Hello there.
I thought I'd try and write a Vaas centric chapter, to see. This could be a massive f*** up, but hey! I can always take it off.
Thank you once more for the amazing support and response I am getting with this story, honestly you're amazing :)
So Vaas is mad, there's no denying it.
He knows he's mad, but he likes to think he isn't insane. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting things to change, and that certainly isn't what Vaas does. He's trying out different things, he's using his brains. He thinks of madness as a refusal of limits. Insanity is repetition.
He's killed Jason Brody three times now, differently each time.
He's burned him. With gasoline, to make sure.
He's drowned him. With a stone attached to his foot, to make sure.
He's shot him. In the heart, to make sure.
When the helicopter crashed, his men told Vaas there was no way Jason could have survived it, but Vaas went to the site of the crash anyways and found Brody very much alive, so he'd shot the white boy. Point blank.
They took his body and threw it in an open grave, went back to the camp to celebrate, but Vaas still couldn't shake the nagging feeling at the back of his head, that somehow, somehow, Jason Brody had survived. So he got up, in the early hours of the morning, left his mermaid asleep in the next room, and drove alone to the mass grave.
And Vaas saw.
Dead bodies pushed up, moved away unceremoniously, their death shining white under the night sky. And Vaas dug. He searched. He spent hours looking, and Jason Brody was nowhere to be found. He'd crawled out, like some sort of undefeatable cockroach. He'd been killed for the third fucking time and he still wasn't fucking dying.
Why didn't I shoot him in his fucking head?!
A loud bang as Vaas hits his head against the car door. And again.
Why didn't I kill him when I did his brother? Why wasn't he the one he'd sliced open?
Jason Brody is killing his men, killing his mind.
All for fucking Citra.
He does feel for Jason, to a certain extent. He relates to him, he knows what it feels like to have his sister's eyes look at you with admiration. Makes you feel on top of the fucking world, way up in the skies. Why didn't I kill that bitch when I had the chance?
Bang, his head against the car. And again. And again. One more time.
In the evening, Vaas drove back to camp. It was that fucking lighter, wasn't it? How very fucking ironic. What a fucking joke, fucking hilarious. Vaas liked jokes but he certainly wasn't laughing now.
The other day he'd been interrogating rakyat warriors, the ones Jason Brody was so intent on getting out for his twisted bitch of a sister, and a prisoner would not utter a single word, so Vaas cut out his tongue, fed it to a cat, because the cat got his tongue, do you get it? It was funny, no? Finding a fucking cat had been fucking hard, too.
He got to camp and ignored the others. He pushed past Carlos, the only one who seemed to actually understand him on a certain level. Carlos had seen him walking furiously towards his shack and he just have guessed his intentions because he'd tried stopping him. Vaas himself wasn't even sure what his intentions were, he just felt the craving like never before. He craved her.
That fucking dog was in the way, why did she love that dog? Vaas was the human one, he showered, he took her swimming, he didn't lick his own fucking balls for fuck' sake, why couldn't she just fucking love him already?
He threw the dog out, and the next thing he knew he had her against the wall. His mermaid, his nena, and he rubbed against her, each movement sending jolts of electricity throughout his entire body, whipping his brains, quieting the nagging, killing Brody, smashing Citra's teeth out, quenching the thirst and scratching the itch. He grunted like an animal, choked desperately like he was drowning and licked her skin, her tender skin, then he bit her shoulder.
The agreement said that if she touched him in any way, he could touch her too.
She'd agreed to that. He didn't make it the fuck up.
She was the one who'd wrapped her legs around him, back there at the beach, in the water, she was the one who'd rubbed herself against him, driving him insane, FUCK, did she have any fucking idea of what she was doing to him? Playing him like that? Putting on that kind of sick show?
She'd agreed to the fucking deal, so why was she crying out in pain? Why wasn't she responding?
Puta madre. He'd felt a tear on his cheek, and it sure as fuck wasn't fucking his.
Vaas stopped. He couldn't look at her.
You're such a fucking pendejo, hermano. Way to fucking go. She's gonna love you now.
Bang, his head against the wall.
He dropped her leg, and she fled, she escaped him, she ran to save her tight, round little ass from him and his dirty dick. Hid in the room. His room. He heard her sob, and he hit his head again, and again, and again, again, again, and colours and thoughts and smells melted together then faded and he crashed onto the couch.
It was fun, at first. Meeting a mermaid, being saved, being deemed worth saving by such a beautiful creature. Making her fall in love him had seemed like fun, like a positive thing, something to look forward to and something light hearted and good. He'd been a warrior, a brother, a commander, a film director, and now he fancied himself a lover. Maybe that's what he truly is, his real self.
Now it feels like a matter of life and death, she's grown into his mind and heart like a delicious cancer, and he needs her to love him back. For real. He needs those eyes to look at him with love, needs to wake up at her side each day, needs her to say sweet things to him and only him, without fear, just genuine love and affection. He needs her to blush as he makes her laugh, needs her touch. Her gentle, loving touch. Her beautiful lips. He wants her moans of pleasure, her words of love, her laughter, her children.
He doesn't know how to make a woman love him, he's never been loved by one. His mother saw his rapist father in him, heard him in Vaas' voice. Citra told him she loved him, but it wasn't the right kind. She wanted him to fuck her. Asked more of him, always more. Kill more. Fight more. Fuck me more. She wanted his child. That couldn't have been love, right? Not the right kind.
Alice is kind. She is gentle. Understanding. She doesn't demand anything, other than basic respect. She is prepared to fall for him. She's killed to defend him, and this must mean that she will love him, one day, like he loves her. Combing her hair is the best moment of his day. It's the most intimate he's ever been with anyone. More intimate even than being balls deep in a girl's pussy. It's so intimate that he feels his eyes welling up each time, especially when she closes her eyes, trusting, and hums quietly, her head tilted back. She trusts him. Through her, Vaas knows he is worthy of trust. It is in her eyes that Vaas sees his worth, and his self.
When he masturbates, he doesn't just think of making love to Alice, he thinks of quiet little scenes, like her making breakfast as he holds her, resting his chin on her shoulder, like himself waking up to find her wrapped over him in her sleep, like her jumping to his neck when he comes home in the evening. Then they have sex, too. She's fucking him as much as he's fucking her, they look each other in the eyes and he makes her come, with his cock, his fingers, his mouth. His sexiest fantasies, the ones that get him off the quickest, aren't about her pleasuring him, but the other way around. They're about her telling him she loves him as she comes like she's never done before.
He wants to be the man she loves and respects.
Not her fucking rapist.
Atoning to her has been easier than he expected. She simply did not mention his disgusting behaviour, she just carried on as normal. Except she doesn't look at him anymore, and it's like he's disappearing, because he can't see himself in her eyes anymore.
Desperate to make ammends, Vaas gave her the money to get his order from the doctor, letting her escape the camp. He's got to be redeemed in her eyes, otherwise he'll fade, he'll forget who he is, and he's clinging on to himself, the version of himself he sees through her, even if it means letting her go.
Because, what Alice didn't know when she'd left, was that Vaas had put more money than necessary in the envelope, and her passport had been in there too.
He hadn't had the courage to sell it, he liked reading it too much. It told him her name, birthday, where she was born, where she'd been, how long for.
And he'd put it in the envelope, giving her a chance. If she looked inside, she'd see more than enough money to leave the island, and she'd have her passport. Her way out. Her chance to leave his sorry self. His chance to hold on to that Vaas he saw in her eyes when she smiled at him. The one he saw before he fucked it all up.
It's all Jason's fault, and they're both so fucked. So, so fucked.
Letting her go and not chasing after her immediately is the hardest thing he's ever done. Harder even than accepting that Citra's love was not the right kind of love.
If she doesn't look, all would be well for him.
If she leaves, all would be well for her.
If she looks but chooses to stay, Vaas would abandon his life, abandon the island, his name, his fortune, Hoyt, anything she asked of him, he'd do anything for her love, and all would be well for both of them.
The wait is agonising.
By dusk, she still hasn't returned, and Vaas decides to investigate. She's obviously chosen to leave him, and how could he blame her? He's broken the deal first, forcing her into something sexual, her words exactly. The world comes crashing down, because she's swum out of his life, tearing his heart and brains on her way out, and all that is left is Hoyt, Brody, Citra, his failures, and that ugly ass dog. Vaas is no one again.
He drives up to the doctor's house, but a couple of kilometres before the mansion Vaas sees what looks like a bloodbath blocking the road ahead. He gets out, followed by Carlos. There is a car, its front bonnet open, and dead bodies all alround. His nena's car is further along, door open. Vaas runs to it. The package is there. Untouched. She's bought it for him, like they agreed. She hasn't run. Did she look?
Her gun is on the floor, and there is a white bag underneath it. Vaas picks it up, opens it.
The first thing that comes out is a piece of paper, signed C for Cunt, or more likely Citra. It says to give the hostages back for the life of his girl. If he doesn't comply, they'll cut more of her off.
It is cold that night, suddenly. Vaas has always felt the heat more than others, but tonight, he is freezing, inside and out. His hand searches the bottom of the bag.
Something soft, so soft, sweet smelling. His fingers lacing through soft locks, like feathers. Shampoo and conditioner. He's watched skinny YouTube bitches to find out which hair products are the best.
He pulls it all out, slowly. It reflects the moonlight.
It doesn't matter if she's looked into the envelope or not. She's chosen to stay. She was coming back to him. What's in the bag?
His mermaid's beautiful, long hair, chopped off.
Citra did it.
Everything turns to red.