DISCLAIMER: I do not own Far Cry 2 or any of its related elements. This software belongs solely to Ubisoft and its developers.
Note: This is my first fan fiction. The setting of this story takes place in 2010, two years after the events in Far Cry 2 so I'll be making a few changes to the scenery that you usually see in the game. The mercenary has returned to the country to settle a personal matter. Please be light but specific with your criticisms and reviews. They will be greatly appreciated.
It had been quite some time. An eerie feeling of nostalgia became his aura as he stepped out of the old bus that had parked steadily just outside of Pala. The blazing African sun embraced him with its familiar heat as its light reflected from his shades.
Two years passed since his adventures in the war torn state. Images of his life in the country flashed intermediately—guns, diamonds, and blood— followed by the echo of voices by the Jackal, Reuben, Marty, Nasreen, and everyone else. The sudden burst of memories left him temporarily paralyzed under the sun's heat.
It took the first trickle of sweat to snap him back into reality. He had been standing there under the sun just outside the bus station like the rest of the other men he used to see in those ceasefire zones.
He sighed. He walked to the open town. There were no concrete blocks. The sandbags were scattered on the side of the road while only a handful of the many mounted machine guns he used to see were still in place. But there was one signature of his experiences that stuck out—the troops.
Soldiers, most of them African, littered the ravaged town. Two years and the civil war was still ongoing. Old ones were gone, new ones were here. The number of white mercenaries that he frequently had staring contests with had dwindled to only a handful. They were replaced by teenage African boys holding automatic rifles and wearing their traditional rags. Some even had body armor on them, including a boy who wore a dented cooking pan for a helmet.
Ignoring the oblivious stares thrown at him, he walked to the old hotel he stayed in. It was still a mess. Even though there were some minor renovations, the place was still unfinished with its third story walls sticking out on top.
Inside, the bar was fixed with even more bottles of liquor and junk. The tree in the middle had grown. The tables and chairs were all standing up but a bit off place. The usual junk sat here and there.
To his left, he heard the murmur of two British voices. He turned his head and met the eyes of two British mercenaries drinking and watching television. They had the usual staring contest before the soldiers trailed their eyes off and continued watching "crappy TV."
He smiled and continued upstairs where his old room was. Markings of where they placed the cement made it obvious that whoever repaired the damaged wall were amateurs. He turned the knob and it swung slowly.
The same bed sat in the corner in Room 5. The old bed where he woke up to find the Jackal rummaging through his things and then sparing his life so he could help him cure the so-called "disease." He had nothing much to say about it. But he could so recall that very day. Fresh from the airport only to suffer malaria and end up in a crappy African hotel staring death in the image of a nihilistic arms dealer.
And then there was the church on the other side. He had a brief glimpse of Father Maliya standing near the shrine as he entered. The interior was still the same with only a few more beds added. He went to the shrine and let his finger slide down the edges. He remembered distinctly how he had his final conversation with the priest before pushing this big wooden box to the block the door leading to the back. Then the firefight with the faction troops.
He continued to tour himself around town, entering houses that could be entered and avoiding tensions with the soldiers. The old buildings where he took jobs from both Kouassi and Gakumba were renovated and occupied—made into an available garrison in case of an outside attack.
There was no line dividing the town into two sides. Pala was under one flag and that of the United Front for Liberation and Labor. He had made that happen two years ago—when he agreed to assassinate Kouassi so Gakumba could easily take over Leboa-Sako.
The tourist sat on the bench just outside the meager church. All-out war broke out after the civilian exodus in the south. The whole country plunged into a state worse than Somalia. It was hell. And it loosened up a bit after two years of fighting allowing people aside from journalists to enter the country. He was one of them. And as he sat there looking twiddling his fingers, he felt the dreaded urge to wreak havoc once more.