Disclaimer: I do now own Far Cry only the character in it. I mostly based it on the third and fourth games. I would like to thank citra-talugmai for editing this chapter.
In a country you would never find on the map because the government took it out there's a jail that makes Guantanamo Bay look like an amusement park. A dreary place where if you weren't dead by tomorrow morning then you'd wish you were. The newest prison mate's name is Ian. Ian is one hundred percent American, born in America, and having the documents to prove he was America. Six years ago he was a novelist. He had a wife, two children, a mother, a father, and a great uncle if you would believe it. Now he's in jail.
"You telling me the rats here taste better than the food?" Ian asked his cellmate.
"Yeah, at least rats can kill me from disease faster than this crap. It doesn't even belong in the environment. It tastes much, much worse."
Ian picked at his food before giving up and looking around. There wasn't much to see, a man with a bald head covered in scars was doing chin-ups, another was hitting a punching bag, drenched in sweat. Various other inmates milled around the prison yard, most were just looking for a shady spot to sit down on.
One man appeared unbothered by the heat. His black hair was cropped short, his dark skin a stark contrast to the crisp white pages of the Bible he was reading.
A bell sounded, signalling the end of dinner and free time.
"Inmates back to your cells," shouted the prison Warden.
And thus began the slow shuffle of prisoners returning their trays - most food only picked at – and the line back to the cells slowly grew.
Ian lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling. For two hours now he'd been trying to fall asleep with no luck. Every time he started to drift off to sleep he would wake with a start. At least lack of sleep wasn't unusual for him, it had been months since he'd had a proper nights rest. Out of the corner of his eye Ian saw a flash of movement. He sat up, instantly alert, eyes searching for whatever he made the movement. After a few minutes he calmed down, unable to see anything without a proper light. He'd probably just imagined it anyway. He lay back down and closed his eyes only to feel something climb his leg. He froze hoping that it was just lack of sleep causing the feeling, but knew that there was definitely on his leg. He cracked one eye open and then the other and sure enough, a big grey rat was sitting on his leg. Ian stared at it in horror, waiting for it to bite him, but the rat only looked at him, it's big brown eyes almost seemed friendly. Slowly, Ian held out his hand, watching to see if it would run away. When his hand was less than an inch away and it didn't flee, Ian went to pat it. The rat seemed to enjoy being stroked and Ian smiled for what felt like the first time since entering this godforsaken prison. Eventually the rat scampered off his leg and disappeared underneath his bed, Ian lay back down and tried once again to fall asleep.
A boy, roughly the age of fifteen held a can filled with petrol, a lighter on his backpack. The teenager smiled, a smile that was surely too evil for such a young age.
"You know, everyone has those moments, Ian. Those moments when they think they're smarter than everyone. They think they're invulnerable to death… kind of like a god. If I listened to my first instinct I would be a Grade 10 boy who loves your novels. I would be feeding horses and husking corn. But you... Ian...you took that from me. You think there's a chance of breaking out of prison? You can kiss my ass. Come on Ian. Think of the walls as my ass and start kissing it."
Ian woke with a start. That dream again. It had plagued almost as long as he'd been in prison. A wave of guilt and regret washed over him.
"You used to be a sweet little boy, Ally," he murmured.
Ian felt something on his leg and looked up, the rat had come back. He began to stroke it's head again as he began to think about the series of events that had trapped him in this hellhole.
Six years ago.
Ian lay back in his chair, a smile on his face as he finished signing the books of the last group of people. All those years of studying literature and watching monster movies had finally paid off. Now, he was sitting in front of his favourite bookstore, signing copies of his book. Wolf People had instantly been a best seller and now a few film companies were even eyeing a movie deal. Now that would be a dream come true and his agent thought it was pretty likely too.
"Excuse me, are you the author of Wolf People?"
Ian looked up to see a forty-something year old woman with dark hair and her son.
Ian nodded his head, "Autograph?"
"Not this time. My son wants to be a writer in the future and he was wondering how you become an author."
Ian smiled at the boy, "Well it's something you can't just wish for one day and expect to happen. A novel has to have the basics such as good grammar and an interesting plot, but it also has to have passion. I always told myself do something worth writing or write something worth reading. And since I have a big case of ADHD, writing came pretty easily to me. I struggled with most of my subjects at school except English because I always got distracted and wrote short stories. What do you write?"
" He-"
" Mom, I want to tell him," the boy interrupted, " I have a one hour nap and write down the things that appear in them."
Ian nodded, " That's a good idea. Do you dream about real things or things like the stuff I write: fiction?"
The boy smiled, giving Ian a chill down his spine.
"I dream about death. Men turning from good people into bad people. I dream about blood and crazy people. People who pray to Pagan Gods. Insanity."