Chapter 26:
Mercy
Vaas crouches low in the dirt, hand posed over his machete. An insect crawls up a tree, oblivious to its possible threat. But that's not what Vaas is after. He's after the sap that the tree secretes. The sap halts the toxin from doing any further damage; all he needs is the mucus of an Amanaki frog and the fruit of…what was that damn fruit? Vaas can't remember.
Dominique snores softly in his ear. She's not bad as a human backpack.
At least she's warm.
"Fuck me, man. You just had to get pricked by a plant that's antidote requires more work than it's worth." He muses. He stands up, Dominique's weight supported by the wrap around his waist. He slides out the machete and after checking for any possible threats gets to work.
Cutting the bark with three clean slices, he collects the sap into an empty liquor bottle he found and secures it tightly with a leaf and piece of string. Before he could put it in the satchel it slips from his fingers and splatters against his feet. Vaas slices through foliage with manic swipes, sleep deprivation taking its toll on his body. It's never been this bad; normally he'd sleep at least an hour a day and still function, but restless nights of keeping watch over his slowly dying mate (captive?) have cost him much needed rest. He's exhausted, hungry, frustrated, and most importantly, at his wits end. Dominique is going to die, and despite him trying to get the ingredients, it's no use. He can't save her, but he knows somebody that can.
"You are so fucking lucky you saved my life, Dominique." He says, swatting her ass.
"So fucking lucky."
He eyes the road ahead, trying to mentally prepare himself for the hell he's going to put himself through.
"Okay," he tells himself.
"Let's get this shit over with."
He reaches the entrance to the small community and takes a deep breath. It's been years since he'd set foot here; he stopped coming when he was eight. The church stands strong, despite evidence of a failed bombing.
He marches in, scanning his surroundings. It's a ghost-town; there were no children, no wary parents, even the animals are nowhere in sight.
Before he could get any closer, his ankle trips on a wire and within seconds he feels a sharp pain in the back of his skull and everything goes black.
"Vaas Montenegro. What a pleasant surprise."
Vaas comes to. A woman holds him at gun point, the glint of her cross blinding his right eye from sunlight. He's surrounded; guns and knives jammed into his face and neck, even while he holds his hands up in surrender.
"Could've sworn we made a treaty stating that you set foot on our turf it's grounds for war, brother. State your purpose and it better be a good one." A man cloaked in his preacher's best says with a grave voice, his rifle cutting into Vaas' cheek.
"Times have changed, Padre. We got an American terrorist slaughtering our people by the thousands. More bodies than I could've ever racked up alone. I'm going to handle it, but I need a favor." Vaas says, finger pointing towards Dominique's unconscious body lying beside her.
"She's dying. She's been hit with Fever Lily. You can help her. I need you to save her life and keep her out of my way while I handle that American fuck."
"The day I see you save someone's life is the day I see Hell freezing over. What's changed?" the preacher asks Vaas.
"These are different times. We're at war."
"Well, would you look at God. He never fails to amaze me." The preacher says, eyebrows raised.
"We got your word that if we help her, you'll leave us alone?" a woman asks.
"You know me, Maria. You know how I am about my word." Vaas replies. Maria lowers her gun and kneels beside Dominique, fingers checking for her pulse.
"She's dying, Father. We need to tend to her and quickly." She tells the preacher.
"What is she worth to you, Vaas?" he asks Vaas.
"She's harmless. Couldn't squish a fly if she wanted to." Vaas answers.
"That's not the question. What is she worth to you?"
"A debt."
The preacher pauses, eyes scanning Vaas' frame before lowering his gun. The rest of his people follow, guns withdrawn. Vaas finally lowers his hands and stands up.
"Kingston and his men came by hours ago. We fought them off into a hasty retreat. They will come back, with more ammo, more soldiers, and more explosives. I can't guarantee your friend will be safe here for long." The preacher warns.
"Guess I better haul ass, then." Vaas replies. He retrieves his machete and vanishes into a hut nearby, seeing rows upon rows of weapons.
"They're still here. Just how I left them." Vaas muses.
"Understand you open fire you'll be gunned down swiftly. I got guns aimed right at you, waiting for the signal." The preacher warns.
"Let me guess…Ricardo in the bushes 5 yards away, two gunmen hiding in the shadows, one disguised in the foliage right in front of me, and…is that…Camilla and Radon…15 yards to the left, peeking out through the church windows?"
"Sharp eye. After all those years, you haven't lost your touch."
"I never lose my touch. You know this, Padre."
"Before you go, you might want to wash up. You're stinking up the place with your offensive stench."
"How do I know you won't try to kill me?"
"We've known each other since you were six. You know if I wanted you dead, I'd have gunned you down without a second thought."
"Very un-Catholic of you, Padre."
"Never bothered you before."
Vaas chuckles.
"Clothes will be in the church, underneath the pew. It hasn't been worn in ages, so it might not fit you exactly."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Vaas winks at him. The preacher rolls his eyes.
"Be out of here in an hour. We need to start tending to our guest."
Vaas finds himself staring at his reflection, a new man staring back.
Weeks upon weeks of dirt, sweat, and grime have vanished. He wears a black cotton t-shirt with tan cargo pants that stop at his knees. His mohawk is washed away, leaving a mass of loose curls he ties back with string. His stubble had been shorn away using a machete and diligent patience.
This Vaas looks younger, saner, cleaner. He couldn't believe the reflection is him.
"It's time." The preacher calls. Vaas walks out of the church, hands fisted in his pockets.
It's time for war.