Far Cry 5 One-Shot Collection

Bliss

The Bliss. You have heard many things about it, how it opens your mind and frees you from the troubles of a harsh reality. How it is nothing but an elaborate lie developed in makeshift labs to force compliancy, and how high exposure can rot the brain into something only really pictured in the medium of horror.

Already you have been subjected to its wicked workings, once being shot as if an animal needed under anaesthetic and the other was once you had woken up, under a polluted bulwark of water that coated your vision in a perverted pixie dust. You had not known it at the time, never having experienced the hallucinogenic agent until that point, but it was enough of a taste to know that whatever the substance was it was beyond bad news for you.

It's why you made it a conscious effort to stay well clear of the stuff. The moment it's name was even uttered you'd tense, body aching at the sheer memory of what it could and has very well done to you. You've seen the effect it has on others, seen their distant gazes and heard their murmured prayers. It actually looks quite peaceful from what you've seen.

Too bad it's effect on you is nothing short of hell-inducing.

You have an assumption as to why that is, why the Bliss instills an itching paranoia and an all-to-real terror and physicality to your languid companion, but you'd rather not dwell. Sadly, despite where you've looked and who you have spoken too, you lack the means to potentially aid your crumbling situation. Although you suspect the items you search for may only bring about a different sort of effect; something less fear inducing, but just as equally terrifying.

You give a heavy sigh, fingers brushing through your hair, as already you are regretting your decision to journey into the land of nightmare fuel. Just why the Sheriff had decided to set up base in the heart of such a hell zone was absolute madness to you. True, you understood the reasoning for it - it was well defendable, much like a modern fort - but that didn't mean you appreciated it just as the others did. All you could think about was the long drive back to the borders and into less, although arguably more, dangerous territory.

It's pretty safe to say though that you'd rather face off against the war-torn werewolf and inhuman incubus with a brother complex than deal with this scheming siren.

Regrettably though you're in a bit of a bind; too nice for your own good some would say. You'd be somewhat inclined to agree with them too. You just can't bring yourself to say 'no' to people. Not that they give you the opportunity to say anything else mind you. In fact you're actually starting to wonder if you even have a voice anymore; it hardly gets used nowadays - what with you being shoved from task to tedious task without so much as a tea break.

Thinking about it the only ones who even know what you sound like (other than distant family and friends) are either being tortured, conditioned, drugged up or are just too busy to have something even remotely related to a normal conversation with you. Then again...

You straighten up, head tilted toward the concrete heavens as the chair squeals at the casual shift in weight.

There is one other person that knows what you sound like, but you're actually not too sure if she's even still alive at this point. Although you're certain she is, considering she sold you all out quicker than a swindler can swindle ice from an Eskimo.

Nancy. Fucking Nancy. In all honesty though you can't say you're actually angry with the women. Sure, you're hurt and more than a little disappointed in her, but you don't have the strength for something as draining as anger. It's too much stress. Besides, if you want your ever-loving companion to stay weak and well away from you then you're going to need to stay as calm as you possibly can. You don't need it looking for an early supper; you're still recovering from the last bite it took.