r/TheZoneStories

October 26 2018

Today I have arrived in the rookie village. It had cost most of my cash to bribe the military guards at the cordon to permit me into the zone. I'd done some Zone adjacent work before, and had a chance to listen to some veterans. I didn't have much with me, just the essentials: cigs, first aid kit, my TOZ-34, sawn off to better fit in my pack, and my father's TT-33, complete with silencer. Since 2014, after leaving the Canadian Army, I'd been after some adventure, and left my mother in Alberta in 2016 and moved in with my Belorussian father. It was there, I got it into my head to go to Ukraine and the Zone. 

In this 'village' I bought some supplies and chatted to the other rookies hanging about. The man they call Sid, offered me some work: find a man called Andryukha Cross, and more importantly the artifact he had. He had been part of a team of three stalkers that found the mysterious Eye artifact (and Sid had a good buyer lined up beyond the perimeter, some yank pharmaceutical corp), who then betrayed and killed the other members of the team at the Hanger in the Garbage before making good his escape. If I can return the Eye, and make good Sid's vengeance, I get the three men's cut to myself, as well as a little extra for my trouble. I wasn't sure what work to expect here, but a hitman makes sense enough, I've killed before. Plus, the money on offer here is crazy. This rock itself could be fetching several thousands of dollars. 

I've made it to a farm, where I've bought some tins of tuna for lunch, to make sandwiches. A guy told me there had been some shooting to the North East, zombies or something. I saw one later that afternoon, dropped him with a shot to the head from my pistol. I don't believe in the undead, but he deserved any mercy I could offer him, and a round through the skull was all I could spare. 

A bandit and I exchanged a few shots at range, mostly ineffective. I then pulled back and reengaged, killing him as he was walking back to his campfire. Not my man. 

Arrived at the Hangar. Butcher said my man was seen heading East by one of his Duty pals that hung about the Hangar. He told me to head East from the Flea Market to Dark Valley, loads of bandits out that way. As I went to leave, the Hangar was attacked by Bandits, and I helped drive them off by holding a doorway and laying down some lead.  

At the flea market, I've bought some ammo, to replace what I fired off in the crazy gunfight at the hangar.

I found my man. He was cooking on a fire at the polluted lake. Mag dumped him in the back. He had a VSS Vintorez, slightly scuffed, but it's mine now. Made it back to Hangar to rest briefly and check out my loot. He didn't make it easy. The polluted lake is a hard place to get to without being blasted with radiation, and I didn't have much in the way of protection, or long range shooting. Climbed across a fallen tree onto the island in the end, but still my geiger counter was clicking like mad. Still, the hard part is done, put on some tunes from the PDA and get back to Sid. 

DETAINED AND SHOT BY CHECKPOINT IN CORDON 

THIS DIARY IS MILITARY EVIDENCE

Colonel Victor Koval looked up from the little notebook, and replaced the picture of the family that had been marking the page in the diary. Major Vadim Obbizhysvit handed him another file. 

"Here's what we know about the STALKER"

Browsing through the photos in the envelope, Victor saw a man face down in a pool of blood, his bag emptied out beside him, with the prize Vintorez lying above him. 

"Canadian citizen", Vadim continued. "Combat vet with the Canadian army. Speaks Russian thanks to his Belorussian father. We've alerted the Belorussian and Canadian embassies, as per procedure, but don't expect anything in response."

"As per their procedures." muttered Victor. "Tell me, what's so special about this artifact? The diary mentions that Sid could be making thousands of USD out of this. Did he report this to us, or is he doing this behind our backs?"

"That's the thing, Victor." Vadim leaned back in his chair and drew on his cigarette. "We are probably missing out on quite a bit of cash if Sid is getting semi-regular contracts with big foreign corps. Maybe time to pay him a visit and remind him that he is still at our mercy."

"An audit, eh? Bah, when did this zone business get so bureaucratic? Gone are the days when men were men and we handled things properly. Sure, my wife likes the presents, but it's all too institutional for me."

"Oh come on Victor! I heard from the Colonel in 3rd Battalion that he made an extra 20,000USD on top of his salary last year. Between us we've barely scraped 10,000! Our year is coming up soon, and I want what that son of a bitch owes us. He's taken us for fools, you know."

"So what is it you want from me Vadim? Approve your punitive expedition into the zone? Then what? We've killed a bunch of tragic tourists who don't even take to stalking well, probably lose one or two of our own, so you can take a nice holiday to Monaco? Will you even go on this raid, or just send Captain Krasinski? I don't trust the trigger happy bastard as far as I can throw him. He'll spoil any chance we have of keeping our deal with Sid, probably by slotting him when he gets close to him."

Vadim ashes out his cigarette. "You know I can't go into the zone, sir: I'm medically unfit because of my dodgy knee. My wife's a doctor and she told me not to expose myself.."

"Ah yes." Victor interupted. "Well this is all well and good Vadim, but I won't authorise a mission unless you're willing to go. If that is all."

The conversation was at an end. Major Vadim Obbizhysvit stood, put his beret on, saluted, and limped out of the office. Victor turned back to the diary, pulled out the family photo, the young man with his parents on top of some Canadian mountain, who would never see him again. 

The Living Zone

"The Zone doesn't teach through words. It teaches through survivors."

---

May 12th, 8:32 - Garbage, near the Trash Heaps

The growl rolled across the scrapyard once more.

Closer.

Lower.

It didn't sound like an animal... it sounded wet.

Every instinct Mantis possessed screamed at him to find the source, but no matter where he looked he saw nothing except rusting scrap heaps, waist-high grass swaying gently in the morning breeze, and the endless maze of abandoned machinery stretching toward the horizon.

His Beretta cleared the holster in one smooth motion.

"I still don't see it."

"Neither do I," Orlov admitted, his voice noticeably higher than before.

Ferimov never took his eyes off the grass.

"That's because you're looking for a body."

Another slow breath drifted through the air.

Not theirs.

Something exhaled only thirty meters away. The grass moved. Not by much, but just enough to suggest that something heavy had brushed against it.

Then... nothing.

Silence returned. Even the crows had stopped calling.

Ferimov slowly raised one hand.

"Nobody moves."

Orlov swallowed hard.

"What is it?"

The older scientist answered without taking his eyes off the field.

"A Bloodsucker."

Mantis frowned.

"...A what?"

"You'll understand if it decides we're food."

Another ripple passed through the grass.

This one much faster.

It moved from left to right in a wide arc around them before disappearing again.

Orlov instinctively stepped backward.

"I still can't-"

"I know."

Ferimov cut him off.

"You aren't supposed to."

Mantis narrowed his eyes.

The detector on his belt remained silent.

His ears strained.

There... heavy breathing.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like something pacing around livestock before deciding which one to kill first.

His finger tightened against the trigger.

"Should I shoot if I see movement?"

"No."

Ferimov's answer came instantly.

"Not unless it comes for us."

"You just said it might."

"I said it might."

The older scientist slowly reached into one of the pouches on his suit and removed a rusted steel bolt.

Without warning he tossed it several meters ahead.

The bolt landed with a dull metallic clink.

Nothing happened.

Ferimov nodded almost to himself.

"Good."

"What was that for?" Orlov whispered.

"Sometimes Bloodsuckers avoid anomalies... sometimes they don't."

Mantis kept watching the grass.

Just then, one of the boars rooting through an old pile of tires suddenly froze.

Its ears twitched. It lifted its massive head.

The animal stared directly toward an empty patch of grass.

For several long seconds... nothing happened.

Then the boar squealed.

Not aggressively. It was terrified.

It bolted. It never made it three steps.

The air itself seemed to bend.

For the briefest fraction of a second, something impossible shimmered into existence. A distortion like heat rising from asphalt. Broad shoulders. Long arms ending in hooked claws. A face hidden behind writhing tendrils that opened like the petals of some carnivorous flower.

The creature struck with terrifying speed.

Its claws buried themselves into the boar's side.

The animal screamed.

The sound echoed across Garbage before ending almost instantly.

The Bloodsucker vanished again.

Only the boar remained visible, dragged sideways through the grass as though pulled by invisible cables.

The reeds flattened beneath an enormous weight.

Blood splashed across discarded washing machines and rusted car doors.

Then the movement disappeared into the scrapyard.

Silence returned. Nobody spoke.

Even Orlov seemed incapable of finding words.

Mantis slowly lowered the Beretta.

"...That's a mutant?"

Ferimov finally allowed himself to breathe again.

"One of the worst."

"It ignored us."

"Yes."

"Why?"

The older scientist watched the trail of crushed grass where the invisible predator had disappeared.

"Because today..."

He adjusted the straps on his backpack.

"...it wasn't hunting us."

Orlov finally found his voice.

"So... we just keep walking?"

Ferimov nodded.

"The Zone isn't a battlefield."

He looked at Mantis.

"Remember this."

"Everything here can kill you."

He glanced toward the blood-soaked grass.

"But not everything wants to."

He started walking again as though nothing extraordinary had happened.

"Come on."

Mantis stood still for another second, staring toward the place where the Bloodsucker had vanished.

For the first time he truly understood what Wolf had meant.

People were predictable. The Zone wasn't.

He holstered the Beretta and silently followed the two scientists deeper into Garbage.

---

The deeper they ventured into Garbage, the less it resembled a place and the more it felt like the remains of an entire civilization dumped into one enormous grave.

The road disappeared beneath fractured concrete and crushed metal, forcing them to weave between rusted trucks, overturned buses and mountains of twisted scrap that rose like cliffs on either side of the path. Every surface bore the same orange-brown scars left by decades of corrosion. Rainwater collected inside broken engines. Tires lay scattered like black skeletons beneath weeds that somehow managed to grow through steel.

The Geiger counter hanging from Ferimov's chest clicked steadily.

Click...

Click...

Click-click...

Without saying a word, the older scientist altered course by several meters.

Mantis noticed immediately.

"Radiation?"

Ferimov nodded.

"A pocket."

"I don't see anything."

"You won't."

They continued walking.

The clicking gradually slowed until it settled back into a lazy rhythm.

Orlov smiled behind his visor.

"The radiation here isn't evenly distributed. Some places are perfectly safe, others will cook your organs without you realizing you've stepped into them."

Ferimov glanced sideways.

"And by the time you realize..."

"...it's already too late," Orlov finished quietly.

The young scientist sighed.

"You always make it sound depressing."

"I make it sound accurate."

They pressed onward.

Not fifty meters later Ferimov stopped again, but this time he didn't look at the Geiger counter.

Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.

Without warning he reached into one of the pouches on his belt and tossed something toward Mantis.

He caught it instinctively.

A worn canvas pouch that clinked softly in his hands. Mantis opened it and inside rested twenty rusted steel bolts. He frowned.

"What's this?"

Ferimov continued staring ahead.

"A stalker's best friend. Bolts."

"They're cheaper than funerals."

Orlov chuckled.

"You use them to find anomalies."

"I thought that's what the detector was for."

"The detector finds artifacts," Ferimov corrected.

"The bolts help you stay alive long enough to reach them."

He pointed toward the open ground ahead.

"Walk."

Mantis obeyed. Five careful steps.

"Stop."

The older scientist nodded toward the empty stretch of cracked asphalt.

"Throw one."

Mantis flicked a bolt forward. It skipped harmlessly across the road before disappearing into the weeds.

Nothing happened.

"Again."

A second bolt. Nothing.

A third.

The bolt struck the ground-

-and suddenly lurched sideways.

The air twisted. Dust erupted from the road. Leaves, gravel and scraps of paper lifted from the ground as though caught inside an invisible tornado.

The whirlpool of debris spun faster and faster. The sound rose into a deafening metallic howl. The center collapsed inward for the briefest instant—

BOOM!

Everything exploded outward.

The bolt shot back through the air like a rifle round, screaming past Mantis' ear before burying itself deep inside the side of a rusted delivery truck with a violent clang.

Silence.

Only drifting dust remained.

Mantis stared.

"...What the hell was that?"

Orlov's eyes practically shone.

"A Whirligig! One of the most fascinating gravitational anomalies we've ever documented. It creates an unstable localized distortion capable of trapping almost anything that enters its field before violently releasing accumulated kinetic energy—"

"It turns people into soup."

Ferimov's interruption came so naturally that Orlov barely reacted.

"...That's technically also true."

The older scientist looked at Mantis.

"Again."

"You want me to trigger another one?"

"I want you to find the next one."

For the next several minutes they advanced one careful step at a time.

Bolt.

Walk.

Bolt.

Walk.

Eventually another piece of metal vanished sideways before touching the ground.

Mantis immediately raised a hand.

"There."

Ferimov nodded once.

"Good."

Another bolt.

Another invisible vortex briefly awakened before collapsing again.

This time Mantis didn't flinch. Instead he began studying the pattern: the disturbed dust, the way loose grass leaned inward, the unnatural silence surrounding the anomaly itself.

By the time they reached the far side of the field, he'd only used eleven bolts.

Ferimov looked genuinely satisfied.

"You learn quickly."

"It's because I like breathing."

"Good answer."

Orlov smiled.

"Most people panic the first time."

"I almost did." Mantis added.

"But you didn't."

For the first time that morning Mantis felt like he'd actually earned something.

Not confidence. Understanding.

Only a little, but enough to keep walking.

---

Half an hour of walking later they spotted movement between two rusting buses.

Two loners.

One crouched low, detector held carefully in front of him while the other advanced several meters ahead, lazily tossing bolts across an open field littered with warped concrete slabs.

Orlov stopped immediately.

"Oh..."

His voice almost became pleading.

"Please."

Ferimov kept walking.

"No."

"Just five minutes."

"No."

"I've never actually watched professionals work this close."

Ferimov sighed.

"You've written two papers about artifact retrieval."

"I observed archived footage. It's just not the same."

The older scientist finally stopped. He looked toward the two stalkers. Then toward the sun.

"...Ten minutes."

Orlov grinned like a child.

"I knew you had a heart."

"I don't."

They approached carefully.

The two stalkers acknowledged them with brief nods before returning to work.

Neither spoke. Neither rushed.

The man with the detector moved slowly, watching the screen with absolute concentration. Every few seconds his partner tossed another bolt into the field ahead.

One landed harmlessly.

Another suddenly disappeared in a shower of sparks before an invisible Electro anomaly burst into life, brilliant blue arcs of electricity dancing between abandoned car wrecks before fading just as quickly.

Mantis watched every movement.

"They always move this slowly?"

Orlov nodded enthusiastically.

"They have to. Artifact hunting is patience. The detector only tells you something valuable is nearby."

He pointed toward the stalker with the bolts.

"The real work is finding a path that doesn't kill you first."

One of the loners suddenly raised his detector. A rapid series of electronic beeps echoed through the scrapyard.

"There."

The second stalker carefully stepped between two anomalies before kneeling beside what looked like nothing more than a patch of cracked earth.

He reached down.

A moment later he lifted a small, translucent object shimmering faintly beneath the sunlight.

It looked like a ball of liquid electricity.

"A Moonlight," Orlov whispered excitedly. "Incredible..."

"What does it do?" Mantis asked.

"It augments the endurance of the person carrying it and sells for several thousand rubles."

Ferimov folded his arms.

"If you survive long enough to sell it."

Mantis kept watching.

"They risk all this..."

He gestured toward the anomaly field.

"...for one artifact?"

Orlov nodded.

"Some artifacts can change a man's life."

Ferimov corrected him.

"Or end it."

The younger scientist ignored him.

"The Zone creates things that simply shouldn't exist."

Ferimov nodded.

"And it kills people trying to understand them."

Mantis watched the two stalkers disappear into the scrapyard with their prize.

"They make it look easy."

"They've probably been doing it for years," Orlov replied.

Ferimov adjusted his backpack.

"They also buried a lot of friends getting that good."

He looked toward the road stretching deeper into Garbage.

"Break's over."

Without another word the trio continued west.

---

The farther north they traveled, the more Garbage disappeared behind them.

The mountains of scrap slowly gave way to open fields broken only by abandoned warehouses and skeletal factory buildings whose windows had long since surrendered to time. Rust stained every wall. Trees forced their way through cracked foundations. Nature and industry had stopped fighting years ago. Now they simply existed together.

The afternoon sun climbed steadily overhead.

Nobody spoke much.

There was too much to watch.

Every few hundred meters Ferimov would quietly alter their course for reasons Mantis couldn't immediately understand. Sometimes the Geiger counter clicked faster. Sometimes he spotted the faint shimmer of heat where there should have been none. Once they crossed an open stretch of concrete where dozens of bolts still lay scattered from previous stalkers.

"Why didn't they pick them back up?" Mantis asked.

Ferimov glanced at the rusted metal littering the road.

"Because someone decided saving a handful of bolts was worth risking another trip through the anomaly field."

"And?"

"They're still there."

That was answer enough.

---

The border between Garbage and Agroprom wasn't marked by fences or signs.

The land simply...

Changed.

The scrapyards disappeared behind them, replaced by broad fields stretching toward enormous Soviet industrial buildings that dominated the horizon.

Concrete, steel and silence.

The Agroprom Research Institute rose in the distance like an abandoned fortress, its broken windows staring across the countryside.

Mantis slowed.

"People worked there?"

"Tens of thousands," Ferimov replied.

"Before?"

"Before."

He never explained what before meant. Not because he couldn't, but because everyone in the Zone understood.

Before the disaster. Before the first Exclusion Zone. Before everything changed.

Orlov pointed toward the distant factory complex.

"They developed agricultural technology there."

"Officially."

Ferimov added.

Mantis looked sideways.

"Unofficially?"

The older scientist shrugged.

"Nobody really knows."

"They say there are underground laboratories beneath Agroprom."

Orlov immediately nodded.

"There are!"

Ferimov sighed.

"We think there are."

"The military sealed most of them."

"We think they did."

Orlov frowned behind his visor.

"You always ruin every mystery."

"I've spent twenty years watching mysteries eat people."

That ended the conversation.

---

Agroprom felt...

Wrong.

Not dangerous. Just wrong.

The wind carried no birdsong. No insects buzzed through the tall grass. Even the trees seemed reluctant to move.

Mantis noticed it before anyone spoke.

"It's quiet."

Ferimov nodded.

"Too quiet."

"Mutants?"

"Sometimes."

"Bandits?"

"Sometimes."

"What is it now?"

The older scientist looked across the empty fields.

"I don't know. And that's what worries me."

They continued.

Halfway across one of the fields, Ferimov suddenly stopped and raised a fist.

All three froze.

Mantis instinctively reached for another bolt.

"No."

Ferimov whispered.

"Listen." And they did.

Nothing.

Then...

A faint metallic clatter echoed somewhere beneath the earth.

Almost like a hatch closing.

Mantis looked around.

"There."

He pointed toward a concrete structure half-hidden beneath bushes.

Only the corner of a heavy bunker door remained visible.

"Military?"

Ferimov nodded.

"One of many."

Orlov looked almost disappointed.

"I wish we had time to explore."

Ferimov looked at him.

"So do the snorks."

"...Right."

They kept walking.

---

The afternoon passed beneath an endless procession of abandoned checkpoints, collapsed barracks and forgotten military vehicles slowly being reclaimed by vines.

For the first time since entering the Zone, Mantis began noticing something strange.

Nothing here had been destroyed.

It had simply stopped.

Coffee mugs still rested on windowsills, children's bicycles leaned against apartment walls, laundry lines still stretched between houses.

As though the people had stepped outside one morning...

And never returned.

He couldn't stop looking.

Orlov noticed.

"It's eerie."

"It feels..."

Mantis searched for the right word.

"...unfinished."

Ferimov quietly nodded.

"That's exactly what the Zone is."

---

Late afternoon.

The ground slowly became wetter beneath their boots.

The air changed again.

Cooler.

Heavier.

The smell reached them first.

Wet earth.

Standing water.

Rotting reeds.

Then came the radiation.

Click...

Click...

Click-click-click...

The Geiger counter never stopped now.

Only changed its rhythm.

"We're close," Ferimov said.

"To Yantar?"

"To its problems."

Mist drifted lazily across the marshes ahead.

Dead trees rose from shallow pools like skeletal fingers clawing toward the grey sky.

The silence returned.

Not the silence of Cordon, Not the silence of Agroprom.

Something else.

Almost...

Oppressive.

Orlov unconsciously moved closer to the older scientist.

"I always forget this place feels like..."

Ferimov finished the sentence.

"...the world holding its breath."

---

May 12th, 17:38 - Yantar Outskirts

Eventually the reeds opened.

Mantis stopped walking.

Ahead stood a collection of prefabricated research buildings surrounded by high fences reinforced with sandbags, concrete barriers and rusting watchtowers.

Floodlights pointed outward despite the afternoon sun.

Men in orange environmental suits hurried between buildings carrying crates of equipment.

Stalkers cleaned rifles atop the walls.

Several armed guards watched the surrounding marshes with binoculars rather than each other.

This wasn't a camp, it was a fortress.

Orlov smiled for the first time in hours.

"Home."

Ferimov didn't return the smile.

"It wasn't always built like this."

Mantis noticed fresh bullet holes peppering one of the outer walls.

"Something attacks often?"

The older scientist followed his gaze.

"Often enough."

One of the guards atop the barricade spotted them and waved.

"Ecologists returning!"

The heavy steel gate slowly began to open.

Relief spread through Orlov's shoulders.

"We made it."

Ferimov remained silent.

Something about his expression hadn't changed.

As the three stepped toward the entrance, a distant gunshot echoed somewhere beyond the swamps.

Then another.

The guards immediately stopped smiling. One of them reached for the radio clipped to his vest. Another chambered a round.

Nobody looked surprised.

Only... resigned.

Mantis frowned.

"What's happening?"

Ferimov looked toward the marshes instead of the gate.

"In Yantar..."

His tired eyes remained fixed on the reeds.

"...something is always happening."

The gates closed behind them with a heavy metallic thud.

(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.”