Far Cry 2: Hair On Your Chest

Life itself is will to power. Nothing else matters.

I ran through the moonlit African jungle tonight, chased by two men in a jeep equipped with a mounted gun. I could hear the noise of its terrible engine dogging my every step, until I came, at last, upon a previously cleared guard post.

Frightened and exhausted from suffering through a bout of malaria, I slid into a crouch behind the wall of a ragged shack. I could see the two men pull up and exit the jeep through the shack’s flimsy, sheet-metal walls, and I decided to put some distance between us.

Slowly — oh, so very slowly — I crawl backwards out of the rear of the shanty. There’s a couple of hills and trees back there that might provide some useful cover. Too busy shouting at each other in their South-African-accented speech, they don’t notice me booking it for the hills, from which, I tell myself, I will discharge my strength.

When I turn, this is how I see my enemies.


One shot should do nicely, I think, and it does. The man in the foreground is dead instantly, the second incapacitated. I use my scope to watch him crawl into a shack similar to the one in which I previously cowered. Karma? Fate? No. This is my will.

He manages to prop himself up, and gets off one last shot.


But it is nothing. I am stronger, and he is destroyed.

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