ever looked.

"I just figured we should, you know. Talk about it first."

"Would it fuck you up with my insurance? —wouldn't it fuck you up if I get caught?"

"I'm going to get fucked up if you get caught either way. You can pay my insurance premiums if it makes you feel better."

He's been thinking about this.

"Why," he says, helplessly.

"Because I love you. And because we don't have until we're thirty to figure our shit out and notice that we should get married. So I'm noticing it now. You're welcome."

This is actually a triumph of personal insight.