Title: The Gas Harvest FADE IN: EXT. RUSTIC POND - DAY The Rook Islands shimmer under the relentless sun, cascading its warmth upon a serene, hidden pond fringed by lush greenery and the distant clamor of tropical birds. JASON BRODY, tanned, toned, and tattooed, strides confidently toward the water's edge, his physique a testament to island survival--muscles ripple across his back, his arms carved out of rebellious escapades, and a derriere perfected by countless hours of sprinting from insanity's tight grip. Jason peers around as if to ensure his solitude on this primeval stage. With a cocksure smile, he strips off his clothes, revealing a butt that could only be described as a triumphant cross between a peach and a boulder, structured in a way that even Greek gods would nod in approval. He wades into the tranquil waters au naturel, each step stirring up the sandy bottom, clouding around him like a deliberately censored filter for comedic modesty. He positions himself waist-deep, the cool water lapping at his sun-kissed skin. JASON (to himself, insouciantly) Let's see if the Brody charm works under the sea. As he wiggles his fingers in preparation for some makeshift noodling, the water around him bubbles. His face contorts comically, an approaching internal cataclysm telegraphed by his expressive eyes. With the comedic timing of a seasoned stand-up comic, Jason releases the Kraken. A BUBBLING SOUND cascades through the water, and a greenish hue diffuses from his posterior as if death itself had been invited to the fish tea party. The serenity is shattered by the cacophony of his relieving release. Birds take flight, and the nearby fauna shakes as if trying to unhear the unholy concert from the human trumpet. And then, the fish--once darting about with the ease of the common Rook Island barracuda--now float belly-up in a grim parade around Jason's epicenter of eco-disaster. They bob lifelessly, their tiny fish faces frozen in what can only be described as aquatic horror. JASON (chuckling) Whoa. That's some potent Brody brew... With a laugh that echoes his journey from captive to captor, Jason wades through his catch with a flippancy that borders on pride. He scoops up the expired fish with glee, stacking them like a grisly deck of cards against his still-glistening peach-boulder. JASON (sing-song) Who needs a fishing pole when you've got a secret weapon? Jason strolls back to the shore, a caveman returning from the hunt, his spoils in hand--and on this day, his weapon of choice is as foul as it is effective. The scene closes with Jason raising a fish to the sky, an ode to the absurdity only found on the Rook Islands. FADE OUT. [This scene is intended as a humorous and fictional portrayal within the constraints of the character and game environment. In the actual Far Cry 3 game, respect for the natural environment is encouraged, and such comedic liberties are not taken.]