#far cry fanzine 2020

[pheedraws]

FIAT JUSTITIA RUAT CAELUM | let justice be done though the heavens fall

So excited to share the piece I did for the Far Cry Fanzine! @fuckin-nancy wrote an incredible fic about John during his lawyer days (which, as you probably already know, is my ultimate weakness) and I had a whole heap of fun producing this piece to go alongside it. 

You can check out the full zine here! 

[bybats]

My illustration for Far Cry 5 fan ZINE! Based on @the-mechanical-angel ‘s fanfic.

[unclefungusthegoat]

Presenting ‘Tales From The Bunker’ - a Far Cry 5/New Dawn fanzine! This compendium of stories and art was worked on by 59 writers and artists from 4 continents, as a way of coming together during the pandemic!

Thank you all so much for your patience as this was put together! It’s been a long journey (I think 2-3 months at this point), but here it is, all 127 pages of it, and I’m so happy with the results! Everyone is so talented and none of this would have been possible without your hard work!

You can download the fanzine for free at the link above! You shouldn’t need a Dropbox account, you can just close the popup!

Please share as much as you can, and remember to support the creators on all their platforms! Let them know if you really loved their work!

Creators - from 1st July onwards, you can share your creations on Tumblr/AO3/Instagram and any other sites you use to showcase your work! Please tag it as ‘Far Cry Fanzine 2020’ so that everyone can find it easily!

It’s been such an honour to work with all of you! A huge thank you once again for signing onto this little project, it’s gone above and beyond anything I could have imagined, and that’s all down to you!

And so, without further ado, please enjoy! x

[xbaebsae]

My piece for the amazing “Tales from the Bunker” Far Cry 5 Fanzine. Thanks everyone for making it incredibly beautiful, contributors and project managers alike ♥. Though a huge special thanks to my partner @seedlingsinner who wrote an amazing piece this image was based on!

[red-nightskies]

My piece for the incredible Far Cry 5 Fanzine. Thank you @unclefungusthegoat for organising everything and creating this wonderful fanzine for everyone to enjoy 💖 And a massive thank you to @aghostfromtheages for writing an amazing piece to go along side this image. 

[chyrstis]

Far Cry Fanzine 2020

Written for the Far Cry 2020 Fanzine, which you should absolutely check out here!

This was a take on a moment leading up to the start of the game, namely one where Sharky's going about his daily business only for things to quickly go pear-shaped (which was why this was named ‘I’m sorry, Sharky’ for so long, b/c I feel like I owe him an apology). I was lucky enough to work with the amazing @farcrying here, and to also have @amistrio, @guileandgall , and @writerofblocks​ read through this for me to make sure it was coherent enough to post. You're all awesome, and I hope you never forget that. Oh, and this lovely title? It's entirely @writerofblocks​ fault, and I can't thank her enough for that stroke of pun-fueled genius.

I also can't thank @unclefungusthegoat​​ enough for putting so much time, effort, and love into making this happen, as well as @lucy-and-loki​​ for giving each entry some amazing details to help them stand out.

Title: A Mine-or Inconvenience Rating: T Word Count: 1.2K Warnings: Drinking, dead animals (one very unlucky boar to be exact), explosions

Link to AO3!

___

Sharky’s day is off to a rough start, but it soon takes a turn even he wasn’t expecting. ...And that’s counting the smoking, boar-shaped spot on his front lawn.

______________

Sharky’s back hurt. Ached like he’d spent the night bending it into shapes no back should ever be bent into. Not to mention his mouth was dry, and full of the kind of awful that told him the batch of alcohol he’d brewed might’ve turned a bit. Just enough to taste off, but not enough to toss it, and last night he’d drained a good bottle and a half of it before passing out. Not even on his bed, but on the floor half-under it, wound up in a sweatshirt pretending to be a blanket.

He didn’t even remember ending up there, and that probably should’ve told him how the day was going to go.

Getting up took more effort than he liked, and in the middle of taking a leak he’d nearly nodded off right then and there. Felt his eyelids droop as he stood there in the bathroom, and that’s when the hangover started taking potshots at his senses.

Fuzzy-headed and floating, Sharky took a step only to have his foot catch on something and slip right out from under him. Jeans. The same pair he’d shucked off the night before, and he only realized it when his bare ass hit the floor right next to them. That fucking hurt, but it beat taking a header straight into the toilet.

Pulling his underwear back up, he flopped onto his back. At least now if anyone happened to stop by – usually Hurk, but those Peggie pamphlet pushers were coming by more and more often – he wouldn’t have his dick hanging out. Shit, company was company, but he’d at least try to be polite. Give them the option of wanting to see more of him instead of laying it all out there from the start. That’s what being a gentleman was all about, after all.

Groaning, he pushed himself up and smacked his lips.

That’s when he picked up on it. The squealing. He’d chalked it up to his mind fucking with him, but it kept on going. Didn’t stop even after he’d climbed to his feet and gave his hands a quick wash under the faucet.

Growing louder, and louder, and louder-

The house shook, and the sound that went off sent him straight to his knees. Scrambling, and glad he hadn’t headbutted the sink, Sharky double-timed it to the door.

That wasn’t normal. In fact, that sounded a hell of a lot like-

He stopped, and thought back to last night. How he’d gone outside, set to get a big ol’ fire going only to tear ass in the opposite direction. Small and quick, he’d nearly lost his face to the snarling shadow on his heels, and collapsed once he’d managed to barricade the door behind him. The minute it was clear again, however, he’d left a little something to deal with it. He’d left a lot of little somethings, digging up half of his lawn to place the mines, and wondered just what he’d caught as he followed the smoke straight to the source outside.

The scorched spot on the dirt below was pretty big. He could see where the mine had been tripped, and given it’d been roughly ten to fifteen feet from his house, he’d been lucky it hadn’t blown the wall in, or been any of his party crashers. Those were for special occasions only, and burning half of his shit down just ‘cause he was blindsided by a wolverine wasn’t one of them.

But it’d been more than enough to get the job done here. And judging from what was left of the boar, he’d better get to finding the other mines he’d buried fast, or he was looking to join it. Waving his hand in front of his face to try and cut through the smell, he tugged his hoodie up to cover his nose as he glanced down at the messy path below.

…Then further beyond that towards the pair of white trucks rolling up. Sharky took in the painted cross on their sides, and leaned over the rail to get a better look at them.

Usually the Peggies didn’t spare more than a single truck at most, the exception being the time when he had motherfucking John Seed out here on his doorstep. He at least had pants on then, but it’d hardly been worth dragging himself over to the door to answer. Even with some of the hottest chicks he’d seen in a while, John’s smug-ass face put the brakes on any fun faster than he would’ve liked.

But John wasn’t here, and the Peggies he eyed didn’t look like they’d try to buy the shirt off of his back only to sell it back at five times the price. The ones in the truck bed climbed out, guns in hand, and his heart started pounding in time to his head.

“Yo, what’s happening, amigos?” Sharky called out. “You need something?”

Another climbed out of the passenger seat of the truck, his long, dark coat brushing the dirt. Right on the front of his face was the top prize for the worst tattoo placement he’d ever seen, and the cross running from the side of his cheek all the way down to his chin was one he’d notice even from over a hundred paces out.

That had nothing on the strange look in his eyes, though. Or the way he started talking at him. “You have been chosen! By his word you’ve been given one final chance to see if the message of the Father is one you wish to welcome into your heart.”

“Chosen?” Sharky’s eyebrows rose as the man started to approach him, and figured it’d probably be better to have this talk while he wasn’t scratching his ass. “That’s uh, that’s news to me, man. ‘Cause you’re still banning a whole lot of things that make life worth living, and I’m not really digging the idea of going with Joe’s flow if he ain’t changing that.”

The Peggie took a step forward, then two.

Each brought him closer to the house, and Sharky’s hands started to itch for the shotgun laying across his kitchen table. Just something solid to place between them and himself, because this was far from friendly. Sure, he hadn’t given them the best welcome before, but this group was clearly on the verge of fucking his shit up. The guns were still there, out and angling towards him, and he felt his smile slip right into a grimace.

And when the guy kept on talking, he didn’t let up. Went straight for the kind of expression that would’ve had anyone running in the opposite direction, and raised his voice loud enough for Sharky to want to screw his eyes shut.

“This is not to be taken lightly or dismissed, because this is not an offer. No, this is an opportuni-“

Sharky saw his eyes widen as a click went off. The kind he’d been unable to hear himself above the sound of the faucet running and the squealing of the vaporized boar, and prepped himself to bolt.

‘Cause if this was going the way of any of his and Hurk’s top ten movie marathon classics – and all signs were pointing straight to ‘hell yes’ - every good chase always started off with a bang.

[englass]

Shadows Before Dawn

Pairing(s): Joseph Seed & The Deputy

Warning(s): Grief

Word Count: 1,149

A/N(s): AAAHHHHH, IT’S FINALLY HERE!!! THE FANZINE IS FINALLY HERE!!! 🎉😆🎉 Massive shoutout to @unclefungusthegoat for not only organising all of this, but for allowing me to be a part of it! ❤️ Ngl I was super anxious about signing up to this, to the point that I almost didn’t. If it wasn’t for the encouraging words of my darling @seedlingsinner and the sweet reassurance from @unclefungusthegoat I may have let my insecurities get the better of me; but I’m so glad I didn’t ❤️ It was an absolute honour to be able to work on this and an even bigger privilege to be able to work alongside my amazingly talented partner @deputy-rice-pudding, I couldn’t have done it without you hun!!! ❤️ Now, enough sentimentality. Here’s my entry (and a link) into the Far Cry Fanzine 2020, Tales From The Bunker!!!

– – –

The bunker is an awfully quiet place. A concrete prison where remnants of the past can roam with a newfound vigour; memories brought to life in waking dreams and in the shadows of flickering lights. Free to wander without preamble or disruption as they are glimpsed only by those that remembered them. Their silent reenactments a curse to the guilt-ridden, their unspoken words a jeering echo; the cold halls that they perform in becoming a haven for the dangerous and consuming thoughts that come to heel at their sides like loyal hounds. A breeding ground for the demons that plague one’s own mind with accusing verdicts and anarchist vices.

Everyday a new struggle as ‘what ifs’ and paths untraveled are considered and agonised over, battled with by a wavering resolve and a shaking faith; old wounds perpetually bleeding from the only two living occupants within this stoney tomb, still standing on seperate fronts despite the shared banner that now looms hauntingly over them. If only the shadows of abandoned comrades and lost family did not torment them so.

Joseph knew that this would be tough. Knew that the coming years following the Collapse would be a challenging test. Not only for himself, but for his brothers as well; and for the many that had believed and followed them as loyally as they did. Giving their lives for the protection of their new family, for the sanctity of the Project, and for the future that it had promised them. That he had promised them. Regretfully though, Joseph no longer knew if there was anyone left to believe in that promise anymore; the world above and its occupants all laid to waste in the wake of the great Collapse.

At any rate, his prideful companion certainly did not believe.

The Deputy had been a trying obstacle during the last few months of the Project’s preparations. A constant force of opposition to all they sought to achieve; a catalyst to spark the flame of rebellion, and ignite this Holy War between them all. Joseph had hoped to be able to tame that fire of theirs. To suppress that wrath that burnt like a blazing hellfire within their eyes. To lead them onto a different path, astray from the destruction they would bring and the lives they would take with it. He had glimpsed so many possibilities: he had seen them beside him, seen them as a figurehead within his family. He had seen the good they could do, the hope they could inspire in his people and salvation they could bring to his brothers. He knew the Deputy could save them.

Yet, those visions never came to pass.

Not one day goes by without Joseph thinking of his family. Wondering, under the judgement of God and the scrutiny of silence, how things could have been different. Wondering, under the hungry eyes of his own guilt, if he could have done more to save them. Everyday he replays the news of their fates, remembers the eulogies he did for them, and the nights spent weeping and praying that they did not suffer. Mourning their loss and the final goodbyes that he never got to say to them, their bodies never recovered; and he regrets that everyday. He hates the Deputy for that everyday.

It took him over a decade to find his brothers again, years of fruitless searching and constant heartbreak, and within the course of a few weeks he had lost them all over again. They had been taken from him all over again. All he has left of his brothers now, of John and Jacob, are photographs. Mere snapshots that told you nothing of who they were, of the horrors and hardships that they had endured throughout their lonely lives. Impersonal and tainted by the intentions of the Resistance, marked red by the target that those misguided sinners had drawn upon them. Yet, those photographs are all he has left.

Joseph is alone all over again; the Deputy a mere ghost that walks the halls with tired, bitter glares. Slinking away like a shadow confronted by the dawn the moment Joseph enters the room. A reluctant and wholly unwilling companion that no doubt curses his every breath, just as surely as they curse the day they met him. A sentiment that is occasionally reciprocated.

Which is why it was so surprising to the older man when, in a moment of weakness (his brothers’ photos clutched tight in his hands as silently suffering tears slide down his cheeks and blur his vision), the Deputy wordlessly sits beside him. He startles at their appearance, ever quiet and discreet, as he looks at them. Straightening himself as a weak, but no less caring, smile comes to his face. A slight tremor in his voice as he poses them a small question of delicate concern -- “Is everything okay, my child?” -- forever playing the loving role of ‘Father’; despite the pain that the title now carries.

The Deputy glances at him, shifting uneasily under his curious stare. Fingers picking and rubbing at the thin blanket beneath them, before they look away. An unusual hesitance in their eyes that Joseph is not used to seeing colouring their typically defiant eyes. Now more than ever though they just look exhausted, unsure and strangely distant; bottom lip taken lightly between their teeth, as they appear to debate something that the preacher is not privy to. He lets the silence hang for a moment, old memories and the regrets that follow them silent as Joseph waits for his reluctant child to finally open up to him. Trying not to hope that this is the time that he has been waiting for, the time when they finally start to accept–

He blinks, clear blue eyes widening as he looks to the hand that has cautiously fallen upon his shoulder. Arm around his back, coaxing with the smallest amount of pressure, as they gently lean towards him. Their other arm coming to wrap around him as a fractured breath slips from them, the sound shattering the stilted silence. Before he truly realises it Joseph too is leaning into them. Willingingly accepting this small, and potentially fleeting act of compassion.

He thinks he hears them murmur something, a condolence or apology he knows not, but still Joseph holds the sentiment close. Grips it just as tightly as the photographs of his deceased brothers; the Deputy’s actions alone a much desired recompense.

Truly, it is a step in the right direction, he thinks. A sign of a silent promise made, and the will of God at play. A reassurance that Joseph will get through this; that they both will get through this. He is the Father after all, and they are his child. They are a family now, in this till the end, and together they will surely live to see that promised dawn.

[hunnybadgerv]

Far Cry Fanzine Submission: Resurrection

Summary: The Judge isn’t sure what they will find in Prosperity, but what they discover is not what they expected.

a/n: The idea for this piece is really a collaboration between silvercloud234 and I. We were talking about the kinds of things we would like to see, and then this concept came up. I toyed around with it, then it really took on a life of its own.

AO3 Link

Resurrection

The gate creaked open, despite the man on watch keeping his weapon trained on them. The Judge did not begrudge the survivors their suspicions and moved slowly in an attempt to put the guards at as much ease as could be managed. The Father’s Shadow harbored their own concerns given that they knew little more about these people than their connection to the captain to whom Joseph promised their assistance.

An old saying started to cross their mind, “the enemy of my enemy …”

Their jaw tightened when they couldn’t stop the idea running through their head—my friends.

The Judge tipped their head to one side trying to shake off the empty sinking feeling opening like a black hole in their gut. Being at the Seed Ranch didn’t help the nostalgic stab in their chest. It didn’t look much like they remembered, which was one thing to be thankful for.

“There’s a ton of space open around here. You can just find yourself a spot and stake a claim,” the captain suggested with a sweeping gesture as the two of them strolled through the courtyard.

The Judge only nodded, then did just that. Peeling off, they wandered around the side of the main building, the old Seed farm. The place was quieter now than the last time they’d been on that land; most everyone in the place slept, save those on guard. The Judge watched for a time, studying the movement of the guards and acclimating to the unique sounds of the place. It was so different. Somehow that made the hurt shallower than it might have been. Still they remained outside. The observations allowed the Judge found a spot that seemed to be just barely at the edge of anyone’s notice.

Earlier in their inspection of the compound, they’d found a barrel brimming with rain water and a bucket nearby. Filling the bucket, they returned to that spot they intended to claim as their own. That lush corner included an awning and a tarp that would keep out most of the rain when the weather turned bad and would see the sun when it wasn’t. They set the bucket down and sat with it between their legs.

The sunrise was still hours off, so they took a chance. Despite that, their eyes skimmed the area for the barest sign of movement before slipping their hood back. The mask came next; it was laid in the tall grasses near their knee. Bending their face to the water, they cupped handfuls and brought it to their lips. Then they used the cold water to scrub their face. They were pouring handfuls of water over their head, letting it trickle back into the bucket, when they heard what sounded like a baby crying.

Peeking up, they thought it had to be a trick. It couldn’t be. The cry quieted a bit, and the Judge glanced upwards toward where the sound might have come from. One hand dipped in the water again then rubbed at the back of their neck.

Maybe it was another sign, like the arrival of the captain. A sign that things might just get better, that there could be change. There was hope.

The Judge dipped both hands into the bucket and splashed water on their face once more, rubbing over it. Somewhere nearby, too close, wood creaked. Pulling their hands away slowly, they caught sight of someone in the shadows.

Something glass broke. The silvery tinkling of shards put them on edge, and brought them to their feet.

When the figure across the way took a step forward, the Judge crept back trying to disappear into the shadows.

“Dep?” It was more of a whisper, a shaky one at that.

The voice made their eyes sting as their stomach twisted into a tight knot. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be alive. This had to be some kind of trick. It couldn’t be real.

The Judge looked away, screwing their eyes closed, and shaking their head as they shrank farther from the scant slivers of moonlight intent on playing tricks with their mind.

Footsteps brushing over wood and through grass set their heart racing. When the Judge reached up to secure the mask, their eyes shot open to see it lying on the ground near the bucket of water—a sinful luxury they should not have allowed. They pulled the hood as far over their head as they could manage, but it was a poor shield against the piercing eyes of a ghost. And it could never keep them from recognizing that voice, nor could it soothe the sucking chasm that opened in their chest at the sound of it.

He didn’t retreat. Instead, he boldly entered their shadows like he belonged to them. The Judge bent their head again, closing their eyes.

It can’t be true it can’t be real. It can’t be.

“I thought …” his voice was small, creakier than the Judge remembered, than they heard in the dreams that haunted their sleep. “I thought you were dead.”

He was too close. Their back pressed against the wooden wall, the Judge couldn’t get anymore distance between them.

When a hand rested on their shoulder, they shrank from it. Their body contorted like that one limb weighed hundreds of pounds. The Judge caved under the weight, landing hard on their knees at his feet. They didn’t deserve that fond touch, that connection to someone who had meant so much to them, someone they’d failed, left behind.

By comparison, it proved far easier to accept that touch, than the warm hand that brushed their wet cheek. That just made it harder to breathe and easier for the tears to flow. This couldn’t be happening … shouldn’t be happening.

The debt was still owed.

“It’s me, Five-O. Sharky,” he said, as if they could have ever forgotten him. He knelt in the tall grass with them, both his hands on their face. He finally managed to coax their head in his direction.

All they could give him in reply was a weak nod.

“I can’t believe it.” One hand grabbed the back of their neck and pulled them into a tight embrace. 

It was too much to resist. Their hands went to his ribs first. They inched farther with each shuddering breath they took until the Judge held onto to Boshaw as tightly as he did them.

“I fucking knew it,” he mumbled into the thick leather the Judge wore. “I knew you were still out there. I never should have stopped looking.”

The Judge buried their face in Sharky’s shoulder, their cheeks burned with shame. They should have looked.

AO3 Link

[nightwingshero]

So, this is what I did for the FC5/ND Fanzine “Tales from the Bunker”. This was so much fun, and I hope to do something like this in the future. I loved how it turned out! Definitely a lot of talented folk in our fandom! 

He wasn’t sure if the burning was from the warmth of his lit fireplace, the glass of scotch in his hand, or the utter frustration that caused his jaw to tick. But any one of them was a fair guess for John as he sipped just a bit more, imagining Joseph’s disappointment when he told him the deputy had, yet again, slipped from his grasp. It wasn’t that they had managed to escape, it was the reminder that his place in Eden’s Gate was now in question, depending so heavily upon the deputy’s atonement. The Baptist of Eden’s Gate may have the gates of Eden shut to him.

He scoffed to himself. “You have to love them, John.” He mocked under his breath with a shake of his head. Joseph’s words swimming in his mind as he mulled it over. Jacob didn’t exactly love the people he put through his trials. Or maybe that was how it was supposed to be? Jacob the hard fist, while John played as the encouraging, and forgiving, hand to guide and show them the way. Faith a soft touch to help with the path, and Joseph a strong pillar to lead.

He tapped his fingers against his brown leather armchair, so deep in thought as the flames danced, personifying the emotion he had felt so fiercely just hours before. Deep, deep down, he knew it wasn’t the deputy that caused this frustration, no. It was him. It was the fact that he, himself, was so caught up in this game of cat and mouse, to the point he found himself wanting to let them go. And lately, he began to wonder if it was becoming more than a game.

He didn’t want to admit it, and there was a beautiful irony to it, that he was so unwilling to confess like the sinners in his own bunker. He laughed bitterly to himself at the thought because he wasn’t that much better in this moment, was he? He had both deputies, one already having said yes, and the other on the verge. So close…and yet, they ran as he took Hudson away with him encouraging, taunting. The mixture of adrenaline and emptiness that filled him was more shocking than seeing their raged-filled face through that damn window.

Wrath. That was what he had said their sin was. How it fueled them, drove them, but wasn’t the same said for him? Maybe that was why he was so entranced with this enemy. Because when he looked deep in their eyes, like he had tonight, he could see it. John could see the same ghosts that haunted him, the same emotions that coursed through his own veins written eloquently on their sleeve and across the very chest he would inscribe their sin. Almost the exact place he wore his. Different sides of the coin, but yet, it was still the same coin, wasn’t it?

He feels it then, that urge to reach out to something he shouldn’t. And leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he cradled the glass gently, he eyed the scales on his hands that had turned on him, almost betraying as they weighed out. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Neither side ever really won out, the war inside raging harsher and harsher with each new revelation. He was becoming more aware, slowly realizing his confession, his secret, would no longer stay hidden from him. It was an ugly truth that even the Baptist had to come to terms with.

His radio calls had been a way ruffle their feathers, to get them worked up, and playing into the witty retorts the deputy responded to. Such a giddy thrill that rushed through him. He had thought it was only because it gave the sense of having the upper hand and having them cornered. That he had them right where he wanted, running around his valley. His region. If anyone was going win against them, it was going to be him. He would show Joseph that he belonged.

But John couldn’t place the worry he felt when they would disappear from Holland Valley, word coming to him that they were having run-ins with Faith or going through Jacob’s trials. He believed it was his pride that made his gut twist, the aggravation making his followers steer clear of his path as he paced like a caged beast. But that didn’t explain the calming relief he would feel once they stepped foot back over his line. The way he made sure that there were eyes on them at all times, watching and observing to…what? His Chosen had given him questioning looks, searching for an answer that he didn’t even have for himself.

At least, until now. It was so obvious, wasn’t it? This amber liquid was supposed to help him forget the troubles of his day, but it had only torn away all the falsities in his own mind as the one clear thing stood alone. He felt connected to the deputy. A pull that he, for the very life of him, couldn’t ignore. A fascination that had turned into something deeper, and his need for them to say yes wasn’t for Eden’s Gate, it was for him. Desperate to hear, to know, that it wasn’t just him, that they both felt this. That they were the same and he wasn’t alone.

And there it was. That deep gut feeling, that emptiness, finally had a name. And he loathed it with every fiber of his being, because he knew that it only disappeared when the deputy’s eyes found his. He was told that he needed to love them, that he needed to help the deputy atone. Joseph didn’t mean it like this, he was sure, but at the end of the day, did it matter? He was damned either way. Why not take the risk and finally give into the temptation? Always taking…the greatest gift is the one you give. He would give. He would give all he had.

He snatched the radio from his coffee table, as if it would disappear if he wasn’t quick enough and downed the rest of his scotch as he stood. Pressing the button with more force than necessary, he spoke.

“Deputy…”

[fuckin-nancy]

A Wretch Like Me

rating: T characters: John Seed, Joseph Seed words: 1,082 excerpt:

Though he hadn't seen him in nearly two decades, John recognized the man who entered—Joseph Seed, his brother. Those same cheekbones, that same jawline, only broadened by manhood. The same calm, level gaze; the same solemn demeanour.

[AO3]

The gorgeous accompanying art by @pheedraws is here!

John absentmindedly tapped his desk with his forefinger. No matter how hard he tried to will his gaze not to glaze over, the pounding in his head—the final remnant of a hangover—inevitably broke his concentration.

His fault, for going to that party last night. When he'd woken this morning, he'd nearly thought his head would split open. Although he had to admit, finding himself abed with two beautiful women sweetened the deal considerably. Pity he couldn't recall the events that had brought them there, or their names.

After realizing he'd read the same sentence for the umpteenth time, John pushed the case notes away. He'd just have to wing it.

The phone trilled. With a sigh, he pressed the speaker button.

"Yes, Carla?"

"There's a man without an appointment who wants to see you, sir."

He frowned. He was in no mood to meet some random person, but he asked, "What's his name?"

"Joseph Seed."

He swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

"He says his name is Joseph Seed, sir."

"Let him in." He paid no attention to her response.

Without realizing it, he'd stood, bracing his hands on the desk. It was all he could do to keep his breathing under control as he stared the door down.

After an eternity, it opened.

Though he hadn't seen him in nearly two decades, John recognized the man who entered—Joseph Seed, his brother. Those same cheekbones, that same jawline, only broadened by manhood. The same calm, level gaze; the same solemn demeanour.

An uncharacteristic uncertainty seized John's throat as he slowly rounded his desk. "You ... you're ... ?"

"Hello, brother."

John practically threw himself at Joseph, burying his face in his shoulder. He barely choked out, "I never thought I'd see you again."

Joseph rubbed his back soothingly, and his voice cracked with emotion as he said, "Brother, you ought not to have feared. Our reunion was preordained."

"Preordained?" He looked up at Joseph's face. Preordained sounded like fate, which sounded like God. He hadn't thought of God in years, not since leaving his parents' home. God didn't want to have anything to do with someone like him.

"Yes." Joseph smiled through his tears. "Brother, there is much I have to tell you, but first, I would like to know all you've done in these long years we've spent apart."

God have mercy.

In the back of his mind John had known, all these years, that he had all the tools needed to find his brothers. But he hadn't done so. He knew what he was, and he knew that anyone sensible would reject him.

But he couldn't lie to his brother. Oh, he'd lie to everyone else, but never family.

So he told his story. Adopted by the Duncans, a wealthy couple from Atlanta. For the first few years, beaten daily until he confessed his sins, because they saw him as spiritually tainted. Going to law school. Getting the call that his parents had died. Graduating at the top of his class, and then—

"Were you?"

He stared at Joseph, uncomprehending.

"You said your parents thought you spiritually corrupt. Were you?"

Joseph's eyes bore into John's own. Their serene depths would brook no dishonesty.

John turned away, whispering, "Yes." Joseph didn't ask him to elaborate, but he told everything—the lying, the blackmail, the wild parties rife with sex and drugs. Pure deceit was the only way he'd made it this high; no part of his life was sacred.

By the time he finished his eyes were dry, his voice level. With reluctance he turned back to Joseph, expecting condemnation, but instead was startled by Joseph's arms wrapping around him tightly.

"All will be forgiven, brother." Joseph pulled away a little, pressing his forehead against John's, and John closed his eyes in his bewilderment. "You are not tainted, John. God has great plans for you. He gave me a vision, and the three of us—you, I, and Jacob—will save His righteous from the Collapse."

John's eyes snapped open. "You've seen Jacob?"

"Not yet. But with your connections, I've no doubt we'll find him."

"Of course. But ... the Collapse?"

Joseph nodded, pulling away. He rounded John's desk to the window that ran the length of the wall, and watched the street below. "The cataclysm that will end the world as we know it. You can feel it coming, can't you? People are growing more wicked by the day. No one knows what it is to be good anymore. The end is rapidly approaching, and when it comes ..." His solemn tone told the rest.

John considered it. He wasn't the only corrupt person around, and certainly not the worst by far. He knew his colleagues' every sin. The world was filled to the brim with liars, cheaters, adulterers, murderers, rapists, and worse.

Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

"When do we start?"

Joseph smiled. "In due time. First, I would like to get reacquainted with you more."

John's cheeks burned. "I should have asked before. How have you been, all these years?"

"That can wait for another time. I'm sure you're busy."

He laughed. "I'll cancel everything. You're my brother I haven't seen in decades—who cares about work!"

"As much as I would enjoy spending the rest of the day with you, brother, you must keep up appearances for a little longer." Joseph's tone lightly chided. "At least until we can find Jacob."

They made plans to meet once John was off work. As they embraced for a final time, John found himself clinging to Joseph, suddenly terrified that once his brother walked out that door, he'd never see him again.

"It's all right, John," Joseph said gently. "I will return. We may be brothers, but I'll look over you as I will the rest of our flock—as a father. Neither of your earthly fathers were honourable men, but I will strive to be so."

John nodded, unable to speak.

With a final squeeze of his shoulder, Joseph turned and left.

Once again John braced himself on his desk, trying to calm his racing mind. New hope budded within him, spilling out of him with laughter. His headache had cleared. He'd never felt so light.

But Joseph was right—he had to keep up appearances, at least for now. As one of God's chosen, he'd abide with these profligates as long as needed.

He straightened his tie. There was work to be done.

[wewillryesagain]

Here's my zine piece.

[devil-kindred]

all that was lost

Pairing(s): None

Warnings: Grief, Implied/Referenced Canonical Character Death

Summary: In the safety of the bunker, Joseph takes the time before the Deputy wakes to reflect on all that he’s lost. [This was my entry for the Far Cry fanzine, Tales From The Bunker, hosted by @unclefungusthegoat! My partner for the fanzine, the astoundingly talented and kind @decertatio, also did an art piece to accompany the writing! It was an honor to take part in the fanzine @unclefungusthegoat hosted and an even greater honor to work with @decertatio! Many thanks to them both!]

WC: 1,073⎟1/1⎟Entry for Tales From The Bunker

Joseph stares bitterly at the prone figure handcuffed to the metal bed frame. In the end, he had been right as he always knew he would be. His faith was absolute and never wavered. Not even when the Deputy was placed as an obstacle in his path. They had brought a storm upon Hope County, a storm he had steadfastly weathered... and yet... it was not without consequence. He spares one last glance at the Deputy’s unconscious form and turns his back, leaving the room to reflect. His steps carry him through the bunker into a room containing a fish tank, a couch, and a myriad of shelving. He takes a seat on the worn couch and stares into the distance, unseeing as he thinks back on all his vision had cost him.

Faith had been the first loss, a crushing blow to the Project’s effort to bring the unrepentant of Hope County to heel. Faith. He should’ve taken her assurance that she had deputy well in hand with a grain of salt. She’d always been eager to please and even more eager to ensure that her place in the family remained untouched and solid as stone. Joseph feels a wave of remorse and then anger directed both at Faith... and himself. She could’ve reined in the deputy sooner or used Burke to end the trouble with the Deputy before things escalated. And yet… the blame does not lie only with her. Joseph knows he should’ve given her more attention and, when the deputy once again proved to be a thorn in their side, he should’ve stepped in and handled things himself. He shouldn’t have trusted Faith at her word. Not completely, at least. He knew she was a master with her words and perfectly skilled at setting anyone’s mind at ease with just a simple phrase and a tilt of her head. He had witnessed it time and time again. Oh Faith… she had been skilled true, but in the end she had been no match for the deputy… and so the hell the white horse had wrought upon them had continued on their path.

Jacob had been the next to fall⏤ a startling loss and one Joseph had never anticipated. He’d never quite been able to sway Jacob to his reasoning, to get him to truly believe in the cause. To believe that he was worth more than just being a killing machine. He knew their childhood, as awful and short as it had been, had all shaped them into what they were today. And Jacob, oh his elder had been doubly shaped. First, by their poor excuse for parents and then again by the army. Broken down and remolded into something they viewed as worthy. They had changed him, made him cold and ruthless. Made his sole viewpoint nothing but survival of the fittest. Joseph blames himself in part, for using that viewpoint to help maintain the faithful. Were he a better brother, he would’ve tried harder to sway him to the belief that he too had been chosen for something greater. In the end, Joseph had failed in that regard. He had never once reminded his older brother that he was not as invincible as he thought himself to be. Had failed to remind him that even with all his training, the deputy was a force to be reckoned with… and his failures had cost him⏤ cost the project⏤ yet another life.

The first two losses had been hard, but oh that final loss. The loss of John… his baby brother… that had been the hardest yet. Joseph shakes his head, feels the wave of rage, of pure wrath break over him. None of his beloved family should’ve died, least of all John. Oh John, the baby of their family. He who had only aimed to please Joseph. To make his big brother proud. He had been so brave, but so reckless. So, so reckless when compared to the other heralds. Not like Faith who had the bliss as her armor, a way to control and sway the minds of those who would stand against them as well as those who would try to harm her. Yet, her method hadn’t been foolproof as her death had proven even with the advantage she had… Then again, Jacob’s method had proven much of the same despite his successes and best efforts. But they had taken precautions! Ways to at least put in an effort to keep harm at bay! When compared to the two of them, well, John had put himself at the most risk. Facing the deputy head on from the start. Having that scion of hell-fire brought before him with naught but rope and threats to keep himself safe. He was bold, always had been… but it had proved to be his downfall many times before and, unfortunately, had proven true once again.

He had wept, shed many tears in heartbreak as his family grew smaller and smaller while the deputy tore apart all they had strived for. As they had decimated everything the Project had built and ripped away everything Joseph held dear. In the soft glow of the illuminated tank, he weeps once more for all that he had lost and for all that was yet to come. He lets himself feel this sadness, this vulnerability in the moment of peace, until he can feel no more. And, when his tears are spent, and his thoughts drift to the board he had passed on his way— plastered with their pictures and the ravings of old man Dutch... all that is left is a boiling pit of rage. He steels himself as he stands, casts his gaze skyward, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. A moment passes and then he hears the clink of metal on metal as his companion stirs, breaking the his final moment of peace. He bows his head as if acknowledging an unseen presence and then makes his way deeper into the bunker. Joseph may not have saved as many souls as he wished… but he knows his work is not yet done and that a new task has been laid out before him. He hums as he walks, quietly at first, then singing audibly as he gets closer and closer to the deputy’s quarters. The same tune he had sung when the reaping began.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”

[unclefungusthegoat]

Fanzine writers! You can now submit your works to the AO3 collection! Please ensure everything is correctly tagged, and also tagged ‘Far Cry Fanzine 2020′!

If you wish to also post the accompanying artwork alongside the story, be sure to ask your partner first if it is OK!

Another brief update for everyone:

We got the Bryk seal of approval!!!

[beemot]

Sharky for Far Cry 5 Fanzine 2020

[jackiesarch]

i am...admittedly long overdue in posting this because i’m a nightmare, but in my defense i did forget i had written this. all that aside, this piece was written for the far cry 5 2020 fanzine! if you haven’t already checked it out, please do - it’s full of some incredible creators and creations they should all be proud of. 

i was paired with the wonderful @hawkfurze​ on this one, whose accompanying art can be found here and is absolutely incredible. thank you for being such a pleasure to work with! we made a great team!

and finally, a thank you to @unclefungusthegoat for putting this all together during such a crazy time - your hard work and dedication to making this happen is appreciated more than you know. 

Jacob doesn’t know who ordered a scouting mission in the middle of nowhere, but he’d like to get his hands on them to ask them what the hell kind of good they thought it would do. 

Whatever name was printed on the map when they set out that morning means nothing by the time they arrive, and Jacob suspects that it hasn’t for a while. It’s a small place, and if he had to wager a guess, it probably hadn’t been home to more than a hundred people at its prime. Now, it’s empty, a haunted blip in an otherwise solitary desert.

The rest of the squad stops ahead, just at the edge of the ruined, crumbling village, and Jacob’s eyes are drawn to Miller as he roots around his utility belt for his canteen. He doesn’t blame him – it’s hot, and sweat pricks at the back of his neck as he surveys the mess of crumbled brick and splintered wood that used to be homes. The place looks like it’s been through hell and back. He thinks it probably has. 

“Where now?” The man who speaks is young and cocky, full of himself like most of the guys Jacob has met fresh out of basic. 

Miller’s the one that speaks, in the end. 

“Through here, I guess,” he says, gesturing to the village. 

Jacob follows their lead, hiking his gear further up on his back and trudging forward through the desert. From the looks of it, the place hasn’t been home to anyone in a while. Sand accumulates in the corners of buildings and across what remains of stone steps.

Movement in the corner of his eye sets him on edge.  Noise follows it, and Jacob tenses, raising his weapon in the direction of the sound. His eyes flit from right to left and back again until he sees it - two small figures, crouched in the fragmented doorway of one of the houses on his left. From this far away, he can tell that one is older than the other, by a few years at the very least. 

Jacob looks around. Other than the kids in front of him and the squad wandering through the sand and rubble, the village is empty. There’s not another soul alive in this place. If they weren’t already before the city fell to ruin, these boys are orphans now.

They’re thin. It’s the first thing Jacob notices as he approaches, gun now lowered to his side. The younger of the two looks healthier, has more light in his eyes and more meat on his bones. The older one doesn't look like he’s eaten in days. It occurs to him that past the hollowed cheeks, past the visible ribs, there’s a resemblance that’s uncanny. They’re brothers, he thinks. 

The eldest pushes his sibling behind him, a move that Jacob is so familiar with that watching it feels like having whiplash. The memories hit him the same way he imagines a train might, and he recoils mentally at the images that flood into his brain. A starving baby, red-faced and screaming, his tiny fists waving in the air. A shy boy with messy hair, crying out for attention, his only friends in the world his two brothers. 

Jacob fights the urge to run, to bolt and scrub his mind clean with another day of blood and guts and fighting. Instead, he holds his hands up, palms facing the boys, a universal gesture of surrender. I come in peace, he wants to say, but forgoes it for the sake of not sounding like some kind of alien.

The boys are still, their eyes wide and nervous, unsure of where to go or what to do. Slowly, Jacob lowers his hands. He moves at a snail’s pace as he shrugs his pack from his shoulders, opens it, and rummages around inside, careful not to startle the boys. He’s not got much on him in the way of food, but his fingers close around an apple. He’d snatched it on his way out that morning, just out of habit. Now, he digs it out, sets his bag in the sand beside him, and crouches down in front of the children, holding the fruit out for them to take. 

“Here,” he says, jerking his head toward the apple. “You hungry?”

Their tentativeness makes a long-forgotten part of him ache with renewed fervor. Jacob stays crouched, pushing past memories of John and Joseph, of the apprehensive looks on their faces whenever he would bring them something good.

“’S alright,” he tries again, careful to make his voice come out as gentle as possible. “It’s for you.”

The older boy eyes the younger one, wariness evident in the depth of his gaze. Jacob knows that look. He’s afraid, but he’s desperate - desperate to keep his brother alive, desperate for help he doesn’t want to ask for. He knows the look because he remembers giving the same one to the elderly neighbours, to his teachers, to anyone who ever promised respite from the absence of his parents. 

Jacob pushes the apple closer to them, holding his hand out as far as he can. The older boy inches forward, one hand on his little brother’s shoulder, and Jacob stays absolutely still as he reaches for the apple and plucks it out of his palm. 

The younger brother’s eyes light up at the food in his brother’s hand, oblivious of the fact that it will barely be enough for one of them, let alone them both. 

From the not-so-distant edge of town, Jacob hears the harsh bark of his name being called. The rest of the squad is waiting for him, hot and tired and soaked to the bone. Around him, the wind whistles through the barren and broken ruins.

The oldest boy watches him carefully as he rises to full height. The apple is still clutched in his hands tightly, his fingers digging into the shiny, red skin of it.

Jacob nods at him. With his hands hanging limply at his sides, he’s not sure quite what he wants to say, or whether they even understand him – he just knows that he needs to say it. Eventually, he settles for simplicity.

“Take care of your brother,” he says. He tilts his head in the younger boy’s direction. He’s still staring, wide-eyed, looking at the apple like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. “He needs you. Always will.”

If they know what he’s saying, neither of them shows it. The children stare at him, watching his every move like he’s a wild animal until another shout breaks the persistent howling of the wind.

“Seed!”

He gives the kids one last look before he turns, breaking into a jog once he sees the irritation on the faces of his squadmates. Miller is the only one that doesn’t look pissed, and as Jacob catches up with them and falls back into step, he feels an elbow dig into his ribs.

“That was good of you,” Miller says, voice low enough that none of the other men will hear them. 

Jacob doesn’t say anything. He’s never been one for small talk, and his brain is already trying desperately to wipe itself clean, to purge the memories of his brothers and send them back to wherever they came from before they can start to hurt again.

Still, despite his efforts, one echo of his past remains: John and Joseph, happy and fed, watching Jacob light off fireworks in a vacant lot not a mile away from their home. Their smiles. A sliver of happiness, shining through the cracks.

He doesn’t know where life will take the boys in the village. Wherever it does, he hopes they have each other. 

[valkyrja-pride]

Mon Petit Portefeuille

Since I felt like organizing my artwork more efficiently, I took inspiration from my writer friends and collected all the art I posted here so far.

If you feel like my art is worthy your praise, buy me a ko-fi perhaps?

Update: 04/03/2020

【ＳＦＷ】

Devil May Cry

Invictus fanzine piece - Dante eating pizza

Birthday gift - mechanic!Nero for SilverSapphyre

Nero throwing you kisses

Dante hearts you

Date night with the DMC boiz

Sketch practice with a thousand Neros

partial-DT Nero for SilverSapphyre’s Shorty 07

ᴄᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ - Nero

April Fools special with Dante (no clothes! careful!)

Tokyo Ghoul

Furuta Nimura - Don’t wanna hear about it

Haise Sasaki Birthday

Ayato - new re:appearance

Dolce & Gabbana

Free!

Water practice - Yamazaki Sousuke

【ＮＳ/ＦＷ】 All to be found on my Newgrounds!

Devil May Cry

A good morning for Nero

Yūgen Vergil (birthday gift for Nana)

Vergil showers after a long day (birthday gift for Nai)

A bedroom invite á la Vergil (hearty snipe gift for Tigs)

Leave that hoodie on, Nero!