As he usually does, in solitary circumstances, Jean contemplates art.

The music gives him little insight into Jigsaw's process, so far. He imagines it, anyway, overlaid on the chair, the chains, the acid. Perhaps it will illuminate.

The trunk pops open, and the light of the morning pours in.

They're out in the country. It's still, and cold, and quiet.

Jigsaw comes around to help him out of the trunk.

He comes out into the clear light of the morning, and he looks at his rescuer with awe.

His specific condition is even more obvious in the light of day. No eyebrows, no hair under the hat, deep dark hollows around the eyes.

He looks back for a long moment, meeting his eyes, searching.

“…stick behind me for a second. Gotta take down the security.”

He heads for the door.

Jean is fascinated, of course, by this security, attentive with every fiber of his being, alive to the possibilities.

(He stays well behind Jigsaw.)

He cracks the door, barely, and kneels down to unhook something at the very bottom before he pushes the door open. Takes down a tripwire across the hall. Stops by the stairs, as they enter the living room, slides off the wood of one step, switches off the pressure plate underneath.

He stops, briefly, after each one, mouths the list to himself, shorter each time.

Any one of these --

He follows.

They enter the living room.

It’s bare, but it has a futon and a couple of papasan chairs, a camp table unfolded between them.

“We’re good now.”

He stops, picks a phone up off the camp table

got him

thanks

putting him on

and then tosses it to Jean.

The phone is already ringing. He picks up. "Hello?"

"Chérie!" -- and his face lights up.

There's an exchange of code words, and a lot of yes, chérie, no, chérie. Some I'm sorrys. Some I'm sorry, buts.

Mission accomplished.

He wanders off into the kitchen. Comes back with coffee. Sips his own mug, very slowly, while he waits.

The coffee has some time to cool.

"Thank you," he says, when he's done.

He nods.

“I changed you. So you’re my problem now.”

The answer is overdetermined.

"Thank you. For changing me."

He transforms, for a moment, and glows like he’s been snapped and shaken.

Like it’s everything he wants in the world.

Yes. It's like a screaming crowd, but cleaner -- like the keen eye of a director whose vision he respects -- this is what it is, to be the artwork, beheld. The creator to his creation -- and he saw that it was very good.

The light reflects in his eyes.

“…can I see it?” he asks, following up immediately with “No’s fine.”

No is absurd. He's entitled.

He stands up, but his hand hesitates at the hem of his shirt.

"--I let them graft it. I'm sorry."

He blinks, takes a moment to follow the logic.

“—no, that’s— that’s part of it. That’s you living. Hang on—”

He drops onto one of the chairs and starts unpicking the laces of one of his knee-high boots.

-- would it be overstepping? -- the tableau is too compelling.

He kneels, to help.

He lets him. He watches his face, his hands.

When the shoe comes away the sock under it is obviously not quite filled.

Under the sock, the forefoot is missing, terminated with a dark scar. The sleek black plate underneath where the toe should be extends back to the heel and up the calf, straps holding it in place.

“There’s mine.”

It balloons immense in his mind, the significance of it, the moments that must have led up to this loss.

"You chose it?"

“Yeah. Drove my car off a cliff. Didn’t think I’d survive.”

He looks down, flexes the remainder of his foot.

“The frame got crushed, and I couldn’t get my foot out, shape that it was. Couldn’t get to my phone, either. And I smelled gas. So I had a choice.”

"C'est beau."

“…kind of was. Don’t think I’ve ever loved being alive as much as I did that night.”

"This is why. For love. I didn't understand, before."

He remembers, and stands to undress.