Don't know why I'm posting something no one will read but I needed to get this idea off my chest. Spoiler alert for the canon ending of Far Cry 5, a few shout-outs to Far Cry New Dawn. I take no credit for its villian, only the personality of the deputy.

Enjoy.

Part I: Unbreakable

~1~

Dutch was starting to smell.

The old man remained sprawled, belly-up, where Joseph had left him, the blood sticky on the floor, the ghost of his last breath framing his lips. In the gloom of the bunker, he looked like wax.

The lights flickered. Dutch opened his eyes.

"No one is coming to save you."

I woke with a start. Sat up so quickly my back seized and the handcuffs cut into my wrists. I forced myself to relax, my world, reduced to the foot of a metal bed, merciless to the urge to move and stretch. Then I looked to where Dutch used to be. Not even a bloodstain remained.

But there was Joseph Seed, sitting with his back to the wall beneath a Peggy flag, staring at me like I was a goddamned Picasso. Fuck, didn't this guy ever sleep? At least he had finally put on a shirt. Even though, of course, it was one of Dutch's.

I said nothing. I stared back. Not with defiance, fear, or loathing, because that would give Joseph some kind of sick satisfaction. No, I stared back as though the hypocritical shit stain were nothing more than a mildly interesting magazine article.

Joseph leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, head slightly cocked. The pale light only caught half his face, but I could make out the broken skin on his nose, the split lip. Courtesy of Deputy Hudson, bless her. But the thought of her curdled my guts, and my marble face budged just enough to make the fanatic before me smile.

The Question was coming. As it had for the past couple days, as it would for many more after.

"Will you pray with me?"

He waited, politely, for an answer he damn-well knew wasn't coming, and for several seconds there was no sound but for the storm raging ten feet above this tin can. Anger overwhelmed the regret in my stomach but I did not let it show. Much harder was resisting the urge to recoil as Joseph did something out of pattern. He stood, strode over and knelt, placing both hands on my shoulders. He pulled me more upright and rested his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I did not.

Never take your eyes from the enemy, a rule learned during My Time. That's when they get away. That's when they strike.

But Joseph never struck. Hadn't actually hurt me yet. After what his family put me through – John, Jacob, and Faith – I'd expecting this bunker to be my own little hell cell, and Joseph would be the biggest, baddest wolf of all. And yet he had not gouged trespasses into my skin or pumped me full of Bliss to fuck with my mind. He just prayed.

For a moment, I closed my eyes, and thought back two days...

"Attention. Attention. This is the Emergency Broadcast System. Take shelter immediately. Take shelter immediately. This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill."

Foggy with Bliss and shock, it took me several seconds to realize I was on my ass, handcuffed to the metal frame of a bed. Then, confusion. I'd been in this situation before. But instead of cuffs it'd been zip ties. I looked up and saw—

Dutch?

No. His back to me, this man was taller, and Dutch didn't wander around without a shirt – or maybe he did, who knew? – and he had dark hair tied back in a dinky little man bun.

Brains were scrambled by the crash, they had to be. Dutch had pulled me from the wreck, as he had done from the river all those weeks ago, and was now toying with the radio, waiting for me to come to...

A cameo jacket suddenly caught my eye, and I looked over to see the old man spread-eagle on the floor, a trickle of blood oozing from his mouth, into his white goatee. His head was tilted back just enough so I could see his face, so there would be no mistaking the extent of the damage my choices had made.

The radio clicked off.

"You know what this means?"

I looked up, unable to soldier my face before the Father met my eye, a new, perverted stars 'n' stripes now on the wall behind him. Above us, the earth roared in agony.

"It means the politicians have been silenced." He stepped closer. "It means the corporations have been erased."

Closer. I drew my knees to my chest, pressed my back against the wall. Joseph raised his hands and tilted his head back, loving devotion to his patron softening his face.

"It means the world has been cleansed with God's righteous fire..."

My head throbbed. Everything hurt. The Father lowered his hands, now gazing at me, predatory and triumphant.

"But most of all..." He knelt and leaned in close, until I could smell the smoke and blood and sweat, "It means I was right."

I could not hide the fear, my brain struggling to comprehend what had just happened. What was going to happen. Nothing, not my pop's ramblings, not My Time in the Middle East, not the backwoods battles I had just fought, could have prepared me for this: the ending of the world.

"The Collapse has come," said Joseph, sitting in a chair but still leaning forward, no doubt getting off on my expression. In the dim light I could make out the swallow tattoos under his clavicle, Sloth sliced into his right shoulder. "The world as we know it is over. I waited so long. I waited so long for the prophecy God whispered in my ear to be fulfilled. I prepared my family for this moment..." He reached as though to cup my cheeks, but didn't quite make it. The Peggy-cross pendant was still wrapped around his hand. "And you took them from me."

The chair creaked as he leaned closer. Gone was the euphoria, his face twisting into that of a man desperate to sin.

"I should kill you for what you've done... But you're all I have left, now. You're my family." Quick as it came, the rage vanished, and Joseph regarded me as though I were a boy, a boy with a blank soul, a malleable will. My guts turned to ice.

Oh, no. Please, God, no...

"And when this world is ready to be borne anew, we will step into the light. I am your Father. And you are my child. And together we will march to Eden's Gate."

The earth shook again. Joseph looked up, closing his eyes as though it were the song of angels, and then leaned back in the chair, gazing at me, satisfied that he had me where he always wanted, at last.

When I opened my eyes, Joseph was still deep in prayer, holding my forehead against his with some kind of fucked-up affection. Evidently dear Dutch had squirrelled away a stash of mint toothpaste and Irish Spring, and none of Joseph's injuries – not from our final confrontation at the church nor the car crash – looked or smelled infected. Hell, even I felt fine, considering. Of course, after his victory speech on Day One, Joseph had seen to my beaten bag of bones of a body, during which the nuclear war blasted our planet in two, to keep in tune with his song; that I was his child, and he was my Father, kumba-fucking-ya. The asshat had even been gentle, cooing as he picked glass out of my forehead, pulled a split tooth and patched the bullet-graze on my arm. I was half purple with bruises and abrasions (none of which were as painful as they should have been, thanks, no doubt, to the Bliss in my system) and though my guts hurt, nothing had burst in there or I would have been dead by now. God's protection, Joseph kept saying, turning his grateful gaze skyward. Whenever he did this I would glance up as well, only it was much quicker and oozed exasperated skepticism.

Hey, I did My Time. I knew of hell. I knew of angels and demons. But God? Nah. You don't see a woman running through the flames of a bus bomb with half an infant under one arm and think, It is God's will. You don't spend a morning practising battle formations in the new birds, enjoying the sunrise and the joke your wingman had just told seconds before a mechanical failure sends said wingman plummeting to the earth in a ball of fire, and think, He is with the Lord, now. No. Bullshit. God didn't send those nuke heads on the glorious U.S. of A. because he wasn't in the control room, if he'd ever been there at all.

No. I was still alive because running around Hope County for as long as I did, eating contaminated food, drinking poisoned water, breathing polluted air, I was practically half-Angel, and those fuckers didn't know when to die.

It was the only reason Joseph was still alive too. He emerged unscathed from a helicopter crash, and later skipped around with two arrow wounds and walked away from a smashed vehicle carrying a full-grown man over his shoulders. For fuck sake, he claimed it to be the work of God? Joseph was as hopped up on flower power as I was.

He had to be.

Finally, finally, the Father pulled away, muttering the tail end of his prayer, and opened his eyes. They were blue, and his left had a dark speck in it. What colour had Sheriff Whitehorse's been?

He smiled at me, encouraging and understanding, and whether he meant it or knew it only galled me I didn't know. All I wanted to do was smash my head into his nose and break it again, because that look, those eyes, resembled so closely those belonging to a man I loathed almost as much as Joseph himself – John Seed.

He looked over his shoulder, to the spot I'd been staring at when I woke up. The spot Dutch had died. Then he turned to me again.

"You miss him."

Ornery and clipped he might have been, I respected Dutch as I had any of my superiors. He saved me from Marshall Burke's fate when it would have been smarter to hand me over to the Peggies, then watched my back as I blazed a trail of destruction and mayhem through Hope County. A silent trail, I might add. That's what I trained for. What I was good at. Sneak in, take down the bigwigs right in the middle of their festering army, let it panic and scatter, and make an escape.

But not this last one. Walked right into Joseph's nest and, without uttering a single word, gave him permission to end the world. He'd seen the defiance in my eyes when he offered to let me and my friends go. Hell, he'd probably wanted me to refuse. Then I blacked out for Lord knew how long, woke up in time to put arrows in Joseph's side and shoulder, then tried to outrun the hounds of hell with the Father – Dutch's murderer –in the back seat of a piece-of-shit truck.

His death was on me. Dutch's death was on me. He'd been safe and secure in his bunker, and I led the wolf to his door.

Why it took three days for this to sink in, I didn't know or care. I didn't cry; a lifetime's worth of tears had been spent years ago, for lost friends and family, that I didn't have it in me anymore. But I did close my eyes, wishing I could disappear, wishing I would die from my wounds like I should have done, just so I wouldn't have to remember the sound of a whirring saw blade...

Joseph had closed the door to the room he'd taken Dutch to, but still I'd heard it all. The dismemberment of the old man so he could be stuffed into the septic system piece by piece, so he wouldn't rot and get his revenge via aerial disease.

It was only practical. I would've had to have done it, if it were only me down here. So sue me for the spit of gratitude I felt for Joseph that day.

I felt his hand on my shoulder and jerked away, opening my eyes only to glare.

"You miss him," he said again. "You are in pain. You must embrace your guilt, my child. Only then will you begin to heal."

Fuck, I hated him. Hated that pitying look, the compassionate tone. I wanted to hit him, to kick him, to hurt him, but he stood, moving over to the radio and fiddling with the dials. As with the past few days, there was nothing. It was as if the world above had ceased to be. And, in a sense, it had.

He gave up and turned, leaning against the stand bearing the radio, and stared at me. This was not new. He'd done this every day since the Collapse, and although I was good at holding my ground, it both angered and disconcerted me. He became like marble, a lion with prey in his sights, and I was helpless to his scrutiny. My only defence, to gaze resolutely back.

...BLINK, motherfucker!

As though reading the command through my eyes, Joseph smirked.

"Hungry, child?"

Again, he knew I wouldn't answer. I was, I was starving, but like hell I was going to make things easy for him. Seven years of this? Seven fucking years? Why couldn't I have bit it in that truck with everyone else?

What was more pressing was the need to answer the call of nature. On Day One, Joseph had left me to wallow in my own urine because I'd kicked him when he came too close.

Yeah, I'd pissed myself when the tree karate-chopped the truck and knocked me senseless. But considering I almost died several times in that same hour, I figure I did quite well, thank you.

'So proud of myself for not peeing.'

The line came unbidden to my mind. Although this was hardly a dignified moment to recall my friend, I thought of Luke Lee who, at the time of that particular proclamation, had been slumped on the ground, his back against mine, surrounded by dead cultists. I'd laughed dryly, knowing that if I hadn't impulsively asked the man to join me but a few hours previous, I would have been turned into Swiss cheese by that ambush.

My reminisce was interrupted by Joseph's approach. He probably felt emboldened because I hadn't kicked him when he went to pray into my face earlier. So I pulled my leg up in warning. I could bugger his knee if he gave me the opportunity. He saw this and, raising a hand in peace, came closer anyway.

"Good behaviour should be rewarded, don't you agree, deputy?" he said softly. "Bad behaviour should be punished. Do you need to be punished?"

Joseph nudged a chamber pot with his foot. It was stainless steel, like the ones found in hospitals. And I understood. There wasn't anything much more humiliating than being helped to piss in a pan by another dude when I was perfectly capable of doing it myself, bar the fact my hands were cuffed. Things had gotten real personal real fast on Day Two, but it was either that or, well...

What made it worse was that Joseph went about it as though he were a fucking care aid, as if holding another man's thingy was just 'part of the job.' I tried to tell myself to get used to it, to add it to the list of things to get used to, but that...

Now, though, I recognized an olive branch. Outward appearances aside, I knew he didn't like helping me pee anymore than I did. I might fight the feedings and prayer time, but the freedom of relieving myself on my own was too good a prize to pass up.

At the same time, I wanted to keep my record of silence. So instead of agreeing, I unbent my knee, and Joseph accepted it. The handgun appeared before the key – my 1911, the one that kept me alive in Hope County, that took Dutch's life – and I held still as the cuffs were removed. I stood. I was shorter than the Father but no less built. I did not go for the gun.

I remembered the pain of hobbling around with an arrow wound in my thigh for weeks after Jacob Seed's Hunters tracked me down, and I didn't fancy a second round with a close-ranged bullet.

The pistol was aimed at my heart as I turned from Joseph, not meeting his eye, and stepped out of the bedroom. Across the way was the infirmary, an armoury next to it. On my right, neighbouring Dutch's bedroom, were the barracks. I guess the old man had anticipated having to shelter others, or had given passers-by lodging time to time. Joseph was too big a dick to allow me to stay in there.

I followed the passage past shelves of supplies and food, including tomato sauce for days, into the kitchen and living area. The bathroom was behind that. It had been stripped of anything that could be used as a weapon – the tank lid of the toilet, the mirror, even the toothbrushes. I did my business and turned on the tap. The water was icy cold and smelled metallic.

It made me wonder. What supplied the bunker with water? Had Dutch tapped into the lake? Or would he have thought the water too badly contaminated by the Bliss? And what about a grey water tank? Was there enough drinking water for two people to last seven years? Where was the filtration system?

I realized the tap was still running and hastily turned it off. What I needed were the blueprints of the place. Surely Dutch had filed them away somewhere. Not that Joseph would allow me the roaming time; I could feel his eyes burning through the bathroom door like lasers, and knew there was little sense barricading myself in here. Except in preventing the Father from having access to the crapper.

When I limped out, for a wild moment I thought Joseph had left. But then I saw a dark silhouette at the kitchen table, its back to me. I stilled. It was clearly a lure. But why? He had the weapons, and there was no running from this place.

Feeling like I was humouring him again and hating it, I crept silently towards the middle of the room (Joseph had taken my boots, probably to prevent me from using the laces to strangle him or myself) and took in the scene.

Joseph had set up the table, an electric lamp on his right, casting half his body in white. Before him were two plates with our daily rations and two shot glasses of apple cider. The fuck? It looked like he was expecting a date. But the only other person alive for miles was me. And like hell was I going to join him for that.

He raised a welcoming hand, that patronizing look back on his face.

"Please, deputy. Dine with me."

Dine was a strong word. Dutch had kept fresh food around while waiting for the storm to hit, and there was no sense in letting it rot just to make it last longer. But still, there were only a couple carrots, a handful of grapes and some cheese on either plate. I knew it would be a feast of kings in a couple weeks time. Still, the thought of sitting with Joseph churned the bile in my empty guts.

He stood, arm still raised, reaching to grasp my shoulder. I drew away, not bothering to hide my revulsion, and yet he kept that infuriatingly compassionate expression plastered on his face and beckoned me closer. Again I was reminded of his brother, Johnny Fucking Apple Seed, and a prickling between my shoulder blades told me I was afraid.

"Come, I won't bite."

I scowled at his raised arm. I'd shot that shoulder. I'd driven a broadhead into it from ten yards – it should have been torn and useless and his arm should have been imprisoned in a sling. He followed my eyes and smiled, rotating the arm.

"It is mending quite well, don't you agree? I suppose you're wondering how you could have missed my heart, when you had managed to slay my whole family, and many more besides, with the same weapon. I know, I can see the killer in your eyes, like a shadow in the night. It is old. You had it in you long before you came to this place."

As usual I said nothing. He knew nothing of my past, and if he thought he could weed it out of me, he was in store for a hellova lot of ignored promptings.

Yes, I did use a bow to slay his family and yes, I did get snorted at by fellow Resistance members for preferring it over even silencers. But I grew up archery hunting, and during My Time I learned where to hit a man so that he fell without a sound, either by blasting apart his airway or winding him from the back or diaphragm. On top of that (although it disgusted me) the arrows could be retrieved and reused.

The only time the bow failed me was three days ago, when two arrows did not put the last Seed in the ground.

The silence, I realized, had gone past defiant and was now just uncomfortable. The only food I'd get that day was sitting on a table five feet away. I stared at it. The lack of protein and carbs would make me feel hungrier. Clenching my teeth, I turned my back.

"You can fight me, deputy, and you will, for many days to come," said Joseph. "But I will always be here, as God will always be here, and when you are ready, we will listen."

I went to leave, but in the silence it was impossible not to hear the safety clicking off on the handgun. So I slumped on the tartan couch, facing that sack of horse cum as he gave thanks to his God and then began to eat. The fish tank cast a blue glow through the room. I counted ten fish darting around. The eleventh was being nibbled at by its brethren.

When Joseph finished, he put away what I had refused, cleaned the dishes, and then shepherded me back to Dutch's bedroom, where I cuffed myself to the bed and was left with my thoughts.

Day 4

The deputy fights me. The spirit of war rides strong within him, as it did my brother. And like my brother he will twist his guilt, cow it into submission and burn it as fuel, so he won't have to feel it, to accept it, to learn from it.

I have been watching him closely since the Collapse, observing his actions and reactions to everything. He has held his tongue, perhaps thinking it would deprive me of decent company. He refused food at the table, scoffing my offer to meet a basic need as equals. He did, however, allow me to release him so he could perform bodily functions on his own, affirming his Pride is as bold as ever. It would seem not even a nuclear bomb could burst his greatest sin.

I do still disagree with John. That it is not Wrath but Pride what brought us here. The deputy is an angry soul, true, but when I, when God, offered to let him leave with his friends, he was too proud to accept. When he tried to kill me, God came to my aid and fulfilled the prophecy in one magnificent sweep.

It needn't have ended there. God was willing to allow us more time, time to rebuild our family, to prepare for the Collapse. But the deputy forced His hand, by slaughtering his chosen and his shepherds.

I must make him understand. It will take time. Years, perhaps. And for that, he must survive the first trial.

I have begun to rewrite the Word. The old man who built this bunker stored everything I need to do so. And, thanks to his sacrifice, I even have what I need to bind and cover the pages...

Credit to Ubisoft's Far Cry 5 for the "Collapse Ending" dialogue and scene.