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I, Monster	By : Alhazred Category: +A through F > Far Cry Series Views: 1186 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Far Cry is owned by Ubisoft. The author makes no profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-I, Monster
- 1
This contains slash
with a depiction of two men having sex and some disturbing, but
non-explicit, violence.

This was something I did to keep
myself writing during NanoWrimo whenever my actual project stalled
out a little. I tried to research how exactly Malaria works and found
the specifics for what I needed here bizarrely hard to come by and
vague, so I apologize in advance if any medical professional should
read this (for some reason) and I ended up getting it wrong. I also
found no less than four different backgrounds for Marty; I suspect
one of them was completely made up and another is based on his cameo
in the first book (which I haven't read) so I just went with the one
presented on his character-sheet in-game. That is to say, I went with
the one that was incredibly vague and left plenty of room to
maneuver. I know he's supposed to be fluent in English and Spanish,
but to the best of my knowledge a native Brazilian wouldn't learn
Spanish as a first language growing up (also, I really wanted to make
the Generation Kill reference) so I chalked it up to a mistake on the
writers' part; again, apologies if my laughable ignorance about the
world turned into bad facts here. I researched the actual line of
spoken Portuguese instead of babelfishing it, but, for all I know,
it's worse than if I had babelfished it. Fingers crossed.

- - - - -

Marty Alencar
rarely lost his cool in a fight. If the Marines had taught him
anything, it was how to stay calm, how to turn panic into motivation.
He'd seen things that most men wouldn't be able to accept were real
if it stared them in the face. As such, it took more than bullets
whizzing by every which way or the brush erupting into fire after
some fool's technical got hit in the gas tank to get under his skin.

The click of a
trigger when he damn well knew he still had half a mag's worth of
rounds left, though, that really pissed him off. "Piece of shit
AK!"

After a futile
attempt to fix the jam, he dropped the rusty rifle, cursing himself
for not bringing more ammo for his own. It was supposed to be an
easy job, and it had been, Warren's little cropdusting stunt
made the assholes patrolling the place easy pickings for his
precision rifle.

Until Warren went
and got himself shot down, the stupid fuck. Thinking up even better
curses, Marty pulled his pistol and double-tapped the asshole running
at him, thinking he'd be easy pickings. Dude was a lot whiter than
the natives, screamed in a nice British accent.

It was pay-dirt;
the merc was carrying a 249, and Marty went for it. He was still
alive, a fact Marty quickly rectified by pulling his machete and
putting it to use before prying the SAW from the merc's dead hands.

It was just as
rat-fuck as most of the gear out in the open, but it didn't jam while
Marty emptied it at the last couple of guys shooting at him. There
was something to be said for spraying and praying when your targets
didn't know concealment wasn't cover, and that tall grass wasn't
adequate protection against bullets.

The high as Marty
sucked air into his lungs and tried to process the lack of any more
gunfire was short lived, however.

"Hey...hey...over
here, man..."

No.

Oh, fuck no.

He hadn't noticed
Warren wasn't shooting back anymore.

- - - - -

Marty started
getting butterflies in his stomach over Warren Clyde the second or
third time they worked together on a job, he couldn't remember which,
exactly. There were usually more important things to think about,
like Malaria, antimalarial drugs, and getting jobs done without
getting shot.

Which was why Marty
usually didn't let personal things get in the way of business,
especially here. Especially people like Warren Clyde, Marty
couldn't figure out how the guy'd lasted even as long as he had with
all his bullshit talk about joining a 'real' PMC once he was done
here.

Still, Marty
couldn't deny that Warren got results, especially after the little
trick they pulled when one of the factions hired him to kill the old
king. He'd gotten a good off-road vehicle and a bag of diamonds out
of that deal. They'd been kicking back in that SUV, blasting the air
conditioning for all it was worth and sharing a joint; Marty
remembered that as the beginning.

Warren was passing
him that joint and talking his usual bullshit. "Might have a
shot at a contract with Pirandello-Kruger after this. Don't know if
I'd take it, though, those guys usually don't do much out-of-country
stuff. Pay's gotta be damn good if I'm gonna be bored to tears being
a security guard, you know?"

Having learned to
just let Warren go on about his aspirations of PMC glory, Marty took
a long drag and leaned his head back against the seat, enjoying
every second, every bit of comfort afforded to them right then. He
fully intended to sleep in this thing as much as possible. Even
without the air-con running, the back seat would be more comfortable
than the shitty cots in the safehouses they moved around to. The
thought put a huge, dopey grin on his face, although the pot probably
had something to do with it. "Fuck, Warren, I'll take money and
boredom over this shit any day."

"Man, you
gotta be more hardcore than that." Warren's statement sent
Marty into a fit of laughter, but he kept going, totally serious.
"You got the balls for it, hell you're better at it than I am,
why waste it?"

High praise, coming
from Warren. Were Marty able to think more clearly, he'd have
remembered more about his first real private job, down in the South
Pacific, babysitting Doctor Krieger's research, except it wasn't
really babysitting because less than ten of them actually survived
it.

Marty soon sobered
up to the point where even Warren, despite being baked out of his
mind, realized something was up. "Hey, what's wrong, man?"

Marty didn't hear
him. He was shivering and couldn't stop, sweat running down his face
where there'd been none a minute before. The world was spinning and
his stomach couldn't keep up, his hand missing the door handle at
first, but he got it just in time to dive out and fall to his knees
in the grass before he puked.

It hurt, felt like
a knife dragging up his throat, a hammer coming down on his elbows
and knees. Marty felt like he was drowning and desperately tried to
breath. He reached for the pouch on his vest that held nothing more
than a little orange bottle, but he got as far as having it in his
hand before his stomach emptied itself for the second time.

"It's alright,
man, you're alright," Warren was at his side by then, on one
knee next to him, one hand at his back and the other grabbing that
pill bottle before it could roll too far. "Just puke it up, it
ain't gonna kill you yet."

The words were
small comfort. Barely able to move once he was done, Marty let
Warren take one of his arms and throw it over his shoulders, doing
his best to stand up with Warren supporting him. Warren didn't go
anywhere just yet, he unscrewed the cap off a bottle of water with
his teeth and held it for Marty to drink from.

Marty just gargled
and spat the first time, desperate to get the taste out of his mouth.
The second time, Warren jammed a pill into his mouth before the
water, and Marty swallowed it without a thought to resist.

That accomplished,
they limped for the little hut they'd parked the SUV in front of,
tucked away next to a mountain and hidden by the forest. Inside,
Warren shut off the floodlight sitting in the corner on the way by,
and took care to lay Marty down on the cot. He sat down first and
managed to get Marty into his lap, tried to add at least some form of
comfort to the hell.

Marty, for his
part, didn't complain. He hated this so much, hated being completely
debilitated and unable to even move without help. At the same time,
having the help was certainly comforting. He was acutely aware of
Warren's fingers moving across his head, the sensation pleasantly
dulled through his bandanna. He couldn't stop shivering, one hand
balled up in the sheet spread over the cot, the other with a death
grip on Warren's leg. It made the joint pain worse, but Marty felt
like he would fall, where he didn't know, if he let go.

"I got your
back," Warren kept saying. "Just rest, I got your back."

- - - - -

When Marty awoke,
he couldn't remember falling asleep, but he was glad he wasn't
sleeping anymore. He still felt weak, drained of anything resembling
energy, but the nausea had passed and he wasn't shivering anymore.
The joint pain had become bearable. He felt rested, but the problem
had been the nightmares. Things that shouldn't have been real,
monkeys turned into deadly predators, men turned into abominations
tearing others apart...

He realized he
still had his head in Warren's lap. Warren was asleep sitting back
against the wall, snoring so loudly he was surprised the hut wasn't
shaking. He couldn't complain; he still had the chills, and Warren
was warm. Warren still had a hand hanging on Marty's head, and
Marty's motion stirred him.

He choked once and
woke up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and rubbing at them with
the back of is other hand. "Feeling better?"

"Better as I
can be," Marty sighed. Fucking Malaria. "Thanks for...you
know."

"Anytime,
man," Warren yawned. "Can't imagine doing all the shit
you've done and just dropping from a mosquito bite. Ain't right."

"I haven't
done all that much," Marty sighed. He hadn't realized Warren
looked up to him like that, but he didn't feel surprised.

"Ever had a
job this bad?" Warren asked. "Anything like this?"

"Had worse,"
Marty didn't have trouble remembering now that he was neither high
nor puking his guts out, and the nightmares had put it at the
forefront of his mind. He hadn't dreamed about it in awhile. He
sure as hell didn't want to talk about it, wasn't sure if he ever
would want to talk about it. "Ask me about it some other
time. It was bad enough I wouldn't trade the Malaria for it."

Letting out a
whistle, Warren said, "Damn, gotta be pretty bad to be worse
than here."

"Didn't have
any buddies there, either," Marty shifted around a little. That
was about when he realized he really liked laying in Warren's lap,
and despite his bullshit, he liked Warren. He really liked
Warren.

- - - - -

It finally came to
a head the next time Marty teamed up with Warren to pull one over on
the factions. Warren made him drive halfway across the fucking
country to another safehouse, because god forbid he actually call
from somewhere close by.

When Marty put the
jeep he'd stolen into park and climbed out, really wishing the
British merc faggot who'd owned it originally hadn't managed to punch
him in the face while being yanked out, he assumed Warren was in the
shack at the end of the little dirt road.

Some noise off to
the side had Marty's hand on his gun as he walked over, and he sure
as hell didn't know what to think of Warren's clothes haphazardly
folded in a pile with his utility vest on top. Once looking down the
hill, it became clear; there was a pond at the bottom, and Warren was
going for a swim.

"Warren,"
Marty yelled, waving impatiently when he saw Warren stop and turn to
him. "Don't have all day here!"

"Hey man!"
Warren completely ignored his sense of urgency and just waved back.
"Dive in, we got a couple hours to kill!"

Marty wanted to hit
him. He already had Malaria, for fuck's sake, which was probably the
worst he could get from stagnant water around here, but he certainly
didn't want to pile anything on top of it, and god help Warren if a
nasty little mosquito carrying the magic parasite took a chunk out of
him. "Dream on!"

Marty didn't trust
his luck that well anyway. If infectious disease didn't kill him,
going for a swim would mean a truckload of APR or UFLL fucks would
drive up that instant and gun him down while he was skinny dipping.

Resigned, Warren
swam over to the edge and climbed up.

And Marty just
about fainted. He did not swoon over men. He'd gone his
entire life being perfectly calm and controlled whenever shit like
this happened. He hadn't made it as a Marine by popping boners in
the locker room.

Warren's
nonchalance didn't help, and it didn't help that he was standing less
than five feet away when he bent down to grab his clothes. Not even
realizing his mouth was open, Marty let his eyes wander; Warren was
built heavier than he was - already a turn-on - and fucking gorgeous
besides. He was mesmerized by the way the water ran down Warren's
olive skin, the way his wet hair sat on his head, his muscletone was
perfect without a hair on his chest to hide it. Marty couldn't
remember ever seeing a better ass on anyone, let alone any guy he'd
ever bent over.

After Warren pulled
his pants on he turned around and fumbled with the buckle, looking at
Marty instead of at what he was doing. His huge shit-eating grin
made him even more attractive standing their barefoot and shirtless.
"Like what you see, man?"

Startled out of his
staring and scared shitless both at being caught and at letting
himself go on like that like some damn teenage girl, Marty tried to
think of some sort of response. He'd spent so long training himself
not to stare he was completely unprepared for his total failure now.
"Uh..."

"'Cause, I
mean, it's alright if you do." Warren didn't stop smiling. He
tilted his head a little and his voice came out nervous. "I
like what I see too."

Trying to process
the fact that Warren was making a pass at him, Marty remained
speechless until he managed to force out, "I, uh...really?"

Maybe it was the
Malaria. Derangement had to be the only possible explanation for why
he was acting like a complete fucking woman while Warren walked up to
him. Right up to him, close enough for them to be breathing
on each other. Taking Marty's hand, he pulled it up and started
tracing the tattoo down his forearm with one finger. "I really
like your ink, man...ink like this on a good lookin' guy, drives me
up the wall."

"This is
nuts," Marty sighed. The contact turned his pants tight in
short order, but at the same time, it was calming. "This is
unreal."

"What, I can't
be a fag 'just cause I'm a merc?" Whether or not Warren was
genuinely bothered wasn't clear. "Guess you can't really be one
around here anyway. Probably get stoned to death or something."

Marty had just
about enough. He grabbed Warren's arm and pulled him the rest of the
way to himself, kissing him flat on the lips. It went further from
there, both of them fighting for control, for who was kissing who
until they both needed air. Warren took a cheap shot and grabbed
Marty's now-obvious erection through his pants, squeezing and
kneading it enough for Marty's concentration to fail.

Figuring he had
him, Warren put a hand to his face and kissed him once more, quickly,
before leading him to the door of the shack. The inside was muggy
but Warren was still wet from the pond and Marty was already
sweating, neither of them noticing while they made it over to the
cot.

Thinking straight
again, Marty reasserted himself. Warren was fucking hot, and he
actually liked the guy, but he wasn't anyone's bitch, and if Warren
didn't like that, he'd learn to deal with it. Pushing Warren down,
Marty climbed on top and kissed him again, grinding his hips down
while Warren yanked the zipper on his vest open. Throwing it off,
Marty went for Warren's belt-buckle, the process slow on account of
Warren grabbing his other arm, running the tip of his tongue over the
ink, tracing each, and it was funny because Marty had 'morte'
tattooed on that arm but...but it made him remember he'd gotten a lot
of cuts and scrapes lately, especially on the arms. He yanked it
back. "Stop!" At Warren's confused look, Marty explained,
"Open wounds."

"Right,"
Warren nodded, after a second.

Malaria was
blood-borne. It put a damper on things, but, hell, it wasn't like
they had any lube anyway. When he popped Warren's dick into his
mouth, Warren nearly went through the roof, and Marty would've smiled
if he'd been able.

Maybe it wasn't the
safest idea, but Marty was too horned up to care when he crawled up
Warren's chest, one foot on the ground, the other knee at Warren's
side on the cot, quickly unzipping his fly once he got there. He
didn't even need to say anything, Warren had a hand in his pants
instantly, pulling his hard-on out as fast as he could without giving
it an unfortunate encounter with the zipper. One hand reaching
behind himself to stroke Warren off, Marty wasted no time shoving his
hard-on down Warren's throat. Much as he wanted Warren's legs on his
shoulders, the knowledge that it just wasn't going to happen this
time spurred Marty on to enjoy what he had. The noises he made
turned to dirty talk simple enough for Marty to manage it while he
was busy concentrating on what Warren's lips felt like, plenty of
'fuck yeahs' and 'suck its' and at least one 'suck my fuckin' cock,'
but Marty was so excited he was babbling it all in his native tongue
instead of English and he didn't even realize it.

He pulled out right
at the end and shot all over Warren's face. If the fact that he came
in Marty's hand while that was going on said anything, Warren seemed
to enjoy getting a facial from someone with a lot of pent-up tension.

There wasn't much
room on the cot. Post clean-up, they ended up sitting on the floor
with Warren's back to the wall and Marty's back to his chest. Very
much enjoying the attention, Warren's lips moving around his neck,
arms wrapped around his chest, Marty saw no reason to complain.
Occasionally, Warren rubbed at Marty's elbows. He was already hard
again and he imagined Warren wouldn't mind going at it again shortly.

"That was
fucking hot, man," Warren snickered. "The way your voice
sounds in Spanish, that was fucking hot. I gotta make you talk like
that more."

"Portuguese,"
Marty said, mostly just to fuck with him.

It seemed random
enough that Warren froze from the confusion and just said, "Huh?"

"I'm from
Brazil, dumbass," Marty laughed. "We speak Portuguese."

"Whatever,"
Warren went back to work on his neck in-between words. "You
speak some spic language and it's fucking hot."

It came out
sounding a little bit sarcastic when Marty said "Glad you
approve," but he honestly meant it.

"You gotta
come with me," Warren's voice was down to a whisper. "When
I get out of here."

Warren wasn't
adding his usual stuff about joining a big PMC, but Marty understood
what he meant, and he actually thought he could tolerate being a
legit contractor again if he was around Warren. Warren could blab
enough PMC moto for the both of them. "Almost sounds like a
good idea."

"What was your
shitty job?" Warren said. "The one you said was worse
than this shit?"

Having honestly not
expected Warren to remember or care, Marty took a deep breath.
"Shit, man, you wouldn't believe a tenth of it if I told you."

"Try me."

One hand on
Warren's arm, the other on his knee, both thumbs moving in slow
circles, Marty just went for it and he hoped to hell Warren wouldn't
just kick him to the curb for being a total nutjob. "It was on
some islands in the Pacific. We were supposed to be guarding some
scientist asshole while he did his research, guy wanted privacy and
everyone knew he must've been doing something illegal, but he paid
enough for the contract that the office didn't give a shit. Then one
night, the monsters got out..."

- - - - -

"Hey...hey...over
here, man..."

No.

Oh, fuck no.

He hadn't noticed
Warren wasn't shooting back anymore.

The sight dropped
Marty to his knees as soon as he reached Warren in the tall grass.
The bullet wounds, two in right side of his chest, another in his
stomach, had turned his shirt red, stained a few blades of grass he
was laying on. The more Warren writhed around, the less Marty could
deny it.

"M-m-morphine?"

Cursing everyone he
could think of, Marty dug for the small case he kept in his vest.
The Jackal for his guns, the factions for their insanity, Doctor
Krieger for his trigens, the world for allowing a place like this to
go on unchecked...none were spared Marty's rage.

The case he kept
his syrettes in was empty. He'd given his last one to a local some
UFLL faggots had beat up, the memory was fresh now. The case just
fell from his hands and Warren saw it, knew what it meant, his eyes
growing wide with fear of what he knew would still be better than
bleeding out.

Marty knew it too.
He got as far as pulling his service pistol from its holster before
he dropped that, too, the 1911 clacking against the little case in
the grass. "Fuck," he leaned back on his haunches, hands
grabbing his own head so he could stare at his arms and, maybe, deny
this was happening because he couldn't see it. He didn't realize he
was shaking until he finally looked again and everything twitched
around. "Fuck!"

"M-Marty,
man," Warren had this look on his face that was stuck halfway
between pleading for mercy and pleading for a miracle he knew wasn't
going to come. He coughed and blood came out of his mouth.
"Don't...don't leave me."

Marty picked up his
pistol again, leaning forward so his other hand could find Warren's
shoulder. He chickened out again at the last minute but he didn't
drop his gun again, he pulled himself down, touched his forehead to
Warren's. "Fuck, fuck, Warren, I'm sorry." The tears came
without warning, his shoulders shaking with each breath he tried to
take. "I'm sorry..."

Warren managed to
move just enough to put his lips to Marty's. Marty could feel the
blood on them, taste it, but he didn't care. It was the last thing
he had. When Warren stopped and whispered "Don't let the
monsters get you" in his broken voice, Marty pulled away fast.
He put his hand over Warren's eyes fast. He held the barrel of the
gun just above Warren's head fast.

He didn't pull the
trigger as fast, but he pulled it.

If time passed,
Marty didn't notice. It took noise for him to react to the outside
world again, rustling in the grass. He looked; one of the faction
soldiers had hid. Hid like a pussy, hadn't even held on to a weapon.
Seeing Marty, seeing that he'd made a mistake in moving too soon, he
tried to run.

It was all a blur.
Marty didn't miss a moment of it, but he was detached. He had to be.
He'd done fucked up shit, but even then, he just wasn't the kind of
person who could do what he immediately decided he would do.
Not from outside a wall.

Men have this idea that we can fight
with dignity, that there's a proper way to kill someone. It's
absurd. We need it to endure the bloody horror of murder. You must
destroy that idea.

Chasing the foot
soldier down was easy. Subduing him was even easier. He wasn't
trained, he didn't know how to fight, didn't know how to aim a gun,
let alone go hand to hand. The tears had become silent but they
didn't stop by the time Marty pulled his 1911 again and shot him
twice in one knee. They didn't stop when he dragged the poor bastard
to the truck they'd chased Warren down in and threw him onto his back
on top of the hood. Marty swept the side of his hand across his eyes
and rummaged through their stuff.

A first-aid kit.
It wouldn't have helped Warren, but his victim got the adrenaline.
Rope, enough for makeshift tourniquets. A flare gun for when he was
done.

Some part of Marty
realized he probably wouldn't get the full effect, the guy would
probably die relatively quickly, but he didn't care. The message
wouldn't be terribly diluted in that case.

He didn't hear the
screams when he dragged his example close enough to the side of the
hood for an arm and a leg to hang off the truck, didn't hear the
screams when he pulled his machete off his back and went to work, or
when he repeated the process on the other side. He didn't hear
because he couldn't. He couldn't turn into a monster, but he didn't
need to be a monster to get revenge. What was it the Jackal had
said?

...show 'em what a messy, terrible
thing it is to kill a man, and then show 'em you relish in
it...destroy their preconceived notions of what a man is and you
become their personal monster.

All of this done,
Marty took the flare gun fired it straight up, and made his way
through the grass, away from the wreck of Warren's plane and further
away from the greenhouses. He didn't look back, he didn't want to
see what he'd just done, but he didn't regret it.

This was why he
never got attached to anything, or anyone. It would invariably be
taken, because that was how the world worked. Taken by people who
thought they had a right to more, more, more. Taken by a place that
was so far into madness, it was impossible to fight it with anything
short of more madness.

But let's never forget, it's a
display, a
posture, like a lions roar or a gorilla thumping at its chest. If you
lose yourself in the display, if you succumb to the horror, you
become the monster, not more of a man, but less.

As the rain
started, Marty leaned against a tree with one hand. He knew he
didn't have long, knew the friends of the man who was now his message
would be following that flare, but he needed the time to keep himself
from throwing up.

He
looked down at his hands. His skin wasn't green, his ink was still
there. He hadn't had an arm replaced
with artillery, he couldn't leap thirty feet, and he wasn't
invisible.

Moving on, feeling
every step as his boots squelched wet grass or mud underfoot, Marty
Alencar thought about how lucky he was to get out of the Pacific in
one piece...and how close he was to that green skin with Warren dead
behind him.
- 1
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I, Monster