|
Post by Afterburner on Apr 15, 2012 13:54:17 GMT -5
Mark them? Shall I? As my own children they are. Marks of mine to them are gifts. And curses. Blessings. Salvation. Jinxes. Doom. Maybe. Who knows. I do not. I do not even care. I think. Yet I feel them. Every morning they penetrate me. Every noon they take my flesh. Every evening they try to leave. Every night I take them back. They murder my children. They become my children. A caring mother am I, a horrible stepmother I become. My children cry. My protectors suffer. My exploiters cherish, rubbing their greedy paws over the trifle of their lives...Junk. Garbage. Leftovers. They feast on the blood that has long since departed my womb, fooled into believing that it is my newborn they are feasting on. My enemies turn to ruin. My spawn gloat. My guardians triumph. My leeches turn to dust, choking themselves on their own greed and gluttony. A double-edged gift they take. They rot. They do not understand it.
Just beyond the noses of the Ukrainian recruits camp-stacked at the perimeter outpost lies the area known as Cordon. The soldiers were not the ones named it so, and neither were the long-since-deceased inhabitants of the dilapidated Soviet-era housings decorating the occasional mossy hill. No, the name did not come from their fathers, nor their forefathers, nor any melancholic passer-by of old who, after traveling for weeks decided to stop in the vicinity of this dreary region. No, the name was given to this place by stalkers.
The stalkers were last in the line of those who populated this land. First it was the peasants. Simple folk with simple burdens on their simple lines. They paid what they needed to pay, did what they were told to do and generally caused no trouble, apart from the occasional vodka-fueled fit of drunken rage. Then came the engineers. The peasants were soon forced into submission, disappearing as cities rose in midst of these idyllic hills. Like drones, they would swarm from their apartments, dash into their workplaces and then, for hours and hours endure the "treatment" their supervisors would provide them with. Being forced into submission. Errors ignored. Leaks unsealed. Then came the animals. The people disappeared one day, whisked away by gigantic, metal bugs. The animals were at first wary to enter these abodes, as their former hosts carried sticks that shot thunder and would often hide other animals in their own houses, violating the principal laws of survival as they hid the weaker of their kin among them and protected them from being eaten. Then came the scavengers. Ants. Rats. Vultures. As animals, they picked up whatever junk remained after their predecessors and scavenged what they could. Apart from their appearance, they were no different than other animals. Yet they walked on two legs and carried clothes, just like the peasants and the engineers that dwelled here before them. They spoke in mumbles and grunts incomprehensible to others; most of the time, they did not speak at all. A group of them, sitting around a fire in one of these villages of old murmured and clattered, drinking the same fire that burned before them.
Every day spent in Cordon meant a day wasted. There was no opportunity for them here. It was time to make a move beyond the Cordon. To explore the Zone once more. With tattered rags and guns that barely worked. Without food or hope for survival. Within their hearts burned no desire other than their innermost one. They wanted to share their stories, yet they found themselves at loss for words most of the times. Every now and then, one of them would take out a guitar older than his parents and strum a melody, singing off-key in a voice already half-formed by life. Old and young, they were equal in this place. The antechamber of the Zone called for equality among those who found themselves inside. It was a test of sorts. The only ones who broke the status quo were worthy of proceeding onward.
Come. Accept the gift.
|
|
.4
Rodent
2%
what is this I don't even
Posts: 7
|
Post by .4 on Apr 15, 2012 17:03:22 GMT -5
"Damn. I really have shit aim." Magpie's voice rasped through the broken gas mask filter, the words textural.
Another curse as the shot went wide and missed the bottle entirely. It continued its merry path through the air after the toss, angry eyes glaring at it. As the offending bottle landed on the dirt, so did the battered rifle that had failed to hit its mark every single time.
Magpie knew how to use a gun -more or less. Nikon, with his proper grip, his perfect stance, his quick reflexes, had been a good teacher. But that had been years ago, and the true goal hadn’t been learning how to shoot, not really. It had been spending time together before both of them had to go, one of them to the Military, the other to Moscow.
The metal can that had served as a (failed) practice target earlier was just sitting there, as provocative as a can could be. Magpie kicked it in irritation and was unsurprised to be left just as unsatisfied as before.
“Hey, kid, stop for a minute”, a gruff voice said. A wiry man was approaching with measured, short steps: Magpie stood there indecisively, mind torn between fleeing to avoid talking to this stranger or staying and looking like an irritated idiot. No option was particularly attractive, but by the time the decision was made the stalker had already arrived.
“Bloody hell, you’re awful,” he said cheerfully. “You know the bullets come out of the slim end, right?” (He ignored the dirty look that got him.) “You’re supposed to swing with the target, otherwise your muzzle will never catch up and you won’t get the right lead.”
"Will that work?" Magpie wondered moodily.
"Hell if I know, mate, but you've missed that bloody bottle every single time. It gets embarrassing after a while."
Him throwing the bottle in the air again cut Magpie’s insult short. Swing; catch up; lead – and miss. "Are you blind, kid?"
Up went the bottle again. The muzzle of the gun traced its path, the shot cracked, and the bottle hit the dirt as expected. Magpie sighed, grabbed it, stared at it with spite and then flung it as high as it could go. With an extra half-second to lead the shot, this time the bottle collapsed into a puff of snowy film.
“That wasn’t altogether awful”, he said appreciatively. “But you have to keep swinging your muzzle in an arc even after you fire. And do try to take the recoil like a man, you pansy.” With those last words of advice, he skipped away. Magpie rubbed an aching shoulder and frowned.
|
|
|
Post by Baila el Cheeki Breeki on Apr 15, 2012 18:45:58 GMT -5
"Over the hillock, he said? Over the . . . ah." Tatar found the alleged anomaly field he'd been told about. It was just a junk heap stuck in the dirt: some rusted barrels, a fallen tree, chunks of cinder and discarded military storage flaking with green paint. Something wasn't quite right, though. Holding out one bare finger covered in spit he felt wind blowing from both the east and the west. The eastern breeze blew in erratic gusts, like wind does, while from the west it seemed to be coming in regular intervals: foosh, foosh, foosh, like an air pump. It was fine time to take a seat on the grass before stepping any closer to this dreary-looking pit. Flicking on the detector made him jump: it beeped, and quite loudly. He plugged the male end of his cheap earbuds into the jack and inserted one of them into his left ear. This Echo model was at least a year old and completely outdated even by the standards of a current-day Echo. The faster it beeps, the closer the sensor is to a detector-recognized anomalous instance. Tatar, in all honesty, had no clue just how many anomalous instances this ancient Echo could possibly be blind to. Without the proper laboratory conditions for testing it was, one must assume, uncalibrated and unreliable. It was guaranteed to have data on the following: graviconcentrates, ESFs types 1-4 (not 5), pyrophoric plumes, and "whirligigs" as the depressing sods moping about around the campfire called them. These were the most well-researched, most consistently appearing and earliest recorded instances known to science. What about the rest, though? More were being discovered daily. Some were still referred to using local slang, even by his colleagues: caustic pools, faerie fire, rattlers, buzzards, psi-fields, black bonnets, tin-tin. All unknowns, all potentially deadly. Back at Uni these things were just names on paper. The beeping sped up a notch as he crawled forwards on his belly through the scratchy grass, so he halted again. Leaves were fluttering upwards into the sky from the ground just a meter away. A current drew them in as they fell, propelled them gently upwards in spirals before arcing away and falling again to the ground. The effect formed a strange twisting cylinder, something that would pass invisible to the unaware observer. And wasn't there something floating about in there? Not a leaf, but something like a crinkling disturbance in the air. Tatar squinted, which caused his right contact to bend and pinch. As he adjusted it the sound of a dog's ragged howling punctured the air and he jerked back up onto his feet. "Ah . . . hmm," he hesitated, not wanting to pull himself away, but then shots rang out in the distance. Staying crouched he scurried back the way he came muttering to himself about bullet wounds and hospitals, specifically the lack thereof. One of the shots whizzed overhead and he dove into a bush.
Binoculars out, he scanned the fields near the village. Out in a clearing a short figure in a gas mask was hurling a plastic bottle into the air and taking pot-shots at it. Tatar sighed, annoyed, and hauled himself out of the bush to head back and take a closer look at the junk.
|
|
|
Post by VladTheBloodsucka on Apr 15, 2012 20:05:28 GMT -5
"50.000" said Sidorovich decisively. The way he plays with emphasis and intonation would have you believe a million rubles is change and slaughtering a lair of boars with a knife is hardly an errand.
"You know I don't have that kind of cash on me" muttered Avram disheartedly. He knew.
"See, now we're not acting like grown ups" he knew Avram had that kind of cash on him. "That old wizard Sakharov may clone anomalies or detect mutants from miles. There ain't yet no formula to flimflam on me."
"40.000" said Avram. He realized he was not good at this, that he was never going to get something out of this. Perhaps it was wrong to wish for it.
"Look, we're both seasoned men. Those jackanapes outside are trying to con me every single day, and smelling it is my job." voiced Sidorovich in a friendly tone. The chair squeaked as he rose. The fat man interrupted the gentle stream of wind from the ventilator, heading back to the storage area. The bunker smelled of fungi and canned food.
It was never fair for Avram to be here. After one year in the zone, he thought himself above errands. Yet, life at the Lake was reclusive, and the only choice was to be a recluse in the bunker or roam free as a zombie. The chopper would not escort him back from the Cordon, being that the benevolence of the military has limits. Well, only limits. There were only so many funds that could be squeezed monthly from selling research, and almost none from the Big Land until the next Delivery. For all intents and purposes, Ecologists are cut off. Avram judged that there's been a long time since he made any progress on his quest. He hoped God would watch over Sophia. For a moment he feared he had forgotten about why he really is in the zone. Never.
The stream of thoughts was interrupted by a thud. Sidorovich had his fingers intertwined over a large metal suitcase that was now on the counter. One of his fingers unlocked the mechanism, with half a suitcase opening up. Avram's old eyes flickered at the content. With a pitiful look, Sidorovich opened his other hand. A palm that was lacking the weight of cash.
"Hell, I never though I'd see myself saying this, but, hell, 45 will do. I've seen it all, but hell, I think I wanna know what happens when you lab dogs put this to use. It may be he-" Shots outside. Sidorovich seemed midly annoyed. "They're killing each other again." he sighed. "Close the door"
Avram's eyes were still on the suitcase.
|
|
.4
Rodent
2%
what is this I don't even
Posts: 7
|
Post by .4 on Apr 16, 2012 10:25:38 GMT -5
Enough shooting: surely the warthog-man downstairs knew where Nikon was. Magpie strapped the rifle back on and left the ruined bottle where it sat. The stalkers around the campfire responded to the name "Sidorovich" with a tired gesture towards a hole in the ground flanked by two halves of a cellar door. Down the stairs, three left turns, through the metal door and into a cramped room filled with crackling music from a radio. It was already occupied by a middle-aged man examining the contents of a briefcase in private. He gave Magpie a tired look, but said nothing.
"Someone out there pushing up daisies?" Sidorovich growled, "Who is it this time?" Magpie stepped closer to the trader, sure now that this was the scum Nikon had said the Military was trading with. Impossible. Government people would not... They would, actually, but they at least should not... "Look, out with it or out of my sight," the trader snapped, his voice rich with impatience, "I'm not going to hold your hand: get a shovel and find a place to bury the guy. Tie two sticks together and ram it into the ground if you're feeling generous. You're done, you come back and have a drink and forget about it." Magpie raised a hand - offering words to this living proof of the Military's corruption would taste like poison and make bile curdle in the back of the throat, but offered they had to be. "I am searching for a stalker. One man that is called Nikon." "Eh? Speak up, I can't hear you through that mask. Or take it off, how about? This isn't the Garbage." "One man named Nikon. I am searching for him, or letters for him." "Nikon? Nikon who? Whole armies of Nikons march through here. Give me something to ID him with and maybe I've got something for you. And if it's the Nikon I'm thinking of he owes me at least half of whatever you've got in your pocket." Magpie started gesturing wildly: "Nikon! One ex-military soldier, very tall. He came here before four months." Sidorovich squinted, laced his fingers and then leaned back with a dour look. His chair complained. "Ahh, you must be talking about Nikon Dumpling then." Magpie nodded emphatically, canister bobbing. "Went north. Haven't seen him in two months, maybe more, maybe less. Sorry to see him go. He always has these stories that spook the rookies into buying more booze. That, and he brings in good stuff every now and then. What do you want with him, then?"
Magpie frowned. The irritation was returning; It was a pleasant feeling, far preferable to the uncertainty of speaking this language that was so difficult to command. Nikon was not there, but he was alive, according to this fat man, and doing well for himself, and he was still inside the Zone: somewhere to the North. Magpie didn't much care what else was to the North. "I will take him the letters." "Bah!" Sidorovich spat, "Why didn't you just say you were a courier from the start? Waste of my time."
He rose and disappeared into the back room. The radio continued to blare music, an old Soviet patriotic tune. When he reappeared he held in his hands a stack of envelopes wrapped up in twine, along with a little cardboard box. He tossed them curtly onto the counter and sank back into his seat, which gave a sad creak. "There you go. He never gave a commission to have them sent up to 100 Rads so don't expect any payment for playing paperboy. If you're not willing to deliver these out of the kindness of your own heart, well, you're S.O.L. Have fun getting past the military blockade with that piece of crap on your shoulder. And honestly, if he's not already being shipped home on a death truck he's nowhere you want to be poking around before you get your feet wet." Magpie stood completely still for a second, much like a person who had been faced with the gravest of news. Sidorovich was idly wondering if the swaying figure in front of him was going to collapse (and if he would bother doing anything about it, since the poor sob looked quite destitute), when a drop of saliva landed on the floor in front of his counter. The creepy little bugger had just spat inside his bunker! "Now, what the h-" he tried to intervene, but Magpie wasn't listening: spitting two more times on the floor, three spins in a circle, fingers to the Saint Constantine medallion; "Silfimi! Silfimi! Silfimi!" Sidorivich crossed his arms and snorted at the display. "You better be planning to clean this up, you wog!" "Do not say things such as this out loud! It is bad luck! Be quiet as fish! Do you sell any salt?" "No. Get out." And so Magpie did.
|
|
|
Post by VladTheBloodsucka on Apr 16, 2012 12:04:33 GMT -5
"At least nobody's hurt" affirmed Avram. "Isn't that a relief." Avram smirked. "You're almost charitable today." Though he was convinced the scoundrel would rather deal with the overpopulation of the graveyard rather than have a sod bleed in his bunker, begging for morphine. Blood sticks to concrete, after all. "Anything else I can offer you ?" croaked Sidorovich. "Anti rads, and some of that tuna. Also water" Avram requested while inspecting his pockets, the ones designated for food. The SSP suit was a protective marvel, albeit a bit warm. He placed his helmet inside the backpack, opting to keep the food supplies shielded from radiation. He felt somber for the hordes of rookies who'll get back home cancerous, before realizing many don't have homes outside the Zone. Which was worse ? "Water ?" smiled Sidorovich. "Ahhh, you're a devout hoary, Avram" "Doing my best, it's difficult here" sighed the ecologist. "Add some salami too, in case I'm intercepted by some canine friends" "If I were you, I'd add some ammo" "There are other ways to deal with them, stalkers forget that." "You're the vet, or whatever" groaned the trader. "3000". Avram calculated that the gallon of water was more expensive than two of vodka. When the exchange materialized, Avram hanged the suitcase from the hook of his backpack. He was encumbered, but fit. Perhaps walking nearby that young short tempered lad might not be that bad of an idea. The Ecologists were running low on cash, and costs had to be kept at a minimum. And after all, he doesn't remember the last time he had a chance to scout for a bloodsucker. A young man's quest, should've been. Yet, there was no more time to delay, he had to keep hopeful for Sophia; keep hopeful and keep searching. "To hell with it, I'd like to see you through with this. Who knows, maybe a call or two after you get to that blasted Lake and we can do business again. Here." Sidorovich handed him two packs of improved 9x19mm. "This place ain't merciful with us. We're ancient compared to the kids outside. Be careful" Avram was more than surprised. He took them with one hand and shook Sidoroviche's with the other, still knowing he'll try his utmost not to use them "Out of my bunker before I sell it to you or another insanity" grouched the man.
He stepped on the grass. It was not yet dead, but yellow and pestilent, as the rustling leaves. Not yet dead. Avram discerned the masked individual who charged off resolutely a minute earlier talking to another silhouette. He made his way towards them.
Misc costs: -3000 RU Remainder: 2000 RU
|
|
|
Post by Baila el Cheeki Breeki on Apr 16, 2012 14:21:51 GMT -5
"I visited the local anomaly field you informed me of."
Sidorovich said nothing. Eyebrows raised slightly, he just stared. Tatar cleared his throat.
"Multiple graviconcentrates arrayed in a semicircle around the epicenter of the instance, as well as at least five tier-1 turbulence columns scattered around and within the perimeter of the barbed wire."
Another long pause, while a pop song played in the background and Sidorovich crossed his arms.
" . . . there weren't any artefacts."
"No? Well, comes to me as a shock," Sidorovich grumbled, "We've got them lying around all over the place, didn't you know? Here, have an artefact. This one's on the house."
He flicked an old cigarette butt which bounced off of Tatar's vest.
"I'm sorry, but . . . erm, I was informed that anomalous instances routinely produced the artefacts associated with said-"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you did. Very good, you get an A+ from professor Sidorovich today. You think artefacts stay in that field for longer than an hour or two if one gets spotted? You going to buy something or what?"
"Well, in spite of a lack of artefacts, I scouted the field like you asked. I was hoping-"
Sidorovich cut him off again, "For a commission, yes? Of course you are. I never told you to 'scout' anything, never mind how intimately I know that little pimple of an anomaly field inside and out without ever having left my chair to go sightseeing. I said you could go look at it if you wanted. Thanks for nothing, right? Any purchases or is this just chatting time for us old women?"
Tatar swallowed and looked around the room, unable to maintain eye contact. Lockers, a safety box, mildew crawling up the concrete.
"I suppose, but I really think that . . . well . . . eh . . ."
Someone's heavy footsteps descended the stairs and a stalker wearing a heavy suit and masked helmet entered the room.
"Ah, look! Someone worth my time. Stand aside, will you?" The stalker, some 13cm taller than Tatar, slung his pack down onto the floor and began producing smaller cloth sacks from it.
"Just as promised, eh?" Sidorovich smirked, "Not bad, some pretty good stuff you got there."
Sidorovich donned a pair of rubber gloves and pulled out something iridescent, dome shaped, with a small light swimming through the middle of it as if it were a snow globe with a captured firefly.
"That's, er," Tatar began, blinking several times, "Is that a . . . a 724-CHM?"
Anonymous stalker turned his head towards him, his breath heavy through the mask, then looked back at Sidorovich. He jerked a thumb at Tatar.
"Who wants to know what it is? Who is this guy?"
"Nobody. You must have bled a fair penny's worth for these. Come a long way, have you? I can write you up an estimate as soon as this kid is out of here so we can get some privacy."
Tatar stepped forwards and faced the stalker while scratching at the back of his neck,
"I'll . . . I'll, um, buy it from you."
Sidorovich's laugh belched out in tandem with his chair's creaking.
"Look at this guy! He's trying to undercut me, right here in my own shop. Sure, go right ahead. Beat my prices! Give him his ten grand! He's waiting. I'm sure he'll be patient while you dig around for it in your pockets and go write auntie for a loan. He's only just been all the way from the Garbage to here."
"Why do you want it so bad?" the stalker tilted his head, confused, "Do you even know what the thing does?"
"Well, it exhibits an ambient 'field,' although field wouldn't be quite the right word as there's no measurable emissions originating from the artefact, which acts as an extremely potent hypercoagulant while simultaneously . . . eh . . ."
Their stares made him shut up. Even through the mask he could tell the stalker was glowering at him. His voice was deep and gruff, accentuated by the mask's filters.
"Oh, I see. I know your type. Where's your fancy egghead suit, eh? They can't afford to hand them out to you any more? They should pay better or get out of shithole Yantar. Look at this kid!"
He turned to Sidorovich, who looked as amused as Sidorovich could muster.
"You're something special, you know that? You're really a special guy."
"Why . . . er, how? How's that?" Tatar stammered.
"Well, you're a hundred times worse off in the Zone than any dumbshit rookie out there. That's why. School has filled your head with all of these facts about the Zone, so you come in here thinking you already know what's in the Zone. You can rattle off fifteen different names for the thing ripping you into strips for dinner. You won't last a week. Get out while you still can. I think the military might let you go for all of the money you've got left in your pockets and a quick hand job in the bathroom."
Tatar, face red as a beet, mumbled a request for Sidorovich: a box of TP-82 flares and shot, some 9x19, rations, anti-rad pills, an AK- 74/u with mags and a suppressor for his P9.
"Suppressor? Suppressor, he says," Sidorovich chortled, "Fresh out, I'm afraid. I've got a megaphone in the back, though. Nobody seems to want to buy it. Maybe you can scare the bloodsuckers off if you yell loud enough."
Tatar gathered up his purchases and turned to leave, embarrassed, when Sidorovich called to him,
"Head up to the Garbage if you want artefacts. Who knows, maybe you'll find one. Bring it right back here and you can study the 'hypercoagulant properties' of cold hard cash. No need to waste your time poking these things with a stick. It won't tell you the secrets of the universe, or roll over then play fetch either. Good hunting, wayward tatar."
AKS-74u: - 2900 RU Misc costs: - 2000 RU Remainder: 100 RU
|
|
Rifleman
Rodent
The Penis is Evil
Posts: 9
|
Post by Rifleman on Apr 19, 2012 21:38:16 GMT -5
''Got any booze left?''
Pavel had already lost two cans of beer and a bottle of vodka to the American, but the man's story was intriguing and he wasn't able to do anything without booze. His Russian was atrocious, but Pavel knew English well enough to listen to the tale in its original language. Plus, the man had recently saved his hide, and Pavel felt that he was sort of paying a debt.
Pavel checked his bag. The only thing that was inside was a bottle of vodka. He grabbed the bottle and offered it to the man.
''Here.''
The man roughly grabbed it off Pavel's hand, opened it and took a long sip from it. When he put it down, it was already halfway empty.
''So, as I was sayin', we were getting shot at. Thankfully those meatbags couldn't aim for shit - around 300 rounds yet none of us were shot. The bastards were handy with explosives though.''
The American turned left to show his scar. Pavel was slightly disturbed.
''They fired an RPG. I threw myself back to dodge it - but the damn thing blew the staircase up. I was cut off from the squad, part of me wounded. I had lost my gun too.''
The American took another sip.
''Thankfully, I was able to find the rest of the squad.''
Another sip.
''Damn. Got any more of it?''
''None left, old man. You drunk up my entire stock.''
The American sighed.
''Well, that was fast. So, remember what I told you - keep your .45 locked and cocked. It might save your life.''
Pavel sighed. He wanted to complain to the old man about how he had drunk all of his booze, but if not for him Pavel would probably become dog food.
Pavel had been looking for artifacts in a local anomaly cluster when a pack of stray dogs attacked him - thanks to his lack of experience with firearms, he was unable to chamber the pistol properly, causing him to run as trying to chamber and disable the safety would have made him a sitting duck. Pavel was a thin figure and he wasn't carrying much at the time, but still, outrunning a pack of dogs was not a feat that Pavel could achieve. And he lacked the stamina the dogs had.
Even though he had ran more than a regular human thanks to adrenaline and fear of death, those two had their limits as well. Suddenly, Pavel found himself exhausted, in the middle of a hungry pack of dogs.
That's when he heard the shots. Pavel instinctively kept his head down, fearing that he would be shot, but when he raised his head he saw two dead dogs and a hulking figure shooting at the rest of the pack.
Pavel was lucky to have that man around by that time. But for all he knew, the next day there would be no one saving his arse.
Or worse, someone actually trying to kill it.
|
|
|
Post by Baila el Cheeki Breeki on Apr 26, 2012 11:23:41 GMT -5
A hair from broke and better armed, Tatar scuttled back out into the village looking for something familiar. Ridicule shoved him so far out of his comfort zone that he had to force down the urge to flee to the military camp and beg for passage out.
Trees, buildings, trash. Nothing. A man wearing an ecologist's uniform had passed him on the stairs down to make his purchases. Perhaps he had associates in Yantar. The Garbage, wherever that was, sounded like a fair distance away. On his GPS he scanned the satellite overlay: road north perpendicular to train tracks running across the local area with a bridge in the middle. Some guys around the campfire mentioned it being blocked off by a unit of soldiers. There was a tunnel, or something like it, to the west. Possible route, might be collapsed or blocked up inside. The road north eventually led to what looked like fields cobbled up with black spots. Wasn't easy to determine what they were, but they appeared to be junk heaps or scrap. Garbage, indeed!
Route east . . . through some wet lowlands, didn't look inviting. Exasperated and uncertain he pocketed his phone and let loose a long, unsatisfying sigh. Up and out, before he lost sight of the scientist.
He caught up with him and the moment before opening his mouth realized he wasn't sure how to propose a partnership. Tatar had no plan, no money, no incentives for this stranger to take him up except maybe his university qualifications.
"Ahem," Tatar cleared his throat to get the man's attention, "I . . . hello. I'm, er, well . . . I saw your suit and I . . . wanted see if you were heading north. I'm with Phystech, department of environmental sciences, and I was hoping we could work together to cross some of this inhospitable terrain. There's a couple of routes we could take, but, er, I figured you might be more familiar with the lay of the land. I've studied anomalies and can spot them if we move as a pair, or in a group. I have an Echo model as well, more or less . . . up to date."
Tatar paused, adjusted his jacket where it was cutting off blood to his wrist, and continued.
"I could compensate you, perhaps, but it might be in our best interest to work together for mutual gain. And I'm sure we could hire a guide if necessary. Are you, eh, does that sound agreeable?"
|
|
|
Post by VladTheBloodsucka on Apr 26, 2012 12:15:50 GMT -5
Avram couldn't help a smile at the enthusiasm of this neonate. Yet, there was something distinct about this particular rookie. He was lightly shivering, but seemingly not for the prospects of profit. It was baffling to see so little curiosity and desire for knowledge among the zone's veterans, and this Zone bairin seemed legitimately excited.
"There's half a mile to the blockade, kid; I doubt they'll let you pass" said Avram with his latin accent. Truth to be told, he was unsure if he'd be allowed to pass, certainly not what he was carrying still in his posession.
"I'd advise you to sneak back out, but if you insist...I won't be responsible for you." If this must be done. I shouldn't do this... step over bodies, but there's too much at stake. They knew what they signed up for when agreeing to man the barrier. Forgive me.
"Hold on well and firm to that gun of yours, and to your money too. We needa find others"
|
|
|
Post by Baila el Cheeki Breeki on Apr 26, 2012 17:24:51 GMT -5
"Ah! Yes, of course. The blockade. If you have your papers in order I don't see what could go wrong. I'm not quite . . . dressed to impress, as it were, but I doubt they'll mind me if I show them my field equipment. Perhaps I could be your assistant for the time being until," Tatar's voice began to hollow out from a bubble growing in his throat which he coughed loose, "Until you're put onto other official duties. I have shooting experience on the range and I've gone through, well, lab-controlled scenarios involving limited simulation of zone-related phenomena. Properties of various artefacts, Zone nomenclature, life forms: all in my noggin' as they say. I'm not sure how conditions will be further in but I expect radiation levels to intensify as we approach large deposits of scrap metal located near the 'Garbage' as they call it, eh . . ."
Tatar paused, realizing he was babbling, and rubbed his goatee.
"I'm not dead weight, I promise. I'm just looking for access to the Garbage so that I can fill out my report to the department. I can't, er, return without it or I'm . . . my career is at stake. Do you think they'll let us both through if we play the part?"
|
|
.4
Rodent
2%
what is this I don't even
Posts: 7
|
Post by .4 on Apr 30, 2012 16:51:42 GMT -5
After making backpack arrangements and gathering up gear, Magpie's sense of bewilderment and uncertainty returned. Wandering, the odd breadcrumb trail of intuition took hold by process of elimination: the road was full of stern men with big guns and led nowhere but out of the Zone. The hills to the east seemed too steep and dark. A sort of gloom seemed to hover, like smoke on a windless day, around the village and all of Cordon.
Frown hidden beneath the mask, Magpie shifted around the weight of the battered rifle while silently scolding the untrained muscles complaining about all of this new unwanted activity.
Just out of the village they stood on the road, the younger one making awkward pains to explain something to the elder one in his odd suit. Magpie hid in the bushes for a few moments watching, not sure how to approach. There was no way out of this place without help, that was for certain, but how to initiate conversation? Words tumbled around, mushed together, spattered against the inside of the skull, always second-hand and useless.
Maybe it would be better to go alone. The thought gave birth to an inward scowl: too many unseemly places. The hills were Godless and hungry. Courage didn't inspire Magpie to action; it was rather a desire to buck the exhaustion that comes with the struggle of indecision. So, with a commanding wave of the hand, the young Tatar's attention was suddenly brought to bear. Stumbling out of the bush, Magpie's heart began to beat heavy and fast. Talking was always like this: uncomfortable, alien, a world of useless inhales and empty exhales.
The smart thing to do would have been to follow them, but curiosity took hold. If not for being so disagreeable, Magpie might have even been excited.
"You go North? I have a gun- we go together. More safe."
|
|
Rifleman
Rodent
The Penis is Evil
Posts: 9
|
Post by Rifleman on Apr 30, 2012 17:15:58 GMT -5
‘’Wake up, old man! Wake up!’’
Scott sighed. Pavel was shouting frantically, shaking. He was barely able to hold his pistol, cold sweat dripping off his face. Scott, fearing that an attack was happening, immediately threw himself off the bed. Disgruntled thanks to the lack of gunfire, Scott immediately rose up on Pavel. The kid looked like that he had recently faced his worst fears – shivering, sweating, barely able to speak. Scott sighed, then sat down.
‘’What the hell happened?’’ He asked, sitting on the mattress. His head was aching – he was sleepy, but the vibrations in his head was too much of a disturbance to allow him to sleep.
‘’I.. I saw it..’’ he coughed. ‘’I.. I saw...’’ Scott was not able to understand what Pavel was saying, as the kid’s shivering made it unable for him to make coherent sentences. Scott sighed again, he hated this sort of thing. What kind of nightmare could render a man literally incapable of doing anything? It was a dream. It wasn’t an explosion. It made no sense.
‘’Wolves... wolves...’’
Scott was fed up. He slapped Pavel, rendering him silent for a few seconds. Scott was pleased from this pause – he looked out from the window, and turned back to Pavel in a few seconds.
‘’Now, kid, what the fuck is going on?’’
‘’Oh God.. It felt real..’’
‘’What the FUCK felt real?’’
‘’I.. I recall waking up.. You weren’t here, and I heard noises outside, so I walked out.. You were.. on the floor.. you.. you told me to.. stay back.. I locked myself in.. the wolves started ramming the windows.. so I.. I grabbed my pistol, but it wouldn’t fire.. they jumped on me.. oh God, I can still feel their fangs..’’ Scott was quick to reply.
‘’It’s probably because of that chase yesterday. Must’ve shaken you up worse than you thought.’’
‘’Oh, thank God..’’
‘’You got any sausage left?’’ Scott asked, to change the topic.
‘’None left.’’ Pavel sighed, his tone still carrying traces of nervousness.
‘’Well, you gonna buy any?’’ Scott asked, hungry and frustrated thanks to his abrupt awakening.
Silence came after.
‘’Why don’t we.. you know, leave?’’ Pavel asked. ‘’We are just sitting ducks. I was supposed to be looking for artifacts, not running from dogs!’’ His tone was a mix of anger, frustration and fear. ‘’Why would you come to the Zone if you would just sit down in the Cordon for weeks?’’
Scott was silent.
Pavel’s words reminded him of his motivation. Why he had left everything behind, why he had risked his life for a man who couldn’t even be here. Why he lived.
The words echoed in Scott’s mind. Riddled with self-doubt and fury, Scott got up.
‘’Grab your stuff. We’re going.’’ He said in a determined, clean voice.
Pavel looked surprised.
‘’I was.. I was just..’’
‘’You were what? Why would you come to the Zone if you would just sit down and wonder about your future?’’
In a few minutes, they were out of the house. Scott walked at a brisk pace, suddenly refueled with determination. Pavel followed him, confused. He never thought that his words would have such a sudden effect.
The duo saw a group at the distance. They didn’t look like much – there was an ecologist, possibly his assistant, and a fellow in a gas mask.
‘’Should we ask them?’’ Pavel asked.
‘’Ask them what?’’ Scott replied.
‘’They might be going north as well. We don’t know what we might face, do we?’’ Pavel said.
‘’Well then. You do the talking.’’ Scott replied, disinterested.
After a short pause, Pavel decided to ask the Ecologist.
‘’Um.. sorry.. Are you guys going North? If you are.. can we come with you? My friend here, he’s able to help..’’
Pavel turned to Scott.
‘’You won’t have problems, right? I don’t think they are fighters.’’
Scott looked around. His mind was clear now – he did not focus on the obstacles to his goal, all he cared about was the goal.
‘’Yeah, yeah. We’ll do just fine.’’
Yet for some reason, Pavel thought the exact opposite.
|
|
|
Post by VladTheBloodsucka on Apr 30, 2012 18:57:08 GMT -5
It certainly was a peculiar group. And now I have an assistant, seemingly without my knowledge. He's not cut for this place, perhaps nobody really is. And the masked figure. Yes, this other youth certainly hides more than a temper under that veneer. The bulky one seemed far away from home to Avram, and it was as if he was not here for profit. He carried quite the shotgun.They all strike me as being here for more than roubles. And then there was Pavel. He looked kind of...normal.
"We can save the introductions for when we see ourselves alive at the Bar. Until then, I have a request. See this briefcase sigiled and me alive to the bunker in Yantar and you'll have the thanks and blessings of a humble scientist..."
"That's grand but..." Pavel interrupted.
"Ten grand. Each. In toys or coins, from Shakarov." Avram was still clumsy in the ways and dealings of this place, and its denizens. He was still in denial, though acceptance was creeping in. The acceptance that here, life has a price and this was the sole way not to get pawned. Rarely do they kill our kind. Still, what happened to Kruglov and his assistant's in the Wild Territory two years ago...assis- He looked squintly at Tatar murmuring "name".
"T...Tatar"
"And my field assistant, Tolya"
As they were embarked up the small hill in front of the camp, a light gust of wind rustled some feathers. It was as if a door had opened.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The group had walked for ten minutes. With help from the neonate, his babbling, and admirable handling of the old detector, they avoided the pockets of strong radiation on that patch of the highway. Pavel checked the bodies beneath the small passage. Long dead and and already looted, they seemed bitten by canines. Avram hoped no dogs would attack them on the way. I had to kill one once. I ran back in the bunker, her head stuck at the enforced door of the antechamber. I had to slit her rabid throat and pull her out in the graveyard around the laboratory. She was trying to defend her pack, whelps perhaps. Was that so different...
"There's the barrier" he heard a voice from above. "That station is a good vantage point" affirmed Avram, crawling back up the dilapidated track, taking out his binoculars.
|
|
Rifleman
Rodent
The Penis is Evil
Posts: 9
|
Post by Rifleman on May 12, 2012 13:39:27 GMT -5
As far as Scott was concerned, taking the standard route to the Garbage was a bad idea. The military position there was mostly malevolent, forcing arriving stalkers to pay money to them in order to pass unharmed. From what Scott had heard, they sometimes shot the loners without any reason – Scott, knowing that the fence around the hill could be easily penetrated with a knife, didn’t want to pay extra money or have to mess with the military. Then again, they did have an ecologist by their side – his mere presence could soften up the military to perhaps let them go freely.
‘’That station’s a good vantage point.’’ The Ecologist said, as he grabbed his binoculars and started spying on the Military goons.
Scott looked at the barrier, then the fence. There was a slight slope cluttered with rusty and destroyed industrial equipment. Scott theorized that if one of them had a knife, he could cut through the fence to open the way easily. But that was risky, considering that by pure chance, a soldier could see them and open fire.
‘’I have plan.’’ Scott murmured.
‘’I need knife, I can cut fence..’’
Scott’s Russian was sloppy, even moreso with his accent and lack of practice, but he thought that it was comprehensible enough.
‘’What do you think?’’ He asked to no one in particular.
|
|