u/TheWizardOfWaffle

The Sosigs are actually make out of a dense latex material filled with meat sludge. When you rub your fingers on them, you’ll feel the latex squeak like you would with balloons. You can squeeze them and pop them like meat pimples.

You can pistol grip the sten gun

The Owen gun makes a return

Gunnasium makes a huge
comeback with a new urban jungle themed map, it’s going to be directly behind the sniper range scene.

If you are fast enough, you can slice a sosig’s head open

There will be 15 AR style rifles on launch and 0 AK style rifles

A majority of guns will be locked behind take & hold and must be unlocked before you can use them

There will be an AR-15 with a clown nose and a rainbow afro on its carry handle

(I am not sure if this is the best place to post this, and if it is against the rules, I apologize. Copy and pasted from google docs)

(This story is not entirely lore accurate. This story assumes Myklukha and Lukash don’t fall out until spring of 2013) 

April 4th, 2013
7:15 AM 
Army Warehouse
Alexiy “Bubba” Datsyuk

The barracks were cool, my alarm on my PDA had blared in my ear, much to the dismay of the boys who were either just now getting their rest, or were nursing a nasty hangover. As soon as my eyes plinked open I turned and yawned, and turned the annoying beeping thing off. My eyes drifted towards the ceiling. I could hear gentle rain hit the metal roof, and smell the must of the moisture that was surely leaking through. Unfortunately for us, there were no roofscapers in the zone. I stretch as I lean over, grunting as I grab my bag and my armor, slipping it over my sweater, and checking to make sure no one swiped my stuff. AK Bayonet, check. Water, check. Some rainy day joints, check. Batteries, lights, water, ammo, Glock… Check. Check. Check.
The zone was changing all the time, but things were pretty shaky at the moment. It has been almost a year now since Strelok opened the way to the north, and a few months since the biggest legend in Freedom, Myklukha, returned from the center of the zone. Monolith had been attacking the barrier less and less, and things with Duty seemed to be pretty calm considering one of their guys split the faction in two. It was actually a pretty great time to be a Freedomer now all things considered. And now it was time to reap what we sowed. Among my gear, a smooth blackened rifle. An old polymer FAL, or I suppose L1A1 if we are getting pedantic. My thumb hangs on the magazine release and I pull the box full of bright shiny 7.62x51 Nato. It was a bit of an expensive gun to maintain in a place like The Zone, and it kicked like an absolute beast, but I fully stood by it. 7.62 can even make a bloodsucker pause. A 7.62 can crack through an exoskeleton faceplate. I’m thoroughly convinced my FAL has saved me in situations where an LR-300 or a G36 wouldn't. 
I slot my magazine back into the mag well and hoist it over my shoulder. I was geared up now. Wings of freedom suit strapped tight to my body, my trusty rifle on my side, my backpack full of goodies. It was time to start the day. The early bird gets the worm after all. I step out of the barracks, my boots creaking down the steps as I take in the beautiful sight of my home. Dozens of other men, and even a few women, were walking about the military warehouse. I fish into my breast pocket to grab a hold of a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, popping the filter into my mouth and lighting the end to take a nice long flavorful pull of sticky acrid vapors. A fine buzz washes over me as I exhale a puff of white smoke. My stomach was rumbling. I wanted food. Real food. I didn’t want our local shopkeep, Skinflint, to gouge me out of some snacks… so my only real alternative was to either go out and hunt it, or… go see chef.
I weigh my options as I stand at the literal crossroads in the center of the Army Warehouse. The top of my boot digs circles into the dirt as I look up, and waves to some of the boys across the road who were trying to chat up some of the new ladies. I finally decide to take my chances at the miserable little cantina down the road next to the general store. It was another shack with metal walls and wooden floors, only the inside was nearly completely empty. Wooden wire spools flipped on their sides to make makeshift tables. Old rickety highchairs that were made when Khrushchev was still in charge, and the alluring aroma of absolutely fuck all. The stoves were cold. And there was a miserable meek man slouched on the passthrough. He was dozing off. Laziness… Freedom had its fair share of fatties and parasites, like that dog Magpie who I personally evicted from the Army Warehouse with nothing but his underwear and a Makarov with 1 bullet in it. My stomach growled louder, as I went over to Chef. He was a pale and skinny man, his expression was gaunt and his hair, or… what was left of it, was thin and fading. His eyelids were closed. Sounds of sizzling food were replaced with his placid snoring. I firmly kicked him in the chest. With a jolt, his eyes flew open, and he looked around, his hand reaching for a bottle that has long since disappeared and rolled away.
“Huh… Wha..?
He looked around, his eyes scanning the ground. He looked up at me, and he scowled.
“Fuck off, you…” 
I kicked him again, this time, harder.
“Oww! What the fuck, Bubba! You’s supposed to be chill…”
I cross my arms, a cold biting expression over my face as I dress him down.
“I’m chill for my bros, not for scum suckers like yourself. I’m hungry.” 
I demanded. Chef slowly rose to his feet, and wobbled behind the door of the kitchen. There was some clattering, and clanging. It hardly sounded like any sort of preparation, more like a toddler banging pots and pans together to sound busy. When he comes back out, he has a plastic meal tray, with a can of potted meat, label scratched off. He places it down on one of the spool tables, and his finger loops around the ring pull, cracking it open with a pop and a metallic peel. I look at it with disgust.
“What is that?” 
I ask him, looking slightly disgusted. Chef leans over the table, and inspects the congealed mystery meat in front of him. He scratches his chin, like Socrates pondering the secrets of life. He lets out a stupified moan.
“Huhh… Looks like… mmhh.. Some kinda… protein… Possibly… mmmwanna say beef. But it could be a chicken situation… mhh.. Looks like peas n’ there too.” 
I look up at him with terror and sadness in my eyes. I’d rather chomp into a wild boar and risk turning green and shining like a glowstick than eat whatever putrid shimmering meat slime he just put in front of me. Where his drunk and hungover eyes saw peas, I saw flecks of mold…
“I’m not eating this. I would like eggs, a slice of toast, and sausage, please.” 
I say extremely calmly. I know he has none of this either prepared or even in stock. It was a trick, an excuse so I could put this pig in his place. A wry smile forms on his face as he points his finger at me, and wags it up and down. He chuckles a bit.
“Ahhh.. Aha… ha… You are funny man, Bubba-!”
I lurch forward, my fingers grab his ears and push him against the wall of the kitchen. I begin to pull painfully, eliciting a squeal from this waste of human space in front of me. He tries to pull away, but I slam his head against the wall once more as he croaks.
“GAHH!” 
I punish his disobedient squeal with another thorough thrash against the wall, gritting my teeth, flecks of spittle painting his face as I tear into him.
“Listen here you little fucking PRICK. Maybe you could get away with sitting on your fat lazy fucking ass back before Strelok popped the miracle machine, but this is 2013. We have hungry fucking recruits living off of potted meat and zone stew. Is this how you thank Freedom? How you thank your comrades? With moldy–” I slam his head once more against the wall “--FUCKING CANS OF MYSTERY MEAT?” 
I finally let him go, as he stumbles to the ground dramatically, acting like I just broke his ribs or something. He sobs something awful as he continues to vocalize out to anyone who may care about him.
“O-Ho-Hooww.. Bubbaa… You really hurt me man… I’m– I’m seeing stars…” 
He sniffled and rubbed the bump forming on his head. I roll my eyes, but I do feel a twinge of guilt. I guess even I wasn’t immune to this parasite's infantile cries for mercy. I sigh as I extend a hand to him, to which he takes, I pat him on the back and nod along.
“Alright… Alright, Chef. Take it easy. You’re okay.”
He sniffles once again, and leans against me, like I was his best friend. His breath reeked of alcohol. You could take a match to his lips and he’d explode from how much was in his system. 
“I-It’s just been real difficult, Bubba! Real difficult!’
He squeals and sobs some more and I continue to console him.
“I know.. I know.. Shhh Shhh.” 
It was a play in 3 parts. One part of me actually felt a little bad for thrashing a drunk, another part was just trying to get him to shut up, and the last part was completely mocking him.
“Lukash won’t give me the money I need… and I have no money for booze..-- I mean… I go out in the zone a lot, man! I need Vodka to protect me from the rads!” 
And like the parasite he was, he was immediately trying to get me to be on his side about Lukash giving him a drinking budget, to which I internally fume over. This… bitch. You should be staying inside and making the cantina a worthwhile food court. We had too many fresh recruits going hungry. Shit… I never thought Freedom getting too big would ever be a problem.
“Tell you what I’m going to do for you, Chef, mkay?” 
Chef sniffles, his arm around my neck, holding onto me like I was a life preserver, and the floor a deadly dark ocean which he will drown in if he let go.
“What are you gonna do for me, Bubba?”
He asks, looking into my eyes with dull brown soulless orbs. A frown palpable on his face.
“I’m gonna go to Lukash, and Myklukha, and I’ll see what I can do to help you, buddy!” 
His frown forms into something radiant, a warm smile creeping back on that sad ugly mug. Of course, all of this was a farce. I’d be going up to the bossmen to rat his ass out and hopefully get him either whipped into shape, or put on mutant patrol or something.... Anything other than being in charge of feeding an entire battalion of grunts. This guy was stupid. He could be the hottest shit in the zone, and yet he flounders it all! What a stupid man! I’d spit on him, but he suffered enough already. He once again wipes his red nose across his sleeve as he begins to thank me profusely. I try my best not to let the grossness of him smearing his greasy hands all over me get to me too much as I let him go. I step out of the sad excuse of a cantina and take a deep breath, running my hands on my face… the same way I do after I clear a mutant den. Okay bro, take it easy. I go back the way I came, back at the cross roads. The same men were smoking, chatting, some people were just coming back from patrols, I gave them small waves as I walked up to the main office.
It was a decrepit concrete sort of thing. The type of building that was put up hastily with the highest quality cheapo concoction the USSR could pour that the brass were expected to operate out of. The rain was starting to pick up, and I had pulled my hood over my own head so as not to get completely soaked. I walked up to the guardsmen at the front door of this building, two bulking tanks of men, their hands resting ever so lovingly on their rifles. I could hear the hissing of their breath through their ultra filtered exoskeleton gas masks as they looked me up and down. The joints and servos on their armor were painted green and yellow. It stood out, sure, but then again, if you were close enough to see it, then you were too close to begin with. I’ve seen dudes in exoskeleton suits take on entire squads and come out without a scratch. The one to the left puts his hand up, his voice, crushed with a modulator, halting me.
“Stop right there, man!” 
He says, his voice rough and serious. I hold in an eye roll as I peer past him, seeing a few more freedom dudes walking down the stairs, smoking, chatting away idly. My attention snaps back towards the door man as he recognizes me.
“Ohh, it’s Bubba. Heh.” 
He chuckles, his shoulders rising up and down like two bouncing boulders.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face around here…” 
I started to get a little worried. Me? Why would I have the nerve? Was someone spreading rumors? Shit… did I fuck up? Anxiety welled in my throat as the guardsmen’s goggles peered into my soul like needles piercing flesh. Red was burning on my face, before I feel a hand shoving me back slightly, and a rancorous laugh.
“PFFT HAHAHA! You should have seen the look on your face, dude! I totally freaking got you!” 
My eyebrows twitch as I try to decipher the voice. Was that… Mikhail? He sure looked as tall as him, and he was playing jokes on me like he usually does… he’s a door guard now? Last I remembered he was on artifact collecting duty.
“Mikhail? I didn’t realize they let babies guard the door, now.” 
The doorman next to Mikhail laughed at the jab, Mikhail shook his head.
“What can I say, they love me so much they have me putting up with this jackass!” 
The doorman’s head slowly turned to Mikhail’s as he softly muttered.
“...Hey…” 
His voice was that of hurt, betrayal, a knife firmly slotted into his back. I sigh as I reach around in my backpack, fooling around with some plastic… just gotta open up a compartment, aaand… voila. I produce a pre rolled joint. Delicious aromatic herb wrapped in the finest rolling paper one can find in the zone. It was fat, stubby, and it packed a punch. Mikhail scratches the bottom of his mask, with his finger and his thumb, as if scratching his chin.
“Got something for you, man. Just gotta see the bosses.” 
Mikhail takes the joint from my hand, unzipping a side pocket and depositing it within. He nods a bit.
“Thanks Bubba, man! You’re the best! Yeah, sure, what do ya need em for?” 
How do I say it in a way that won’t get me laughed off the base. ‘Excuse me! I‘d like to file a complaint to the bosses because Chef is an idiot!’ I could say, and then I could also have my rep ruined. I cross my arms with a small smile.
“Business regarding the Cantina.” 
Mikhail leaned his head to the right, leaned his head to the left, he really oughta ask for more details. It’s not that he didn’t trust me, or think I was going to hurt them or anything, Mikhail was just supposed to make sure no one would waste their time. His face was impossible to read under that mask. The tinted goggles were opaque to me. He finally nods, and steps aside.
“Alright, man. If for no other reason than to hopefully get some better food in there. Dude served me a piece of moldy sausage the other day.” 
I give Mikhail a firm clasp on my hand as I pat him on the back.
“Thanks man.” 
“No problem, bro.” 
I walk past the guards as I get into the interior. I’m flooded with a warm blow of a space heater overhead. Lucky bastards. It must be nice to stand next to a freaking cozy heater all day. I looked closer at it, it was a brand spanking new one, too. Glad to know where my artifact money was going towards. It didn’t bother me too, too much. It’s not like we weren’t in a position to get a little fancy. We had everything we could ask for at Freedom. Everything except a goddamn competent chef. I wave to the guard to the armory and to the weapon mechanic as I walk upstairs, where it was even warmer. High ranking freedom dudes were dotted about. Some were still sleeping in their cots, some were in the lounge, smoking up, chatting softly. And then there was the commander's room. As I approach, I hear a hushed conversation.
“What happened to no owners, Myklukha? The zone is for stalkers…”
A dark and deep voice that I recognize as Lukash’s.
“Man, you’re thinking too small! You know what this means? Freedom becomes the de facto KINGS of the zone, man! We’d never have to worry about another war. We’d be RICH, man, and we’d answer to no one!”
Another voice, more upbeat, more loose, slightly gravelly, and airy at the same time. Myklukha. Even though I’ve been in Freedom longer than him, I’ve actually never met the man. Just knew that he and Lukash have been spending a lot of time together. 
“No one except this… Korshunov guy, and his Ward.” 
I could hear Myklukha groan, frustrated, there was strain in his voice.
“Lukash, get it through your skull, man… It’s a join or die deal, man. With or against… If Duty cozies up to them and we dont…” 
Lukash retorts.
“Enough. We’ll talk later. Let’s just sit tight until the recon squad from The Red Forest gets back.” 
Myklukha once again groaned, but finally relented.
“You’re asking for borrowed time we don’t got, but fine.” 
I finally peer my head in. The commander's room. It had a couch, a hookah, even a freaking pool table for crying out loud, though… it was a remnant of a bygone era. The table had sheets upon sheets of surely classified documents on it. I didn’t pay too much attention. Standing was Lukash. He looked at me with that grizzled stubbled face, arms held neatly behind him. Sitting was Myklukha. He had long dirty blonde hair and a grimy smear on his face. His legs were spread wide as he held a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Two sides of Freedom, I guess. Myklukha’s head swiveled very slowly to me. Lukash spoke.
“Now here’s a surprise. Bubba walks into the command center of his own volition.”
He crosses his arm with a small wry smirk, it was a playful jab. Myklukha stood up, and walked over to me. He was quite a bit taller than me, maybe 6’1, 6’2. He looked into my eyes, almost sizing me up.
“Shit, man. Glad to meet you. We’ve both been in Freedom for years, you’d think we woulda bumped elbows by now? You’re Bubba, right? You’re the big guy from the big wars way back, right?”
I try not to think too much back on it. The 2011 wars were something my mind seldom ever wanted to think back on. It’s where I made my mark, yes. But it’s also where I lost a piece of myself. The things I've done… Were I in an actual army, I’d probably be put to a tribunal, but we were paramilitaries fighting paramilitaries. Not the kind to adhere to any Geneva convention. I nod my head a bit back to back.
“Ehh… Yeah, something like that. Good to meet you too, man.”
I clasp my hand against him, and pull him in for a quick hug, clapping him on the back once as I make my way deeper into the office. Myklukha takes another drag of the cigarette as he sits back down. Lukash formally addresses me.
“What can we do for you, Bubba?” 
I lean back against the wall, the tension could be cut with a freaking knife. Reminds me why I never stuck my nose where it didn’t belong.
“It’s uh… the Cantina.”
Lukash’s face crinkled in confusion, I couldn’t really parse what he was thinking other than why I would come up here about the Cantina. I shake my head and wave my hands theatrically, trying to paint a picture.
“Okay, okay, okay. The Cantina is a joke. Chef only gets off his ass when we’re in a conflict and you light a fire under his ass. Duty’s got Rostok. Duty’s got the 100 rads. Duty’s got the arena… How come Freedom doesn’t have anything like that!? How come we don’t have a place where our boys can get three hot meals a day?” 
Lukash smirks slightly, and then lets out one, count them, one, short chuckle.
“You want us to spend money on giving you three hot meals a day?” 
 I shake my head, and wave my hands even more, trying to deny a statement that may be mired in truth. Myklukha seemed a little more intrigued, closing his legs and sitting forward, his green eyes scanning me up and down. 
“I’m not saying that, Lukash! I’m just saying… We're growing as a faction. We got a lot of new recruits. That cantina could be the coolest place in the zone, and yet it just wastes away while Chef gets wasted! Forget cost, man! You fix that place up, and it’s a GOLD mine!” 
Lukash thinks it over, as does Myklukha. After some deliberation, Lukash spoke hesitantly.
“I don’t know, Bubba. What you say is true, but it’s just fixing a bar. It’s logistics. It’s getting an outside contact for fresh food. Alcohol. The extra fuel for round the clock cooking. That adds up, man, but time moves fast in the Zone. What happens if Duty surprise attacks and those resources are spent on a Cantina renovation instead of rations, munitions, arms, and armor?” 
I sigh, everything he said was true. True enough, I guess. Myklukha snorts a bit, as he has something to say. His leg bounces in excitement. Lukash has to suppress an eyeroll just as I did a few moments ago.
“Something you wanna say, man?” 
Myklukha took the opportunity and ran with it.
“Bubba’s right, man! Back then we had Ganja, man! And he was the cooooooolest dude in The Zone! Ever since he made tracks for the big land, we’ve been deprived of a chill out zone!” 
Lukash argues back.
“The Army Warehouse is a chill out zone, dude.” 
Myklukha bites.
“A CHILLER out zone, then man!” 
Lukash rubs the bridge of his nose, capitulating if only to stop Myklukha from arguing with him every step of the way.
“Alright. Tell you what. We’ll do a trial run. If it’s successful, we’ll keep it like that. If not, then we bring back funding to where it was.”
I smile, and pump my fist! Hell yeah! I couldn’t wait until someone with some real experience took charge! Maybe we could get Hawaiian in Yaniv to come over! Man, that would be CHOICE! Lukash speaks louder, to grab my attention back.
“There are CONDITIONS, Bubba.” 
Shit.
“Condition one. You are to head the cantina with Chef working for you. He’s your responsibility.”
I furrow my brow in both anger and confusion.
“H-Hey come on, now! I’m not cut out for that kinda work!” 
Lukash’s face looks at me with one of mild disbelief, and a sneer so malignant and sharp it could cut through diamonds.
“I seem to remember a Christmas morning when you got drunk and went on and on about how much you missed working at your family’s diner. Means you’ve got experience, and you clearly have a vision for this place.” 
My face burns red. Shit. Me and my big mouth. Uncool to use a man’s drunken stupors against him, but… I suppose if he had to only bring up one incident involving me getting black out drunk, I’m glad it was one so benign.
“Condition two. You negotiate the logistics. Talk to Skinflint. Talk to Sidorovich. Talk to your old connection in the army.” 
I nod, fine enough… of course, it meant I would have to finance my own shit. For this trial run. I swallow nervously as I await the hopefully last condition.
“Condition three. You do a job for me.” 
I let out a soft sigh, a job? I can do a job.
“What’s the job, boss?”
Lukash walks over to the table, and collects some documents. He shoves them in a manilla envelope, with a crude freedom emblem drawn on the front. He ties the manilla envelope closed, and hands it to me. 
“You are to go to Rostok as an envoy of Freedom. A man by the name of Alexander Kroshunov will be there. He is a representative of a group known as The Ward that is currently attempting to facilitate a ceasefire between Duty and Freedom. Within that envelope are Freedom's terms and conditions for a ceasefire.” 
I swallow hard… waltzing straight into Duty territory? It seemed like a bad idea. An idea straight out of hell. What if they don’t recognize me? What if they give me the business? What if they arrest me and execute me? My chest swells a bit, I was very nervous.
“I’m just… going in alone?”
Lukash nods slowly.
“You’ll be going in alone. I can’t think of a better representative for Freedom than yourself, you’re an ice cube. You go in, you introduce yourself, you don’t ask questions, you make sure you personally deliver it to Korshunov, and then you come back. Duty knows you are coming. They’re supposed to let you through.” 
I close my eyes slowly, I truly would rather go to the Red Forest to artifact hunt. This wasn’t going to go well. Shit. Duty and Freedom basically haven’t stopped taking pot shots at each other since their conception. Even in neutral zones like Yaniv, where there wasn’t supposed to be any fighting, we would shoot at each other. I take a moment to think about it, and then I think a little deeper. This was more than just the cantina. Everyone in the room knew it. I knew it. Lukash knew it. The grinning Myklulha knew it. I grab the envelope, and stuff it into the bag. I accepted not for the Cantina, or Lukash, but… for freedom. If there was a chance to stop the violence between Freedom and Duty, I’d take it. If not for me, then for all of the Freedomers who joined wanting a free life, not a life ended with a sniper’s bullet in their neck. 
“Okay, Lukash. For Freedom.”
Lukash nods.
“You’re a good man, Bubba. That’s why I’m sending you. You’re not doing this because it’s an order. You’re not even doing it for your Cantina. You’re doing this to help your fellow stalker.” 
He puts a hand on my shoulder, and pokes me in the chest.
“That. Is what it means to be a Freedomer.” 
Fuck my stupid fucking stalker life. Fuck everything. The cool composed heart I kept iced over was buying this bullshit. Goddamnit. I have to squeeze my eyes shut so as not to get emotional. But fuck, it felt good to just be appreciated. 
“I won’t let you guys down.” 
I give a small salute, and I’m returned one back. I turned over to Myklukha, who was smiling bright at me like the morning sun, he let out a hearty laugh.
“Damn, man! You’re alright! Hey, we should roll one sometime, eh?” 
I smile back, and nod, heading towards the exit.
“For sure, man, I’ll catch you later, man.”