The Hairstylist

Vaas "employs" a hairstylist and forms a bizarre dynamic with her. Vaas/OC slow burn, AU

"Fuck!" shouts the disgruntled pirate in the privacy of his hut. The limited sunlight becomes his only valid light source as he looks at himself in the mirror. There, leaking blood, is a gash on the side of his head. A bloodied paring knife clutched in his other hand, a sliver of skin and hair dangling off the piece. Hissing with discontent, he applies a soothing salve on his gash, ignoring the sting. It's hard to when his chest aches with each movement; he needs to change the bandages every few hours to cease infection. The phantom pain of blade piercing flesh stings him; if he sees Jason again on the island, he'll make sure to put at least three bullets in his skull. He's conflicted; he doesn't know whether to thank Jason or kill him for all he's done. Hoyt's dead, Citra's dead, and nearly over half of his men dead and a large chunk scattered to join the Rakyat. The island had been in chaos ever since Vaas had been injured and presumed dead; the Rakyat have regained power, but with the death of Citra there has been anarchy over order. The ones that actually attempted were swiftly killed or disappeared without decent explanation.

Vaas wound up coming back to the Rakyat Islands; he may be injured and weakened, but he knew these islands and the culture like the back of his hand, he's the remaining blood relative of Citra, and he's never afraid to be ruthless. He whipped the men into shape and anyone who dared to question his authority would be quickly put to death.

It's a hollow victory; his comrades dead, his injuries almost fatal, the loss of the closest thing to a father figure to a California white boy with entitlement issues, the death of his final remaining family member…all weighing him down. It feels too quiet, too empty; no amount of drugs and sex are enough to drown out the reality he's facing each day. Every single day, it becomes the same: wake up, hunt, fuck, get high, sleep, start over. Sometimes there's not enough drugs; he's forced to reflect in the darkness of his bunker, voices and memories flashing and booming in bright colors and loud noises. He remembers Citra's laugh when she was little, the smile of Hoyt after he killed someone for him, the warm metal of Jason's gun as he puts it close to his head.

"Take me into your heart! Accept me as your savior! Nail me to the fucking cross and let me be REBORN!"

"We are so fucked, Jason."

"Did I ever tell you, what the…definition…of insanity is?"

"Insanity…is doing the exact, same fucking thing…over and over and over again, expecting…shit to change."

His words echo back at him, almost in a mocking manner. Each moment plays back in full force and vibrant color, reminding him of his own form of insanity. He and Jason keep trying to kill each other, over and over and over again, expecting one of them to die. Jason was so close, so close to breaking the cycle, until Jason missed his heart; miraculously, no vital organs were hit and Vaas is alive, forced back into the never-ending cycle. Jason got out and left him behind; Vaas will forever hate him for that. He's stuck on this island, stuck repeating the cycle until he keels over from old age or someone brave enough decides to put him out of his misery.

He looks over at the blade that started it all, the blade that Jason used to take him out. He picks it up, never taking his eyes off the dried up blood and gore from his flesh that clings to the blade.

He should finish where Jason left off.

There's nothing left; with Hoyt gone the human trafficking ring is weakening, and the remaining marijuana crops aren't enough to ship overseas. The only doctor has died by Citra's hand; there's no doctor on the island to patch up anyone or stave off infection anymore. There's no one on the island he knows or tolerates; he's a stranger to many, a threat to some, and a shell of what he used to be, before and during Hoyt's stay on the island.

He lifts the blade, the tip pressing against his healing flesh. With a count of three, it'll be over; he'll be set free and will be off this goddamn island…

"Vaas! We got a few live ones!"

He slowly lowers the blade, sighing deeply. He crams it into his sheath and leaves his hut.

There, on the island shore, are a group of victims, scared and surrounded by the Rakyat. Their look of terror and confusion gives him a slight sense of satisfaction.

"They came in from a boat." One of them explained Vaas looks to the sea and sure enough, black smoke and the tip of a boat sinking into the abyss is all the confirmation he needs. He walks to the victims, mentally counting the number and calculating their fates. One of them would look profitable in Yemen, the other seems useless, and the other three have a bright future becoming some of the Rakyat's whores. His eyes settle on the last one and he frowns.

It's a plump woman, on her hands and knees, face caked with makeup and her once perfect hair drenched in water, pieces of it starting to tangle. Her clothes look expensive, along with the costume jewelry now making her skin green as it graces her neck. Slung over her shoulder is a satchel which its contents spilled out. He sees her wallet, her phone, her keys, and a straight razor knife, tucked away neatly and shining in the sun. He picks up the possible weapon, inspecting it closely. There was no blood on it, nor has there ever been blood on it; either she uses that blade for show or she's never gotten the chance to use it on someone. He glides his finger over the blade and is amused when a thin line of blood comes out. Still sharp. He pockets it and rifles through the wallet for information.

Dominique Price. Age 23. Born February 20th, 1989. Occupation: Hairstylist at Kinky Cuts Boutique in Berkeley, California. Ethnicity: African-American. Phone number 555-555-9086.

He smirks.

"Dominique Price, from California." He announces. He crouches down and holds her chin, forcing her to make eye contact. Her mascara-streaked face looks at him, her once fearful expression turning into confusion.

"I'm getting real fucking tired of you Californians." He huffs. "I never even went to the fucking state and already I want to…"

"Please, sir. We never meant to come near your island and we don't mean any…"

"Shut. Up." Vaas' gun now graces her cheek. "Don't be fucking rude and interrupt someone when they're talking. I had a bad fucking day and I'm looking to empty six bullets in someone's skull. Make my day, motherfucker. Make my day."

She gulps. She nods her head and presses her lips together tightly.

"What are you doing with this?" he holds up the razor knife, "you looking to slit someone's throat?"

"I…I cut hair." She answers. "I'm a hairstylist. I use that knife to shave people's beards and the occasional…scalp."

"You ever cut someone?"

"No, sir. I pride myself of not injuring any of my clients."

"Hmm…" he scratches his chin.

"We got ourselves a fucking hairstylist!" he booms. His comrades laugh and raise their guns. He walks over to the group. They look at him in terror, huddling closer.

"I'm a doctor." One of them blurts out. She's a dark-skinned woman with small dreadlocks.

"Bioengineer." The other adds. It's a black man with a Jamaican accent.

"Chemist." A light-skinned woman with tightly coiled hair says.

"Nurse." Another black man adds. His eyes are green and his skin reminds Vaas of the skins of coconuts.

"Cook." A brown skinned woman with loose curls says, clutching on to the Chemist.

"Well, look at that. All of you are fucking useful." Vaas puts his gun back in the holster. Just his luck that these people have some use. They're not a group of white American fucks who ride on the coattails of Daddy's money; they are doctors, cooks, and scientists. The only useless one is…

"Dominique."

Dominique jolts.

"Looks like you're pretty useless compared to your friends over here…"

"I cut hair. I have skilled hands with a knife and I hair is very vital to your health."

"Oh, really?"

"A hairstylist makes sure not just your hair is healthy, but you as well. Sir, I have a use. Just, let me show you. I'm a good asset."

The spotlight is on him.

Vaas has two options: kill her or take her up on the offer. Compared to a doctor, a scientist, and a cook (who could possibly make salvageable food), a hairstylist sounds meaningless.

"That gash in your head. You tried to cut your own hair, right?"

"That's none of your fucking business."

"If you had someone to cut your hair, you wouldn't have to worry about hurting yourself. How many times are you going to keep cutting yourself until you hit an artery and bleed to death?"

"Shut the fuck up." The barrel is pressed to her temple. He is in her face now, daring her to say anything or give him a reason to shoot.

"Let me show you what I can do for you." Dominique says slowly and quietly. Vaas then notices the color of her eyes: dark brown and warm. It takes him back to a moment when he was young and when his and Citra's mother was still alive. He can still feel her fingers running through his hair as she cuts it into a Mohawk, smell the soft scent of coconuts and mangoes she always wears.

His eyes lock on to Dominique's hands. They're small and thin, a contrast to her plump figure. He grabs them, feeling the callouses and smooth skin.

She knows hard work.

"Please."

"I'll take you up on the offer." He drops her hands.

"You cut my hair, for the mercy of your friends' fate. You fuck up, or even think about cutting me, I'll kill you and bury them alive with your rotting fucking body. Understand? You want to prove yourself for the sake of survival? You want to put them in danger should you fuck up? Your talents for their freedom. How about it?"

The captive's eyes widen. She inhales sharply, her nails digging into the sand.

"Okay." She nods.

"If I do a good job, will you let me live and keep my friends alive?"

"That's the fucking deal."

"Okay. It's a deal."

Her hand holds out for him to take. Vaas clutches it in a vice grip, grinning at her wincing.

He doesn't know why he's allowing this person to be so close to him while he's vulnerable, but he lets her.

He's sitting in a chair, watching the girl sharpen her blade on a strip of leather. The makeshift soap solution is held in his hand, the slightly artificial smell rendering him high. She glides it over the strip again and walks over to him. Her fingers map out his face and neck, gliding over the stubble that's freshly growing and caressing the scabbing gash on his head.

"What look do you want?"

"Mohawk. Get rid of the neck-beard."

"Tilt your head back, please."

He does.

His Adam's apple points up at the ceiling, his view obstructed by the fleshy globes of her breasts. Her finger traces his Adam's apple; he swallows out of reflex.

He jerks when a refreshing cool caresses his throat. It swirls and tickles, working its way all up to his cheeks. He feels the cold metal and he stills himself.

She's thorough and fast; those small fingers and sharp blade dance across his throat and cheeks with accuracy and delicacy. She gently pushes his head forward and the refreshing cool comes back across his scalp. The blade slices through hair and dances around his gash. She grabs a rag and strokes his face, eyes narrowed and focused. She steps back and holds up a mirror.

Vaas admires himself in the mirror; she did a pretty good job; he'll give her that. His fingers skim over his face and couldn't believe how smooth his face is; it feels like a baby's ass!

"What do you think?" Dominique's voice cracks through the silence.

"You're pretty good." He sets down the mirror.

"You live to see another day."

The girl deflates.

He walks the girl out of the hut, his comrades standing at attention.

"The girl stays. Keep the doctor, nurse, and cook. Send the rest back to the States. If they try to rebel, kill them. make sure they never know where they're going so in case the fuckers try to come back, they won't know where to go."

"Y-you said that you'd set them free."

"I said I'd let them live. Are you going to question my fucking rules? You calling me a liar?" he slams her against a tree, blade digging into her cheek. She furiously shakes her head. He laughs.

"I'm going to chill…I'm going to relax. Because you, moi, and," he whistles, "some of your little friends, are going to have a lot of fun together. I got myself a fucking hairstylist for free. I feel like a movie star or some shit, you know? And we got a doctor, a nurse, and a fucking cook who can help with my island tenfold. Like I hit the fucking jackpot."

Perhaps, fate had other plans in mind. Maybe he can have another shot at breaking the cycle of insanity.

He grins.