A Frontline Report: Part 2

///BEGINNING OF PART 2///

Where some very important people hold a meeting, find more questions than answers, and find themselves hosting a most unexpected guest.

 

Yanov Station, an old train station situated north-west of the "Jupiter" factory complex, just a day's march south of the Chernobyl NPP, was a place with history.

Of course, that went without saying. Every single part of the Zone was chock-full of history, whether from the times before the first incident, when people lived, laughed, worked and fell in love here, or from the times after the second incident, when desperate men (and some say women as well) fought desperate battles in a toxic, cordoned-off hellhole, all with the same grit,  determination and greed that led the mass exodus to Klondike at the beginning of the Gold Rush.

A quick walk down from the Volkhov anti-air complex to the scientists' bunker barely a stone's throw away would find you stumbling on half-buried bones, whether human or not, gravel and spent shell casings crunching under your boots. Every step, somebody'd bled out, been blown to bits, torn limb from limb by an anomaly, had their brain fried by a psi-storm...

Behind every nook and cranny, an unmarked grave. 

But those were stories of ordinary people, most likely already forgotten by everyone else. Death was an omnipresent guest in the Zone. These stories were not history book material.

Yanov Station's history was, however. After the first deactivation of the so-called "Brain Scorcher" blocking the path to Pripyat, there was a massive scramble to reach the northern, unclaimed parts of the Zone; Zaton, Pripyat, Jupiter.

It was during this scramble that members of the factions known as "Duty" and "Freedom" unknowingly found themselves making history.

They were mortal enemies, naturally, their ideals as different as fire and water, and a protracted firefight began just a stone's throw away from the old railway station.

Using old cargo trains as cover, both flanked, retreated, advanced, threw grenades and emptied magazines, men falling dead like freshly-cut wheat, until finally there came something that made even these mortal enemies pause and rethink.

A sound everybody fears, a sound that never leaves you once you've heard it.

The siren. 

At that moment, both units abandoned their positions for a mad dash towards the only place that could withstand the sheer force of an emission; Yanov Station.

Some say the fighting stopped the moment the sirens started wailing and the earth began to rumble, others say there were still sporadic bursts of rifle fire from both sides. If there's anyone left who knows, they've remained silent on the subject.

Either way, both units, beaten and bloodied, entered the station at the exact same time: Duty from the west, Freedom from the east. Guns were trained, insults were hurled, until finally the leaders of both units stepped forward and did the only sensible thing, something that would make the events at Yanov Station a story fit for the books.

Lieutenant Colonel Shulga, leader of the Duty detachment, and Loki, leader of the Freedom detachment, laid down their weapons, and ordered their soldiers to do the same, to tend to the wounded as best they could.

They met in the center of the train station, underneath the chandelier, and shook hands as the  windows rattled from the sheer force of the emission.

Yanov Station and its' immediate surroundings was to remain a neutral area. There would be no truce, and no quarter would be given outside of the station, but while inside, all weapons would be holstered, all magazines would be pocketed and all chambers emptied.

Shulga had an additional rule, not unlike the old law of Rostok; discharging a weapon while inside the station would be punishable by death at the old lookout tower. Loki agreed, on the condition that the members of the two factions would be free to mingle and trade with each other.

And so, weapons were cleaned, people were sized up, meals were cooked and history was made.

It is, perhaps, for this reason, that this place was chosen again. Yanov was a symbol of coexistence and cooperation, frail as it may be, and so more than fitting for the current situation.

Sultan, the de-facto "king" of every single bandit gang in the Zone, spoke up first. 

"Hah, look at this. I'd never thought I'd see this day come. The General himself-" he nodded towards Voronin, the leader of Duty, "and Captain Tarasov, sharing a table with anarchists and bandits."

He laughed, a guttural, wheezing sound, more than fitting for his massive frame, and Tarasov stiffened.

After the cleanup of Operation Fairway seven years prior, he still hadn't found himself able to leave the Zone. There was something calling to him, and with his experience he was soon promoted to Colonel, leading his troops from their base in the Agroprom Research Institute.

"Believe me, Sultan," Tarasov replied,  "that I would rather empty a latrine with my bare hands than sit here and taste your stench, but we all know the situation is dire."

Beside him, Dushman nodded. Mercenaries and State Security forces were typically on more than hostile terms with each other, but that was not for personal reasons. It was simply business, and having served in Afghanistan for 3 years before his career choices led him to the Zone, he felt more kinship with the colonel than anything else at the moment.

"Dire doesn't even come close to describing it. We have no contact with the Syndicate anymore. No contact with anything that isn't inside the Zone. Voronin, you've seen this before, haven't you?"

The general sighed and rubbed his eyes. 

"Yes. 2012. A squad of our best men, trapped inside a spatial anomaly for weeks until they all committed suicide or starved to death. I've seen this, but never at this scale."

"A spatial anomaly, encompassing the entirety of the Zone?" Professor Sakharov, representing the Ecologists, shook his head in disbelief. "That sounds..."

"Terrifying?" Tarasov piped up.

"Impossible?" Cold, the leader of Clear Sky, added.

"Both." Sakharov sighed. "And yet, for some reason, entirely plausible. The Zone is still full of mysteries."

"I think we can all agree on that." Lukash, the leader of Freedom said. "What I'm wondering is why the Barrier's been so quiet lately. It's as if the Monolith have disappeared completely. Like they're gathering forces somewhere. Yet, somebody clearly turned off the Brain Scorcher and the Miracle Machine once again, and that always leads to retaliation."

"How do you know the Brain Scorcher is deactivated?"

"We wouldn't be this far north if it wasn't, Voronin. We'd have had our brains fried before making it halfway through the Red Forest. And as for the Monolith pulling back..." He turned his attention to Dushman sitting opposite of him.

"Affirmative. Limansk is a ghost town. The Monolith just packed up and left. One of our advance recon squads spotted a column marching north, and that was it. We're holding the northern construction site as of now, ready to push deeper if needed."

"If needed. We might have something even worse on our hands. Sultan? Cold?"

The two exchanged glances. Clear Sky had been in a bitter war with various bandit gangs, and with Sultan as their unofficial leader, Cold had no love for him. Sultan seemed largely indifferent, however. What his subjects did was of no concern to him, as long as they paid their tribute.

"Worse than a spatial anomaly isolating the Zone completely? Forgive me, but I think-"

"Silence, Professor. This may very well be even more pressing."

Sakharov opened his mouth, as if to protest, but a single cold glare from Dushman made him shrink back.

"Sultan? Would you prefer to go first?"

The bandit gave a crooked smile and lit a cigar, blowing out a large cloud of smoke towards the chandelier.

"Our boys in the south have seen some... unusual activity."

"As in?"

Sultan laughed. "Aliens!"

"You called us here to talk about your fever dreams?"

"Hah, no, no. Although that would be quite something, wouldn't it? No..." he cleared his throat, "I didn't believe it at first, either. I told the guy to sober up and stop gunking the channels. A couple hours later, I got pictures. Videos. Actual proof. He ran all the way from the Cordon car park to the Dark Valley with all the evidence he had. Fucking madman."

He opened a small attache case and placed it on the table. Inside; money, Stolichnaya, cocaine, a revolver, and a thick sheaf of Polaroid pictures and several PDAs. 

"Help yourself. The blow is good and the vodka is excellent, but I think you might be more interested in the pudding. Just try to ignore the porn on the PDAs." 

He laughed again.

The pictures and electronics were quickly passed around, and the table fell completely silent for a moment.

"This... matches our scouting reports to a T. Khaki armor, strange weapons, some sort of anti-gravitational technology..." Cold said, his brow furrowed. 

"I heard reports from our watchtower. Something about a scouting force from an unknown faction, clearly highly advanced. I told our men to stay out of sight, keep light and noise discipline at all times. They know the swamps like their own pockets, so that shouldn't be an issue. We're trying to keep an eye on them as best we can, but we have no idea about their capabilities."

"Or, well..." his brow furrowed again and he rubbed his face with a tired expression, "you have to understand, this is all second-hand information. Our scouts saw them engage a pack of boars after the beasts got spooked. Their rifles seem to fire some form of blue energy. They said it didn't sound like gunshots at all. Didn't do much to stop the boars, until suddenly a swarm of missiles came over the horizon and hit them with pinpoint precision."

 "Still, they lost at least one of their own to the first charge. Flew like a ragdoll, I was told."

His story finished, Cold exhaled and sat back, only now noticing how much his hands wavered.

"Blue energy... Doesn't sound like gunshots... Christ..."

"What is it, Colonel?"

"We've encountered something similar in the hands of the Monolith before." He shook his head. "Item number 62. A Gauss rifle, if you will. One of my men died from a single shot to the chest. Incredibly high-tech, insanely rare, more powerful than an RPG, with pin-point precision."

"If these "aliens" are each carrying handheld variants of that, then..." he swallowed and loosened the collar on his suit, "I'm expecting a lot of casualties."

 "You said they couldn't punch through a boar, though. Right?"

"Allegedly." 

"Tovarisch soldat, your fears might be unfounded. Still, I'll tell my men to stay hidden as best they can. Sultan, Cold," Lukash nodded to each in rapid succession, "You're saying they've been mostly in the south? No sightings in the Garbage, Voronin?"

"Negative. But if they're trapped in the same bubble we are, they will eventually reach the checkpoint, and then Rostok. No other way to go but north."

Voronin took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a moment.

"I'm expecting a bloodbath once that happens."

"The bubble could be their doing, could it not?" Sakharov began, fidgeting nervously. 

"As would disabling the Miracle Machine and Brain Scorcher. We have no idea of their capabilities, and judging by what Mr. Cold has told us, their technology seems like something ours could be if we'd uncover all of the secrets of the Zone."

Silence fell over the table again.

"That would sound..." Tarasov scratched his stubble, eyes unfocused, "completely plausible, and a by-the-book implementation of military doctrine. Isolate, divide, destroy. They might already know more about the Zone than we do. They could have been observing us ever since 2006, or before."

"That is worse than a worst-case scenario. One thing is clear to me, however."

"And what would that be, Professor?"

"With the Monolith pulling away, and technologically incredibly advanced alien lifeforms quite possibly looking to destroy us, all our infighting has to cease. At this very moment, I propose..." Sakharov suddenly jumped up, his mustache quivering, and slammed his fist on the table, "no, I demand an immediate truce, if not an alliance, between all factions in the Zone!"

"I agree." Tarasov said. "If we can remove the "divide" part of the equation, we can actually organize a real resistance. This has the potential to be a greater threat than anything we've faced before, and I refuse to give these invaders an inch of our soil."

Dushman shrugged. "Our employer is out of contact. Until then, I am the one calling the shots for the Syndicate. I agree as well. We all have our own strengths," he glanced around the table, meeting each leader's eyes briefly, "and our own weaknesses. Co-operation is essential at a time like this. As soon as this meeting is done, I will immediately order my men to cease all hostile action against all participating factions."

"I have fought for my ideals for as long as I've been in the Zone. Casting them aside to collude with the very things we've sworn to eradicate will be a bitter pill to swallow indeed. I agree, but under the assumption that this co-operation is temporary."

"Always on the warpath, eh, Voronin? Count Freedom in. We will not bow to anyone, no matter what planet they come from."

"Clear Sky agrees. This has the potential to be the end of humanity. I will tell my men to cease firing on all bandits at once. That is, if Sultan agrees..." 

Cold threw a sharp glance towards the bandit leader.

"Hah! The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Another crooked smile. " For the time being, at least. I'll send word to all my subordinates. It might take a while to reach all of them, but you can count us in."

"So it's settled then. We work together, and we fight together. No more petty squabbles."

Tarasov cleared his throat. 

"As the highest-ranking member of the Ukrainian Internal Security Service present, by the powers vested in me by the Ukrainian government, I hereby proclaim the Second Truce of Yanov to be in effect. If we survive this, and if we manage to exit the Zone afterwards, I will also, on my soldier's honor..." he placed his right hand on the flag sewn onto his suit, "do my utmost to grant a full presidential pardon, safe passage out of the Zone, and military honors to everyone participating."

"Hm. Fancy that, a medal for a bandit..." Sultan smiled. "Well, we'll see how it all turns out in the end, won't we?"

 "We'll have to figure out the logistics side of things as we go. I propose we reinforce Yanov Station, preferably well enough to encompass the bunker to the east as well, and conduct most of our planning from here. Is everyone in agreement?"

"Negative, Colonel. I have guarded Rostok for years, and will go down with it, should that time come. I can send Colonel Petrenko as a liaison, but I will make the trip back south as soon as this meeting is adjourned."

Voronin shot a glance towards Lukash before continuing.

"However, I will immediately tell my men to call off the attack on your headquarters and order them to reinforce the garrison at Rostok and the Garbage."

"Very amicable of you. I'll call off the ambush." Lukash smiled at the General's frustrated expression. "However, we will not be of much use just standing around the warehouses with our thumbs up our asses. We can use that as a fallback point if Rostok falls, but most of my men would put to better use either guarding the entrance to Chernobyl in case of a sudden massed attack, or as recon elements under someone else's command."

"We'll fortify Limansk and the Dead City with what we can, but my men are highly trained professionals. You can call upon them whenever you want, provided it goes through me. Hatchet will function as my liaison at Yanov."

"Clear Sky will hold the swamps, just like we always have. Nevertheless, I am not opposed to creating a combined task force. Even if that includes the bandits."

"Hah! My lads are devious and vicious, and sure as hell know how to work in the Zone. The Dark Valley shall be a fortress fit for a king, and the passage to it shall be a deathtrap. I can send some of our tougher boys your way, if the need arises."

"Well, well." A smile played across Tarasov's lips. "The enemy of my enemy is indeed my friend. We got in a shipment of fresh recruits just last week, I'll have them whipped into shape in no time. We will reinforce the bunkers in Yantar and Jupiter. Sakharov will presumably want to dissect as many of these as possible, and any captured technology must be handed over to the Ecologists. As for the Spetsnaz, they are now under my command, and will be used accordingly."

"That sounds very good indeed." Sakharov said. "The more we can learn about these creatures, their technology, and their doctrine, the better. We might be able to turn the tables on them."

"Emphasis on might." He added, moments later. Still, what do we do about the loners?"

"Let them know about the truce. Make it public. No human shall shoot another human unprovoked until this mess is clear. Send word to Beard at the Skadovsk, Barkeep in Rostok and, if he's still alive somehow, Sidorovich in the Cordon. Tell everyone to stay hidden, join a faction or maybe even organize themselves into a group. Inform them about the spatial bubble as well, there is little point in greed anymore. Every little bit helps, even if it's just collecting shell casings or siphoning fuel."

"That should do it, I suppose. I haven't seen any unusual numbers of death reports yet, so they might have already gotten the idea, or..." Sakharov loosened his tie, "-or their weapons somehow don't register fallen stalkers as dead. Sounds implausible, but there might be electromagnetic fields in use, frying the circuits in their PDAs."  

"Could be true. We need to develop some form of code for communications. Don't know how well they can intercept radio signals or PDA messages. Still, that'll come later. Priorities are getting word out to everyone. Remember to double-check that your messages actually go through, have regular comms checks. We'll decide on channels later. If the worst should come to pass we'll have to use messengers."

"That is a very real possibility, Mr. Colonel. Still-" he added after a moment's pause, "-I am still very worried about the Monolith. If they decide to attack we'll have nowhere to-"

A faint green shimmer at the edge of the table caught his eye, and as soon as he realized it was human-shaped, Sultan had already grabbed his revolver and pointed it at the ghostly figure.

Slowly, the shimmer faded away, revealing a man, clad in an exoskeleton of immense size, the armor painted in a characteristic gray-scale urban camouflage pattern. There was a heavy machine gun slung across his back, and he seemed to radiate an eerie, inhuman stillness.

Then, with a voice like the rumbling of the Zone itself, with distant echoing whispers that wormed their way into your brain and refused to let go, he spoke.

"BEHOLD." he said, "I AM EIDOLON, CHOSEN OF THE MONOLITH."

The shimmer had fully vanished now, and apparent on his chest, armored like a main battle tank, was a simple, unadorned text.

"МОНОЛИТ"

 

///END OF PART 2///

 

 

A Frontline Report: Part 1

Written for a very dear friend of mine. Thanks for getting me back into the flow again.






Based on "Front Line Report on T'au Battle Doctrine"

///BEGINNING OF PART 1///

Where the combat correspondents have made planetfall, and our main character battles with unease and paranoia.

"Live in 4, 3, 2, wait..."

She furrowed her brow and held up her finger, her attention turned to the voxplug in her left ear, nodding a few times at a discussion La'je'ri had no hope of discerning.
Instead he stood awkwardly in place, the heavy pict-corder slung over his shoulder recording all the time, now showing a column of Fire Warriors marching in lockstep down a cracked road in the distance, backs ramrod straight, and La'je'ri would be lying if he said he didn't feel a twinge of jealousy watching them.

Still, in the service of the Greater Good, he mused, all castes were eq-

"La'je'ri," she said, breaking him from his reverie, "we can't go live yet. Broadcast center says the feed is barely legible half the time, and there are spikes of static every few dec'taa. You did remember to maintain your equipment, did you not?"

La'je'ri nodded, but there was a sudden feeling of unease growing in his stomach. The excitement of planetfall and the quick hustle into a good recording position had kept it unnoticeable, but there was something strange here.

Something unnatural in the air, a feeling of pressure and tension in the atmosphere.

Preliminary scans had shown the planet to have a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere, with trace amounts of argon, helium and other rare gases. In short, perfect for Gue'la, and more than fitting for T'au.

Acting completely against instinct, he took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it.
There was definitely something in the air, something foul and toxic.

"Ui'k'tadie..." his voice seemed much shakier than he anticipated, "did we bring helmets? Something with an air filtration system, perhaps?"

She furrowed her brow again.

"No. They're at the landing zone. Why?"

"Don't you feel it? The air, I mean."

"Feel what?" she shook her head, "Preliminary scans showed-"

"-showed a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere, yes, trace elements, I know!" he interjected, perhaps slightly too aggressively, "But you can't tell me you don't feel it. Can we please go get the helmets?"

"No." her voice was icy, and La'je'ri knew he'd pushed his luck too far.
"Your equipment might not be in working condition, but we're falling too far behind the Fire Warriors already. We have to move. Come on."

With that, she broke into a light jog, vox-corder in one hand, her other hand doing it's best to keep her hair in place.
La'je'ri took another deep breath and started off behind her, his light boots thumping against the cracked (presumably) rockcrete road the warriors had marched down just minutes ago.

This breath stung.


The Fire Warrior column was now barely more than a speck in the distance, and La'je'ri cursed mentally at the weight of his pict-recorder and the restrictiveness of his armor as he half-ran, half-trudged behind his superior, every breath he took feeling more and more wrong.

"La'je'ri!" she slowed her pace slightly, "Broadcast center says visuals are good. Could you get me in the picture, and then zoom towards the 'Warriors?"

He nodded. The air tasted better here.


"And we're live in 4, 3, 2, 1..." Flashing a beaming smile towards the camera, Ui'k'tadie began her usual introduction.

"Good day to all citizens of the T'au! We are coming to you live from the planet known as GSC-1, which, as many of our viewers will know, seemingly appeared out of nowhere just two weeks ago inside T'au controlled space. Our diplomats have found no success in establishing contact and hence, for the sake of the Greater Good, a expeditionary corps of Fire Warriors has been sent to take care of the situation and ensure the safety of our citizens."

The camera panned across the landscape, showing something lush, green and overgrown, but clearly previously inhabited. Generations ago, at best, but still inhabited, and his initial fears of the "planet" actually being some kind of new planet-destroying Gue'la superweapon seemed to be completely unfounded.

In front of him, now wearing her combat armor with a confidence almost befitting that of a soldier, Ui'k'tadie beamed at the camera.


La'je'ri did just as ordered, quickly adjusting the zoom on his camera to focus on the column of Fire Warriors down the road, most of them now at a high kneel as their Sha's'ui gave orders to each section, with a few Warriors on both sides of the road covering the platoon from an unexpected ambush.

"As you can see, our brave warriors are currently receiving their final orders, and are preparing to execute them as we speak. The only resistance encountered so far has been local wildlife, and while vicious, our Pathfinders have had no trouble in dispatching them."

The pict-corder panned back to her beaming face, but something seemed to be off. She coughed briefly, making sure to mute her vox-corder as best she could, while carefully gesturing towards the landscape.


Hint hint.


La'je'ri let his pict-corder pan across the landscape again. The few dwellings and buildings visible were primitive, at best. Wood and baked bricks, not unlike those found on frontier Kroot worlds, except far uglier. Many of the buildings were practically destroyed, and the cameraman knew instantly that he had no interest in stepping foot in any of those places.

Just a cursory glance revealed dozens of structural defects in most every building. A battlesuit-sized hole in a brick wall here, a collapsed rooftop beam there, heaps of scrap metal and refuse that seemed to have served no obvious purpose, even before their destruction.

There were vehicles, as well, but these were much unlike the usual square, box-like transports and battle tanks the Imperial army used. These were far more rounded in shape, some missing wheels, painted in various shades of pastel blue or yellow that was barely visible beneath the rust and accumulated grime.

He did manage to see one vehicle that looked vaguely military in nature, something small, perhaps meant for reconnoissance or evacuating casualties, judging by the complete lack of armor.

It was very hard to tell, however. It looked as if it had been punched by a Titan, wheels all askew, as rusty as the trucks from earlier.

Still, the only hint to it's military nature was the insignia painted on one of the back doors; three shields, the central one painted in blue and yellow, with two crossed swords behind them, surrounded by some kind of wreath, and some kind of scratches he presumed to be writing, but was far too too alien and worn to make out.

Still, he let the pict-corder linger on it, just for a moment, maybe just to show the viewers that this planet may have housed intelligent life once.


Maybe long ago.


He wasn't mechanically inclined at all, only barely knowing how to fix the most common faults of his pict-corder, but even he could see that these metal monoliths wouldn't move on their own ever again.

It seemed as if the Fire Warriors were done with their orders, and Ui'k'tadie took off in a light jog again. Seeing no other recourse, La'je'ri cursed under his breath and ran after her.
Still, there was something troubling him, something keeping his mind off the heft of the pict-corder and the strangeness in the air.

"МВО УКРАÏНИ"

///END OF PART 1///

Monsanto's Journal

Written as a running update thingy on Discord, hence the screenshots and variable quality.

A few pages from the journal of a stalker known as Monsanto.






12:40, November 19, 2017

We lost JSGT Korneev to a snork ambush in the swamps, right after fighting off three bloodsuckers. Sidorenko almost didn't make it either.
Still, the Colonel's mark is dead, and old Sid will get his delivery.

Volanchuk collapsed from blood loss not soon after, but I managed to get him back on his feet. Gritzenkov helped himself to Korneev's things while I cut the hands and feet off the two dead snorks.

Such is life in the Zone.

After a bit of squabbling and bartering at a nearby campfire, we managed to settle on some form of equitable division.
Gritzenko had amassed quite the collection of ammunition, and was more than happy to trade a box of Mosin rounds for a few packs of cigarettes.

Fresh dog chops were cooked and promptly eaten, and we prepared to move northwest, to where Sidorovich's messenger had stashed his mysterious shipment.

None of us wanted to take the risk of wading through the reeds, so we elected to first head north to the old machine yard next to the Fault, then head west along the road and finally head south when we came to the the burning house.



There were still two possible sticking points, however: the old machine yard itself often served as a refuge for bandits, or worse, mercenaries, and the compound north-east of the stash was confirmed bandit territory the previous time I'd been here.

Still, visibility along the road was high enough, and Clear Sky had been making headway in the swamp, pushing the bandits up north towards Agroprom and the military base.

A burst of automatic fire sounded not far away, and as the group's sniper, I elected to perform some quick reconnoissance.

It seemed like the three bloodsuckers we tangled with at the old church weren't the only ones in the area, and the poor Clear Sky fellow we talked to earlier had run into the new kids in town.



It was too far away for me to get a clear shot off, however, and we consigned him to his fate, whatever that may be.

We entered the yard silently, primed for combat, but the only sign of life was an Ecologist in the distance.

The yard itself was as quiet as ever.






13:25, November 19, 2017

Wonder if the peace sign has ever stopped anyone from shooting at them?

Just as we turned west, there came a smattering of automatic fire and a cry of anguish from the east.
It seemed as if the peace sign was more for show than anything, judging by the death report, at least.



New information on the next blowout, as well.

We'd have until late morning tomorrow to complete our mission and get to cover.
Didn't throw much of a wrench in our spokes, but the emissions did seem to be getting more frequent.



Plenty of ecologists about. The orange SSPP suit was about the only one that could handle something like the Fault.

I'd tried before, and burned my fingers more than once.

It did look ridiculous, and was completely unfit for combat, but at the end of the day they'd still be the ones laughing, getting the artifacts nobody else had the means to get.

Lots of people on the road. Another dead bandit, done in by Clear Sky this time.



Amused ourselves with a bit of tushkano hunting with the trio we met. While Clear Sky and Duty may not be allied, they do share the same enemies, and perhaps, a certain respect for each other.



One of our boys was cutting the head off one of the tushkanos when I spotted movement in the distance. Another snork, maybe a hundred yards away. I started squeezing off shots with my Mosin as everyone else hustled into position.
As a result of numerous mutations, snork legs contain massively overdeveloped tendons, and this one was no exception, leaping at least thirty yards towards one of the CS boys.



It fell quickly enough, and the body was soon cut into pieces. The snork had still managed to inflict quite a bit of damage, and I had to use another medkit to patch up the wounded.



As ugly as always.



We continued for a bit and just as I was looking at the map, another snork attacked us. This time I was the target.



It fell quickly, but I nearly did the same. A stimpack and a bandage did enough to keep me on my feet, and my suit had done a good job of shielding me, but a couple more hits would have meant I wouldn't have walked away.




I was perhaps a bit overconfident. Checking for plus-ones was as elementary as brushing your teeth, yet I'd slipped up and almost paid the price.

We were close, however.

After this we'd double back and head to the Cordon to resupply and turn in our package.



I don't like this one bit, though. I hate the reeds.



Picked it up, whatever it was. Told the others to stay back, just in case it was booby trapped. No pranks this time, however.




16:20, November 19, 2017

The little farmstead next to the road to the Cordon usually housed bandits, or at least it did when I still ran errands for them.
However, the Ecologists who we saw earlier had set up shop in the machine yard, and reassured us it was clear when we did a little bit of trading with them.

Despite that, we went in fully ready.



The fires were out, and the entire place was quiet.



A cursory sweep revealed the place was as empty as it could be, and with nothing but the rats keeping us company, the chaos of the Great Swamp seemed strangely distant now.



Occasionally you'd still hear them, those sounds so typical of the Zone.
Mutant growls, distant smattering of rifle fire, strange noises like the landscape itself was alive.

Alive and groaning in pain.




16:40, November 19, 2017

The Cordon was as beautiful as ever, and like clockwork, the moment we arrived, a dog rushed up to meet us. A burst from Gritzenkov's AK ended it's life after a few paces.
We elected to leave the meat for the Zone, since we were already overloaded.



Gritzenkov shouldered his rifle again, and the area fell silent.

I'd worried, perhaps unduly, that the farmhouse north of the railway bridge had become a permanent mercenary camp after the attack a week ago, but my concerns seemed to be unfounded.

We decided to head to the farmhouse just to share news and perhaps scrounge up some medical supplies, and a couple shotgun blasts in the distance hastened us considerably.



Fearing the worst, we rushed into the compound, only to see that life went on largely as normal.

A couple loners sat by the fire, eating a late dinner.

A quick chat showed that we weren't the only ones in need of medical supplies. Apart from them, the place was deserted.



No wonder, either.

After Nimble and Xenotech both got killed there wasn't really any reason to stick around anymore.

Now, the door stayed shut.

I didn't know if the bodies were buried yet, and quite frankly, I didn't want to find out.



Nowadays most rookies just hung out in the village next to the Cordon.

There'd been more and more wild cats attacking people recently, and unless you were heading deeper you didn't have a reason to come north of the bridge.

That said, people who managed to scrounge up the courage to go north and the 5000 rubles to pay the entrance fee into Rostok usually stayed there.

No reason to go south of the Garbage anymore.

A full squad of Ukrainian soldiers had been wiped out by a swarm of cats just past the railway maybe two weeks back, and the garrison had only now been reinforced.

Now, it seemed as if the road between the village and the farmhouse was more dangerous than ever.

It's strange how everything is so recent. I've barely been here a month now, yet the cat attack feels like it happened in another lifetime.

I still remember the scene, though. Don't know who landed the last strike, the mutants or the soldiers, they all bled out the same.

I was the first one on the scene, followed by a couple bandits.

We were still on good terms back then, and divvied up the loot as well as we could.

Even then there was almost too much to carry, so we left much of it as it laid. Fixed up an AK from one of the soldiers, still have it at home in Rostok.

Still have his boots as well.

Recon in the distance. No sense in provoking them.



The impromptu checkpoint seems to be unmanned.

Apparently it was under Ukrainian government control some years ago, then the bandits took over, and it had been changing hands ever since.



Still, after they were driven out of the car park their influence pretty much disappeared.

I remember Sidorovich asking me to do it for him.

Never pulled through on that, started cozying up to the bandits instead.

Guess he managed to convince enough poor sods somehow, came back from the valley to do a hit for Olivius when I saw the attack.

Didn't join in on either side, wasn't stupid enough to mess with Sidorovich.

I turned my back on the bandits soon after that.

The irony of the story is he said the bandits were "bad for business", but at least they kept the mutants off the road.

He just traded one menace for another, and you couldn't pay off a rabid dog.

Now the Cordon was largely dead. Duty had moved in some troops, and later realized there was no point in even being there, with a skeleton crew of three or four at maximum keeping order in the village, and perhaps acting as liaisons with the soldiers stationed just a stone's throw away.

Makes me feel bad for the rookies who start out now.

I had a fairly smooth landing, considering everything.

Now you have to have insane luck and guts to make it as a loner, or to not end up as mutant food on your first week.

Still, there's always some kind of vetting process, and most of us will never make it.


Dead men walking. just too optimistic to believe it.



This is where the attack happened.
Completely empty now.

There's still the crackling electrical field in the grain chute, and I've never heard of anyone who'd managed to pull an artifact out of that place.

We're close enough to the Cordon now to hear the loudspeakers blasting government announcements.



Strange to think that six young soldiers lost their lives here, within earshot of their base.
One part of me wonders if the commander heard the screams when they were killed.

Another part wonders if he cared at all.

Gritzenkov and Volanchuk found a rat that had been fried by the static electricity. They wasted no time in cutting it apart for meat.
The thought itself nauseated me.
Maybe I'm too green for that.

Waste not, want not, I suppose.



Did a customary sweep of the building. Never expected to find anything, but apparently there's still life in the Cordon.

Somebody'd left their supplies.



Nothing that major, the sleeping bag I had no need for, but fresh western-imported tobacco and factory-loaded ammunition was always good to have.

Almost turned around and left with the tobacco and ammo in tow, but started feeling kind of bad.

It wasn't even booby-trapped or anything, so I elected to leave some stuff I could do without, as a form of payment.

Not really a fair trade for him, but it's something, at least.

Maybe I'm turning too soft...



The bus stop is still a hot-spot of radiation. Nothing that my suit and mask can't handle, but the crackle of the Geiger counter does make me tense up a bit.



The car park seems empty, although there's no reason for us to check. No mutants yet, either.



We ran into some cats. This guy managed to fight them off, but bled out before we could help him.



Secretly I'm kind of happy about that, in a perverse way.
I'm down to my last medical supplies, and this feels like it absolves me of any responsibility.

We take what we can from his corpse and move on.


The anomalies on the bridge are still there, and I toss a bolt in, just for old times' sake.



The village looks like garbage, as always. I give a cursory wave to the stalker watching the entrance.

With that peashooter, guarding is too strong a word to use.



As I come closer I realize it's Rusty.

He came here around the same time I did, but never managed to make it the same way.

There was another stalker that he was practically attached at the hip to that got murdered by bandits around the time Wolf got killed.

I promised to hunt down the killer when I found out, he said he'd give me his old friend's rifle if I did.

I never asked him why he doesn't use that rifle instead of his Makarov.


Never feels like the right thing to ask.



Business goes on as usual in here, although everything seems empty, for lack of a better word.
The rest of the squad elects to stay outside and shoot the shit while I go in and talk to Sidorovich.



Sid's bunker is as cozy as he is ugly. Sad reggae on the radio, chump change as payment for the case.

Business as usual.

His one good side is that he'll buy literally anything you bring to him, for peanuts usually.
I still manage to cover the costs of the medical supplies more than twice over.



I could have kept the bloodsucker parts and brought them to the 100 Rads, or better yet, to Yantar, but I don't want to hold on to them for too long.

We still have to make the trip through the Garbage into Rostok and I'm betting on finding some artifacts there.

He has no further work for me, so I turn to head out.
Another, more impulsive part of me refuses to go.

Why not do more?


I think back to Rusty and how he talked in his sleep the last time I saw him.

How his eyes look so tired already, after less than a month.

How he's still standing around in the Cordon while new faces come and go faster than he can count them.


I sell off everything unnecessary, and start mentally planning the journey.



His PDA was last seen in the Dark Valley, definite bandit territory.

I went there last week to trim the herd and turn in my resignation to Olivius in an official manner, with a Mosin round to the head.

It's more than likely repopulated already with thugs from other areas, but we might as well give it a try.



We'll have to pass through the Darkscape to get there.

It's the only place I've seen a pseudogiant, and the only place I've shit myself while running.

A Whirligig anomaly sprayed its' guts along the hillside, and after that there's been a slight bandit presence in the area.
Mostly safe as long as you stick to the road, despite the occasional dogs and boars.

If we start moving now, we could make it to the sawmill before dark, have a late breakfast while waiting for the blowout to pass, and find ourselves in the Valley before afternoon.




06:56, November 20, 2017



Took an early night and elected to go through the Garbage after all. Kamikaze, one of the loners in the village, offered to join us after I told him where we were headed.

Looks like he wants some form of revenge as well.

Blowout should happen in the next two or so hours.

The train yard in the middle of the Garbage is our best bet when it comes to the emission.

It used to be a bandit hideout, until Petrenko sent me and two of his men to clear it out.
We went in at night, in the rain, with a silenced SVU sniper rifle.

They never stood a chance.



I'm hoping it's stayed clear until now.



We're having enough trouble with the dogs we keep running into, and the public messaging channel confirms some form of bandit presence. It looks like we might have to go in loud.

Either way, I'm sticking close to Kamikaze.

I'm not letting this man die.



Fuck.

We got attacked by a pack of dogs next to the railway station, and just as we got our first shots off in reply, a group of bandits opened fire on us from inside the yard.

I managed to down a few dogs, one with a lucky sniper shot, and ordered our squad to move to the wall ASAP.



My shot went wide. His didn't..
I felt something smash into my helmet and dropped my rifle, blinking back tears.

Dropping to a low crouch, I gritted my teeth, punch-drunk, and fumbled for my Mosin. I managed to collect myself just enough to take another shot, but a burst of AK fire and a scream of pain told me the bandit was already taken care of.

Gritzenkov advanced to my right and threw a smoke grenade into the building proper, which, while keeping us out of sight, also meant my rifle was mostly useless for the following minute.



Emphasis on mostly.

One of the bandits tried to make a break for it, yelling at us not to shoot.
I ignored him, and one clean shot through the chest was all it took.



We moved into the building with full force, guns trained and ready.
Gritzenkov took the right, Kamikaze was right behind me.



Kamikaze kept his barrel trained on the railcars, I kept an eye on the catwalks.
The area seemed empty and we went out to collect Volanchuk and Sidorenko, only to find that we'd lost one of our own.



Volanchuk's number had finally come up.

Just yesterday I'd seen him fight bloodsuckers, tough it out after getting mauled by a snork, gun down cats and dogs and everything the Zone had to throw at him.
I remember him lying in the swamp, groaning in pain, blood gushing out from a gaping gash in his thigh, the tourniquet, the hemostate, the bandages and morphine and the entire filthy business.

Gritzenkov had already picked him clean.

He seemed as stoic as ever.

I felt sick, sick at not really feeling sick.
Sidorenko seemed slightly shaken, and we sat down by the campfire in silence.



We got up after a few moments.

The building wasn't entirely safe, the bandits still had to be looted.

I didn't want Kamikaze to walk into bandit country with an old double-barrel shotgun as his only defense.


The one who almost got me was aptly named. "Corpse".
Maybe it was a joke.
Maybe he knew he was living on borrowed time all along.

Maybe a bit of both.

Either way, he might have accepted something I hadn't.



Maybe there was something everybody here had accepted that I still hadn't.

Gritzenkov with his dead emotions and rat-eating, Kamikaze heading into the Dark Valley with just a hunting shotgun and leather jacket to protect him, not caring about radiation enough to wear a mask.

The lifespan of a stalker was measured in weeks, days.

Hours, if you're unlucky.


We're all dead men walking.

We just don't know it yet.



We checked the top floor.
Seemed to be safe, although we did see some dogs in the distance.



I opened fire, but kept botching my shots, which apparently alerted every single damn dog in the area.

Six or seven of them rushed into the yard, but after a few well aimed shots we managed to scatter them.

I picked off the last few survivors with my Mosin, and we got to work carving up the carcasses.



After I checked the outside, we elected to sit down for a moment and eat. Gritzenkov broke the silence we'd held until then.

It felt freeing to talk, no matter the subject.



I found it hard to form any kind of opinion on the subject.

I'd been to Laboratory X-18 myself, I'd taken the documents and given them to Petrenko, but never actually bothered enough to actually try to decipher them with my pidgin Ukrainian.

It was something about military testing, exposure to "information fields", and all kinds of stuff I didn't understand.

As far as it mattered, I suppose Gritzenkov might've been right.

It didn't make any difference to us, after all. They were just as nasty to encounter, no matter who or what created them.

I'd killed three in total, and said as much myself.
One in the lab, one in Agroprom, and one in the arena.

Kamikaze was the only one who seemed disbelieving. The two others had watched the fight.

Fifteen seconds. A new record. Won ten thousand rubles, almost paid with my life.

I put my gladiatorial career on hold after that.

Kamikaze asked how I knew when one was close. He seemed genuinely interested, he'd only head legends.

Gritzenkov laughed, and said "when your rifle starts floating out of your hands".

I confirmed it.
Told him about the stench as well, sulfurous and sweaty, like rotten eggs.

I'd never met one who wasn't underground, I added, and Kamikaze seemed to relax.

We all have our fears, I suppose.

If the two Dutiers knew any more than I did, they kept it to themselves. It seemed as if food was more important than discussion now.






10:10, November 20, 2017

The skies darkened and there was a mighty groan, seemingly emanating from the earth itself.

It was right on schedule.

I quickly turned on my radio for a check, nothing but static and occasional distorted music.

The blowout was here.
We rushed back inside, and I spotted the last of our bandits, who'd apparently decided to try his luck with us instead of risking death outside.

A shotgun blast to the chest laid him out instantly. I don't know if I felt bad, or if it was the realization that we might have to fight off bandits trying to take cover inside the building that made my mouth dry up.
I didn't consider myself a cruel man, but I knew there wouldn't be a peaceful solution.

What happened at Yanov was a one-off, years before our time, and I just might have to condemn other people to the horrific fate of having their brains melted during an emission.

I told the others to watch the north-western doors, and we checked our weapons.

There was no quarter we could give.



Two shockwaves, this time.

A hellish red glare rising in the north, from the reactor.
Howling and screaming and infernal rumbling.

Thoughts you didn't want and couldn't control.



It was raining again. 34 dead. More than usual.

Dead men walking.


And just like that, the sun seemed to fall into place again, and the Zone went back to normal.
The tension from before was gone, and the crisp November air felt almost enjoyable.



This also meant that the fields would be full of artifacts.

A blowout seemed to reset them in some way, to re-energize them.
We were in a perfect position to scrape together some extra cash before heading into the Valley.

Other stalkers would only now start making their journey towards the Garbage in hopes of easy pickings.



The "Compactor" proved to be strangely empty.
The unmarked scrap heap north of the train yard, not so much.

With a bit of work and careful walking, I managed to walk out of there with two "Ingots", compact metallic objects, presumably discarded refuse, with anti-gravitational properties that shedded radiation like crazy.

Nothing unusual, but still nice to have, and five thousand was five thousand.

I decided we'd head to the "Synapse" anomaly field next, a combination of gravitational oddities, electrical fields, and a psionic field that made your head feel like it would crack open at any moment.

Took a psy-block, just in case.

I used to hate how they'd kill my emotions completely, but thinking about Gritzenko, Sidorenko and Kamikaze maybe not coming back in one piece from the Valley, thinking about Volanchuk's still-warm corpse on the old train tracks, Korneev's broken bones probably being picked clean already...

It felt like the right thing to do, for once.



In and out in a flash. The psy-block worked it's magic.

Next stop, Dark Valley.