House of the Rising Sun
American Horror Story/ Far Cry 3 crossover AU: Vaas, at age 19, travels to New Orleans with a dying Hoyt on a quest for eternal life and wind up on the doorstep of a mysterious woman, a strange land, and magic that can bring back the dead, contact the spirits, and discover your truest self.
Vaas, in his short life, has traveled to many places outside of his small island before he graced the age of fifteen. Egypt, Brazil, India, Taiwan, Ghana to name a few, all countries that have graced his feet and greeted him in bright colors and vibrant cultures. Despite there being nothing more than the trafficking of human life and drugs, it's an experience that not many on Vaas' island can do. He learned three languages next to his native tongue and Spanish, studied the various weapons and spices he uses for his food and combat, shared beds with countless lovers who thrive on his exoticism.
He lives a life many people dream of.
When Hoyt told Vaas to pack his bags and travel with him to another foreign land, he was more than ready.
The United States was one of the few places Vaas never gotten a chance to see; stories of fat white men with guns run through his mind and he giggles. What part of the United States will they go to, he wonders? Texas, where everything is big and they gorge themselves on pork? California, where the sun is always shining and cute girls in bikinis and shorts flounce around in tanned skin and blonde hair like the commercials? New York, where it's fast paced, smells like pollution, and is filled with fast-talkers in expensive suits?
The possibilities are endless.
Instead, Vaas learns he's going to none other than New Orleans, Louisiana. No one told him about such a place; will it be like New York? Los Angeles? Texas, perhaps? Hoyt burst his bubble; it's a filthy place filled with swamps, decay, and 'niggers'. Hoyt hates this place and the people; he'd say vehement things about how terrible the food tastes, how the music sounds like garbage, how their customs are unlike anything he's ever seen before. But there is one good thing Hoyt will speak of when he mentions the place, one particular name on his tongue that he'll go on and on about with heaping amounts of praise and mysticism.
Marie Laveau, 'Voodoo Queen of New Orleans'.
It was a title that was foreign to Vaas; he doesn't even know what voodoo is, outside of the films and the stories Pierre would tell from his homeland in Haiti. He thinks of dark-skinned men beating drums as snakes and zombies dance around fire, dripping with blood from a sacrifice. He thinks of innocent white women screaming for help as they become the next victims…it's barbaric, violent, and oh so strange…
Why would Hoyt want to go to such a place?
Hoyt coughs loudly, blood spurting on to the handkerchief he clutches in his hand.
He's been sick like this for weeks; the doctor is still scrambling to figure out what's wrong with him but found nothing. They say from the progression of whatever it is, Hoyt could be dead within months, weeks maybe.
Hoyt is a dying man, a truth that Vaas tries to ignore no matter how much it stares him in the face.
Hoyt, despite his violent outbursts and blatant racism, is the closest thing to a father figure he's had on this island since his biological father's brutal death by foreigners. Hoyt placated the native boy with praise, money, and enough drugs to kill an elephant three times over; Vaas felt, in his young teenaged life, he had a purpose outside of his small-minded island and customs. To see Hoyt going through this puts a hole in his heart; it's like losing his father all over again.
"She'll fix this," he coughs out, "she'll fix this and I'll be stronger than ever, my boy." He looks up to the sky.
"I'll be immortal. My legacy will never die."
Vaas stares out into the backseat window, a strange feeling in his gut settling in. This place isn't the India, the smooth roads of Ghana, or even the glossy skyscrapers of the American magazines he'd pilfer. It's Gothic, decadent, yet…comfortable. Like it'd been waiting for him his whole life. Every mile the car drove through New Orleans, the more he felt at home. It's like the city is welcoming him with their cobblestone streets, loud music of trumpets and street musicians, the eerie trees as their branches and Spanish moss seem to reach out and try to grab him.
This is a strange place, indeed.
Hoyt sits in the back with Vaas, playing classical music as he flips through yet another philosophical book about some old white dude who'd been dead for, like, hundreds of years. He won't complain like last time; when he said some disparaging words about some old white writer Hoyt loved, he pistol-whipped him so hard his teeth rattled. It's a miracle they're still in place from the amount of beatings he'd receive for his big mouth.
Vaas looks over at Hoyt, and notices how much he's deteriorating. His once youthful face is gaunt, bones creeping to the surface. He looks frail, delicate; if Vaas hugged him or even blew he'd snap in half and wither away in the breeze.
He pities him.
The driver pulls up to a two-story house with the sign: 'Cornrow Avenue', a drawing of a dark-skinned woman with braids cascading down her shoulders under the purple brim of her hat greeting him.
"This looks…primitive." Hoyt sniffs. The driver opens the door for them and they make their way to the front door. Hoyt knocks softly and is answered by a tall, dark-skinned man wearing a white tank top and sagging jeans.
"You lost 'round here, white boy?" he sneers at Hoyt in a foreign accent Vaas can't decipher.
"I'm old enough to be your father, you overgrown monkey." Hoyt fires back. That seems to set the man off.
"You want to die today?" the man lifts up his shirt to reveal a gun; Vaas pulls out his out of reflex. The man cackles.
"White man making a brown child do his dirty work? I ain't surprised." He looks down at Vaas.
"How old are you, boy? Where your mama stay at?"
"Maurice! Who is at the door?"
"Some white boy and his little brown child. Pussy decided to make his little help do 'is dirty work." The man answers. He is pushed aside and at the foot of the door is a tall, intimidating, dark-skinned woman who's two shades lighter than the man. She wears a deep red pant suit with long black braids falling down her back.
"State your business. You're on my property and I'm not the one you want to get on the wrong foot with."
Her voice is smooth, deep, and dripping with no-nonsense; she could smell bullshit a mile away and has no time for games.
Vaas likes her.
"We are here to see Marie Laveau." Vaas answers, cursing himself for his insolence. The woman looks down at him and smiles softly.
"You lookin' right at her, 'chile." She waves her hand over her frame for emphasis.
"I knew y'all were comin'. I've been waiting for you," she nods at Vaas, "for a long time,"
"Me?" Vaas' eyes widen.
"This city talks. It wants you. You didn't come here for just some gumbo and a dream. You came here to find your purpose, 'chile. And it's right here." She beckons them in.
"This has been waiting for you all along."