Far Cry 5 One-Shot Collection

Bliss

It's getting stronger, you think idly, rolling your aching wrist with an answering snapping sound, much like the popping of bubble wrap; only this isn't fun. With an anxious gaze, lip worried between your teeth, you trace the faintest of blotches, an irritated red that lingers under the skin, on the back of your hand and just kissing the start of your arm.

Physically it does nothing to you, no itching or tingling sensation to be felt, but mentally it has the warning bells ringing a harrowed toll. You know from years of experience that the moment you start to have marks, red like a flush with no heat or a rash with no bite, that it's rearing it's head; gearing up for a new attempt at dominance.

Thankfully it's not around, skulking off to wherever it goes once you got yourself through the doors of the prison, taking a jab of that anti-Bliss stuff without a second thought. It stung as an injection does, heads turned worryingly in your direction at your hurried form and brash action, but it relieved the paranoia; banished the fear, even if only for a little while.

Really you should be honest and tell Whitehorse what's wrong, let him know that the Bliss has had a truly nasty effect on you and that you can't - don't want to stay because of it. You can't be of help. You're sure he'd understand. He knows about your condition, so you're sure he would. He has to. Wouldn't he?

You suddenly feel hollow, as though every other emotion and feeling inside of you is being emptied like a full glass turned on it's head. All that's left is an empty space. Echoes of feelings and emotions tap on the glass, vying for your attention, but they are merely dull sounds that carry no weight to them.

Any anger that you once held like a tempered weapon now lacks drive or enthusiasm in its swing, your sadness now cold and still like a frozen lake without the warm comfort of tears. Your mood has taken a sudden dive and for a moment you wonder if it's okay for you to drown yourself in it. It's not like anyone really cares anyway.

You're just 'Rook'; a poster-child for the resistance, the one that got away, a piece to be played and sacrificed. That's all you are, and it breaks your heart to know - despite how much you may deny it you know - that that's all you are now. That is what you have been reduced too.

With a sharp inhale your hand comes to fall across your face, shielding you away from the hectic world outside as your eyes start to sting.

You jump at the feeling of something against your leg, a heavy pressure that nudges purposefully against you. You don't have to remove your hand from over your eyes to know what it is.

It feels warm against your leg, a thick dampness that seeps into the material of your pants and onto the skin of your leg. Your stomach squirms at the contact, a nervous reaction that is gradually eased as It remains against you, unmoving and unthreatening.

Slowly you look down, suspecting to maybe see It's foreboding gaze cast up in warning to your anxious form or It's maw pulled into a mocking smile that is filled with menacing razors, but that is not what you see. The sight before you is not a common one.

It's head is bowed forward, long ears pulled back submissively, as It presses into the bone of your leg with a pressure that comes across more reassuring than anything else.

You don't even realise your free hand has placed itself on the back of It's exposed neck, fingers and palm painted a bitter obsidian, until It leans into the contact. Such a small and innocent gesture suddenly turns the monster of your waking dreams into a lost puppy seeking an affectionate touch. Absently your fingers trace invisible lines into It's swampy form, soothingly rubbing back and forth into the ichor of It's hide.

As if in response It's head mirrors your fingers movements, nuzzling into your leg with a distorted purr that isn't there. Your hand and leg ache at It's touch. However, even when the lights in It's dark sockets come to life, white and as luminescent as the stars in the night sky, looking up at you with a steady aura, you don't pull away from It. Instead, you meet It's endless stare.

Sadly you smile at It, watching as It's head tilts lazily at you in a silent question. You know It doesn't truly mean to hurt you, only wanting to protect you in It's own misguided and painful way, yet right now you can't bring yourself to care. Your hand tingles as though on the cusp of cramping up, yet still you continue to stroke through the black of It's liquid-like body.

It does nothing but watch, lights unblinking and still like a focused predator stalking it's prey. Strangely enough though it doesn't feel as if you're being hunted, or even watched in a sick and knowing anticipation as is normally the case. There is a softness in It's gesture, a comfort in It's harmful warmth, and a reassurance in It's abyssal sockets.

And, oddly enough, as though It's nonexistent eyes speak words that can't be heard, you realise something quite profound; a thought that holds more weight on your heavy shoulders than is already there.

Right, you think with the slow dawn of a sorrowfully tight smile, it's just the two us, isn't it? Till death... and maybe longer still.