His Only Captive - (Far Cry Fan Fiction)

Chapter Five - A Little Lesson

The captive struggled in his ropes, his eyes anxiously scanning around the camp from the small, wooden cage he was confined in. His blindfold was removed once he was tossed in here, though frantically inspecting the surrounding didn’t do much good, as the area was too sheltered and it was too dark to see anything of use. His hands were strung up above his head, onto the cage bars, and were tied in tight, maiming knots around his wrists.

“Fuck!” he stammered, as he tugged his wrists, grunting under his breath as he tried to move.

“Grant!” he whispered sharply, “Grant! Wake up!”

The man opposite him, lobbed in the same cage, was also bound to the cage walls. His red t-shirt was doused in dry blood that had been dripping from his swollen face. He winced at the sight. Purple swollen eyes, and a battered, bloody lip. His cheek was badly bruised too – swollen and discoloured - and he had several bruises and grazes flecked on his face. His hands were bound above his head, and his head bowed from exhaustion. He wasn’t a small man, he was heavily built and had huge, robust arms and a tight chest. Obliviously someone who kept in shape, and still Vaas had beaten him up to this extent, exiting the scrap without a single scratch.

“Grant,” he called again.

The man lifted his head, and partly opened his red, enflamed eye and looked around him, glancing up at his ropes. He went to yell but his mouth was concealed with tape. He struggled brutishly against his ropes, bellowing out muffled groans as he rattled.

“Grant, what are we going to do?” the other man blubbered, imitating Grant’s moves and hauling his arms some more.

Then Grant stopped and kicked his feet, snapping his head to the left. The captive gulped, ceasing his brisk movements, and glancing over to the direction indicated.

He gript tightly onto his ropes, barring his lips shut. A fearsome brute, strode over to them, flicking a burnt cigar from his fingertips and laughing wickedly as he glanced at the two male hostages bound in the wooden cages. He came closer, snapping the sweat from his brow, and then quickly brushing his fingertips up his startling scar that went to the back of his head. He chuckled again, now closer, crouching like an animal outside the cage.

From his pocket he pulled out a phone and shook it in the air, “I have no fucking idea,” he snickered, switching on the device, “how this phone survived the brutal sea.”

He traced the screen with his thumb, scrolling through hidden photos and videos. His head snapped up to look at the two hostages. Vaas grinned, lifting his hand and pointing at them with his index finger. “So what do we have here? Jason?” he queried with amusement; he whistled and swung his finger over to the other captive, who scowled at him angrily, “and Grant? Correct? California boys, eh?” He chuckled, waving the phone in his hand. “Amigo,” he sighed, glaring at Grant’s bruised cheek with severe stony eyes, “you look like shit.” He laughed, and glanced back down at the phone, and snapped, “Seriously though, you look like fucking shit.” “This is a nice phone.” He glanced over to Jason, who froze and burrowed his fingernails into his taut ropes, “I like this fucking phone!” He chuckled again - the corners of his mouth stretching wide as his deep crackled laughter echoed in the air – and his head snapped down again, fixated on the phone he held loosely in his palm.  “Let’s hope,” he sang “that mummy and daddy have some pretty papers in their pockets. Meaning a lot of money, because you white boys look expensive, and I like… expensive things.” He looked up coldly at Jason, lifting the phone in the air, “I’m going to keep this,” he declared, laughing and standing to his feet.

Grant struggled in his ropes, and growled against the grey tape. Vaas scowled and flashed to the wooden bars, grasping onto the wood and pressing his face up against it in fury.