Winterville

By: maninblue88

Copyright Notices: "Winterville" is a crossover story between the video game series "Far Cry" and the television series "Chicago PD". Therefore, all characters, locations, story elements, etc. relating to "Far Cry" are the official property of Ubisoft and any other associated entities. Additionally, all characters, locations, story elements, etc. relating to "Chicago PD" are the official property of the NBC network and any other associated entities.

Dedication: It's with a very heavy heart that I dedicate this story in memory of my longtime friend Emilee, who was the real-life inspiration for the character Abigail "Abby" Asher. Emilee passed away suddenly in January 2022 at just 29 years old. I had written my other related stories "Respite" and "Windy City Memories" with Emilee's awesome character and backstory input, as well as her wonderful and excited support for me and my writing. Honestly, I was initially very reluctant to even put this story to the page, but a recent conversation with Emilee's mom, Shari, convinced me to finally go forward. Thank you so much, Shari, for your permission and blessing! You're an amazing person. To Emilee, rest those beautiful blue eyes, sweetheart. I love you, and I hope that these stories and the character of Abby have made you proud!

Author's Note: This story is intended as a sequel to my very first fanfiction story, "Respite". I wanted to revisit Harrison, Asher, and the people of Hope County and show how it's been affected by recent world events, while also bringing Harrison and Asher back to their Vermont hometown so you all can get a sense of where they came from. Story elements from both Far Cry 5 and Far Cry 6 will be referenced here, as well as story elements from Chicago PD, so spoilers for both are implied.

This story in its entirety is Rated "M" for violence and language.

Chapter 1: Happy Independence Day

Santo Domingo
Sierra Perdida, Republic of Yara
Central America
July 4, 2004
12:59 AM

Ramon Orozco, a tall and burly bald Hispanic man in his early 30's, sat militantly in a rickety well-worn lawn chair on the front porch of a single-story white brick house with lime green siding. He wore a black leather raincoat, black and gray camouflage pants, black combat boots, and a wood-handled M133 shotgun was slung over his shoulder.

The small residence sat on the edge of a small communal housing area called Santo Domingo, which was in the municipality of Sierra Perdida located in the mostly tropical Republic of Yara. The weather for this seasonably warm July night called for an incoming rainstorm, and Ramon could hear and feel the wind picking up around him.

Suddenly, a tall dark figure in a full-body black Neoprene outfit rushed out of the darkness at a faster speed than any frazzled night creature. The build indicated the figure to be a male. With a black ski mask covering his face leaving nothing but a pair of hazel eyes visible, he quickly threw the shotgun and its strap off Ramon using his left hand and pinning his right arm across his throat.

"How many are inside?" the figure asked in English, his voice muffled by some sort of electronic device.

Ramon hissed as he struggled to find enough air to reply. "D…Dos," he finally said in Spanish before quickly switching to very broken English, "T…two people inside. My boss and his wife."

The figure grinned through the mask. "Two, huh?" he replied, "Now why don't I believe you, Señor?"

Four more figures, all clad in the same attire and with the same disguised voice, quickly joined the first. Two of them quickly picked up Ramon and whisked him away as the remaining two moved to either side beside their colleague while he propped open the outer screen door and went to work attempting to pick the lock on the inner front door with a special pocket-sized silent drill gadget.

The last tumbler on the lock finally popped, at which point the first man quietly began to inch the door open as he gestured for his cohorts to follow. The three men slipped inside to find the large open interior of the home to be dark. There was enough moonlight coming in from a window at the far end of the room to illuminate a queen-size bed up against the far wall.

The mysterious men surrounded the bed, at which point two of them produced flashlights from inside their suits and shined them on the middle-aged Hispanic couple sleeping in the bed.

"Gabriel Benitez!" the first man shouted loud enough to scare the couple awake.

The husband sprung awake, only to be blinded by the flashlight beam. Gabriel Benitez was a tall Hispanic male in his late 30's who sported a black combover and a well-kept black mustache. He was dressed in a pair of palm tree-print pajamas. "Who the hell are you people?" he inquired in accented English before tentatively reaching for the lamp on his nightstand.

"It's okay," the first man said, "You can turn on the lights, Señor Benitez. However, I should warn you that we're all armed and pretty quick on the draw. I wouldn't go trying to grab at anything else if I were you."

Gabriel's young wife, Inez, quickly woke up as her husband turned on his lamp and brought more light into the room. An attractive olive-skinned Hispanic brunette in her early 20's who was clad in a blue silk slip dress, she briefly yelped before the second masked man put a hand over her mouth and shook his head.

"Who the fuck are you people?" Gabriel once again barked.

With that, the mysterious trio of men finally pulled down their Neoprene hoods, removed their ski masks, and removed the ear piece devices that, up until now, had obscured their voices. "My name is William Harvey," the first man cordially said, "But you can call me 'Bill' if you'd like. We're with the Central Intelligence Agency."

"The CIA?" a now very confused Gabriel said, "You Americans have no legal authority here in Yara."

"We do when we're contracted by the Yaran Regional Police," Harvey clarified, "You and your wife are being detained in accordance with the treaty that the US has with this lovely Republic of Yara. In other words, you certainly cannot use your shipping connections to traffic numerous kilos of Yaran-made heroin into the United States."

Harvey nodded to his colleague, a tall athletically-built white man with a blond buzzcut, on the other side of the bed. "Max", he said, "Escort Señorita Benitez out of here quietly, please."

Max was starting to do what his cohort had asked when a sudden and foreign shadow caught Harvey's eye as it appeared behind his own.

Harvey spun around, withdrawing his nickel-plated Beretta .45 handgun from his holster concealed inside his suit, firing at the perceived target. The would-be shooter was a skinny, wired-eyed Hispanic man in a black tank top who pointed a Smith and Wesson .38-caliber snub nosed revolver in the CIA operative's direction. He was struck 3 times in the center of the chest as Harvey opened fire in self-defense.

"NO!" Gabriel screamed in anguish as he too was pulled out of bed and out of his house by Max and their other fellow operative, Nick. "YOU KILLED MY NEPHEW!" he continued to yell repeatedly as his voice got farther and farther out of Harvey's earshot.

Now suddenly alone in the house, Harvey holstered his weapon and sighed deeply as he knelt beside the corpse of Gabriel's nephew. He slid the revolver away from his grasp and put two fingers to his neck. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath as he found no detectable pulse on the boy, "He can't be more than nineteen."

Santa María Airport
Valle De Oro, Yara
The Next Morning
9:30 AM

Bill Harvey was at the ticket counter purchasing a one-way ticket back to the United States. Harvey was a tall and very athletically-built white man in his early 20's who sported a black buzzcut, and he was dressed in a black and white Adidas track suit and black combat boots. He held a tattered brown suitcase in one hand with a black Adidas gym bag slung around his shoulder.

"Señor Bill," a deep voice said to Harvey from behind him in a very defined Yaran accent.

Harvey turned around to see Juan Cortez standing there. Cortez was a short pot-bellied Hispanic man in his mid-40's who was clad in a white tropical shirt with red printed palm trees on it as well as a pair of Bermuda shorts. One would never know by his festive appearance that he actually spent most of his time training both Yaran freedom fighters and American CIA operatives alike.

"Buenos tardes, Juan" Harvey dryly replied, "or, better yet, 'hasta luego'. If you're trying to get me to stay here, save it, pal. I'm done."

Cortez put both hands up as he got a bit closer to his disheartened protégé. "Not at all," he said, "But I do want you to know that the efforts of you and the team paid off. Gabriel gave up his connections to the Yaran Police. They will be executing a big operation to knock out his trafficking network starting today. Thousands, if not millions, of dollars' worth of heroin will be pulled off the streets. That's very good work, Señor."

Harvey swallowed hard and sighed before nodding in response. "That's good," he said, "But who was the kid I shot?"

"Gabriel's nephew", Cortez began explaining, "Iglesio. He was apparently working as one of his uncle's personal bodyguards."

Harvey let out a nervous scoff. "And evidently, Benitez was too damn arrogant and dumb to realize that he was potentially sending a young lamb straight to slaughter. I mean, the kid was barely shaving, man! He was, what, nineteen?"

Cortez shook his head. "Seventeen," he remorsefully replied.

Harvey sighed a second time, this time even deeper than the first. "That settles it, then" he said as he extended a hand to Cortez, "Adios Amigo."

Cortez firmly shook the young man's hand. "Adios", he said, "Good luck, my young friend.

Cortez just stood there with a very desolate look on his face as he watched Harvey go through his gate and board a plane to parts unknown.