AN

Back in 2012 when I first played Far Cry 3, I certainly found Vaas very entertaining; but as for feeling attracted to him I did not. Then Better Call Saul comes along, with Michael Mando in the cast, and it makes me nostalgic for the game, which I haven't played in a good two years. As I don't own the game myself (sacrilege, I know), I began my re-acquaintance with it via The Far Cry Experience, whereupon suddenly I found myself developing a, shall we say, different sort of appreciation for Vaas; of which this story is the result. I hope I'm not too late to the already modest party.

There are a few things I need to make clear before I begin, though: Firstly, due to several inconsistencies in the canon, I've had to alter some parts of Vaas' history; it does not impact upon the story, but it bears noting in case canon is what you're expecting. I've also had to amend the official plot (namely: some of the geography, and the events of the game happening) in order for this story to work. Secondly, please be aware this story is rated M for all the usual reasons; I'm sure you can guess what those are.

With that out the way, all I have left to say is the usual disclaimer about not owning the characters, blah blah blah. Ubisoft and Michael Mando own 'em; I just borrow 'em for fanfic purposes. Righty then, let's get to it!

Track recommendation: Dadavistic Orchestra - Petrichore

PROLOGUE

In the day's dying light, she reached the hill. Despite not being incredibly high, it stood visible throughout many points of the island. She had glimpsed it several hours earlier, whilst picking a desperate way through the foliage of one of the other wooded slopes of this particularly scenic death camp, hoping she wouldn't have to climb it. Although littered with tangled weeds, patchy grass, and an array of tropical bushes on the incline, the summit itself stood unobscured. But luck had deserted her, and it turned out she would have to after all. Maybe if she dropped to a crawl when she began nearing the summit, she wondered, then they wouldn't spot her. It wasn't much, but it was the best she could muster.

Out of nowhere, a gunshot rang out from somewhere behind her – at least, assuming the breezy air wasn't distorting the direction - and she heard voices. All male; desperate, blood-curdling screams from a few; aggressive responses from their captors as they herded them like cattle to the slaughter. She paused, trying to get a better bearing on their location. Strange to find them all the way out here, she pondered briefly. She hadn't seen anyone for ages; yet all of a sudden here they were.

Then, almost a soon as they had appeared, the voices fell silent, like a mirage vanishing in the blink of an eye. No gunfire. No sound of animal growls, collapsing trees, or swinging blades; simply eerie, deathly silence. Perhaps the captives had been chloroformed, and their pirate captors, contrary to their leader's word, were now tailing her? Worse yet, perhaps their leader had found her? He and his men all carried walkie talkies, she remembered; she had likely passed by a few of them on her way, their stealth techniques too refined for her untrained senses to notice, and the crackling of their communication devices disguised by her frantic footsteps and the sheer pounding of her heart.

Keep moving. She had to keep moving, and not look back.

I'll give you ten minutes head start, that distinctive, Latino voice rang out in her head. His lips against the shell of her ear, it dropped to a whisper: Count yourself lucky, sweetheart. Hours later, she could still feel the uncomfortable tickle of his hot, tobacco-laced breath against the side of her face; the heat and strength of the arm slung claustrophobically around her shoulders; as if the moment was replaying itself on loop. She shivered, remembering those pale hazel, kohl-rimmed eyes, with their intense gaze and macabre gleam. She knew now that if she survived this, the memory of that man – that lunatic – would stay with her, forever. He made it his business to be someone you wouldn't forget easily.

Ignoring the soreness of her muscles, and the blisters on her feet, she climbed; her chin-length dark hair clinging, stringy, to her sweat-glazed cheeks and neck. As she drew nearer to the peak, she could make out something at the top... or, more precisely, someone - a solitary male figure in board shorts and a baggy yellow t-shirt, recognizable from the start, despite the distance. Martin – one of the men sharing the cage with her.

But how? Hadn't he been killed? Hadn't her captor said she was the only one to be let go?

How stupid to have blindly believed him. Of course she couldn't be the only one; where was the fun in that? He had been playing his mindfuck games again. But at least... at least that meant Martin was alive. They stood a better chance together. She felt a momentary surge of bright, dazzling hope. Thank whatever diety or dieties existed, because Martin was alive. He was alive.

He stood, back facing her, motionless as a statue. Just standing there. She paused, waited several moments, watching him, wondering if he would turn around; but he didn't. Was he resting, she wondered? Surveying the landscape? Scoping out an escape route? And then the hope that had surged so rapidly popped out of existence, to be replaced by a creeping dread. Had he given up? Had he lost so much hope that he had was now playing target practice, just waiting for one of the snipers to pick him off up there?

Keeping her eyes on him rather than the incline, she started up again. He continued to stand perfectly still, as if waiting. For what, she couldn't fathom; but it did feel somehow foreboding.

Nevertheless, she wasn't about to let it stop her. She couldn't.

Her right foot became entangled in a bristly weed. She tried to wrench the foot out, but the stalk was too stubborn. She had to crouch down and actually tear the damn thing with her hands. It left a red imprint around her ankle. No matter. Undeterred, on she went.

She had reached the halfway point; far too quickly, it seemed. It was as if she had blinked and suddenly found herself a good thirty feet higher up. She must have been moving faster than she thought. Yet, the remains of the light seemed to have faded inexplicably fast, too. No – there had to be a rational explanation for that. Night fell quickly in south-east Asia, didn't it?

She climbed further, further still, her attention steadily fixed on Martin's tall, slim form, as if looking away would make him disappear. Still, he hadn't moved an inch, and it was really unsettling her now. It didn't seem possible or natural for someone to stand so utterly motionless for this amount of time. It didn't seem right. Almost as if-

A trap.

No. No. Please, no.

They had planted him there, especially for her. He was done for and he knew it; and she would be, too, once she reached him.

Her rational side resurfaced, screaming at her to turn back. There had to be another way forward – one that she had overlooked. And if there wasn't, she would damn well have to make one, wouldn't she? But it was dark now, and unlike the wildlife her captor had warned her of – tigers, boars, snakes, tarantulas, and more - she didn't have night vision on her side. What if her captor was tailing her, though? If he was, then either way her luck had run out. Therefore-

She couldn't turn back. She couldn't, even if she wanted to. If she was screwed either way then she might as well continue the way she was headed.

Further she climbed. With every step forward, the trepidation grew, and so did the giddiness, but she fought through them. Nothing for it but to continue upward. Nothing. Nothing.

Less than three meters from the statue-like Martin, she paused, taking a deep breath. Martin waited, inert. Not that she could tell, but…was he even breathing?

She counted thirty seconds, and then started on those final few paces, at the same time noting how the breeze in the air had stilled. Paces towards her doom, perhaps, but it was irrelevant now. She had made her choice.

Onward.

Biting back her fear, she reached the summit, fully upright and visible as a target. It made no difference now – she had taken the bait. Her fellow captive stood less than a meter away.

What should she do now? Would she physically have to tap him on the shoulder, call his name?

Again, she waited. 10 seconds. 20. 30. She would have to make the first move.

"Martin...?" came a trembling voice, nearly unrecognizable as her own.

He didn't move. She waited, the silence deafening. Not even a cricket stirred.

"Martin?" she repeated, her tone more beseeching than curious.

Absolutely nothing. Absolute stillness. Impossibly, even her heart had quietened.

Cautiously she took what she somehow knew would be that fateful step forward, breaching the gap between them, and layed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Like a flash, he whipped around... and she nearly jumped backwards in fright. She nearly screamed, too, but the cry caught in her throat. Caught tight. Snagged like loose skin on a meat hook, like silk on a rose thorn.

Holy mother of Christ! What the-

With a gasp, Isabel opened her eyes to the dark confines of her bedroom. Awake, alive, safe.