hawkeye & tourist pts 1 & 2

The gentle spring breeze stirs the dust from the road as the seasoned Stalker trudges through the thick, knee-high grass. Ahead of him, the rookie village lay in a small, woody grove, dim firelight flickering from a handful of shattered windows and between the boards across the empty doorways. Dark figures move between the buildings, hunched over against the cold of the darkening evening.
A. M. Orlov slowly walks up to the entrance to the grove, turning onto the dirt track that leads through the decrepit houses. He continues on to an open campfire, before stopping.
A. M. Orlov slings his SVU-AS and sits cross-legged by the fire. Its pleasant heat feels wonderful against his wind-chafed skin as he removes the faceplate of his SEVA suit.
Tourist is laying back on the opposite side of the campfire with his head on his backpack with his eyes closed. He opens up his left eye a little as he hears the newcomer.
Tourist stares for a moment with a puzzled look on his face, he goes to say something but stops and closes his eyes again.
As he sets the reflective gold-coloured plate gently into his pack, Tolya looks across at the man on the other side of the fire, nodding politely.
A. M. Orlov's cheeks bear many small, round scars, marks remaining from a close encounter with a shotgun-armed bandit when he was a rookie himself. His eyes are glazed over, and focus some distance past the man; his face looks tired.
Tourist speaks with his eyes still closed, "Friends call me Tourist, you can too. Little better equipped then the rest of the lot that come through here aren't you?"
A. M. Orlov lets out a short, hollow chuckle. "My name is Tolya, many call me Hawkeye. You can call me whatever you want, so long as you don't cross me."
A. M. Orlov: "I'm taking a breather. I have spent the last two weeks leading rookies around, and it's taking its toll."
Tourist smiles, "You take a breather and you meet another, this place seems to hate you." He pauses for a moment, "Oh and yes, it's my first day here. Bribed a few of the border guards about 4 hours ago."
A. M. Orlov raises an eyebrow, unslinging his rifle and beginning to disassemble it rapidly and with nigh machine precision. "You have a lot to learn. You should stay here a few months, stay low, listen to the others. Watch and do as they do. Offer help but do not annoy them. Rushing into the Zone will only end in death." He lays the stripped parts of the SVU down in front of him neatly, before picking up the bolt and beginning to clean it with a piece of flannel.
Tourist: "I got the whole "I'm going to die" picture after the border guards told me they'd shoot the shit out of me if they ever saw me again, in or out of the zone. One way trip I guess."
A. M. Orlov continues to speak as he cleans the rifle carefully, leaving no detail neglected. "What did you do before you came here?"
Tourist sits up, rubbing his neck a bit. "Well, I have a few jobs under my belt. I have to say the one job I really excelled at was being the great communist master of the USSR, although after all that I decided to settle down and get some lead shot into my body."
Tourist: "But really, nothing worth telling anyone."
A. M. Orlov 's brow creases, the humour lost on him. Nowadays, the only things he can laugh at are the dirty jokes of the Zone's bar owners, and the dark ones of his fellow veterans.
A. M. Orlov: "Sorry?"
Tourist moves his eyes up from Tolya, looking up into the sky. "Nothing, I'm crazy."
A. M. Orlov grunts, muttering something at his feet. "Good to know..."
He finishes cleaning his weapon, and deftly reassembles it before laying it down in the grass by his side. He pulls out an old canteen, and takes a long swig from it.
Tourist begins to speak mid-yawn, "You know I feel sorry for you, I had to talk to a bunch of the other new guys while sitting here and holy shit, they're all dumb as shit. I've at least got a brain."
A. M. Orlov grunts again, not sure whether he believes this or not. "I try to keep to myself, but this influx has destroyed our economy. I can't afford to live off of stalking for artefacts alone anymore, but there are many, many rookies with more money than sense coming into the Zone from the west who are only too happy to pay an old hand to show them around."
Tourist: "I wouldn't blame you if you took half of them around the back of one of these buildings and put a bullet in their head. I mean, if you're leading them into dangerous areas right off the bat then they're going to die anyway."
A flicker of... something crosses Tolya's face, and he pauses a moment before replying. "I stay true to my word, and I do my best to see they have safe arrangements for their arrival."
Tourist nods, "From the stories I've heard, you'd be the only one then."
A. M. Orlov: "There are many con artists, thieves and killers in these parts, but there are many honest men too. You just need to develop a good sense for which is which."
Tourist laughs to himself for a second, "What a fun learning environment."  He puts his hand up to his mouth and coughs several times, "Shit, it's cold out here." He pauses and looks at Tolya. "Please don't tell me how much of an idiot I am coming out in nothing but an old shirt and pants. I've already heard it."
A. M. Orlov smirks, patting his SEVA's chestplate. "Best investment I ever made. Not just for protection, but because it has its own climate control - I'm warm as toast right now. Way out of your price range though, so you should try and find some warm clothes as soon as you can. The old Army jackets that they used in the Great Patriotic War are ideal, and cheap. Sidorovich has a shipment coming in soon, I think - talk to him about it later. He'll be closed up now, it's getting late out." He checks his watch, the dial indicating that it's nearly eight.
Tourist: "Not the only thing I have to get my hands on right now." He pauses for a moment, "Oh did I mention I don't have a gun anymore? Here I was sitting talking to someone who made it out a few weeks ago telling me that the border guards let you take through weapons if you pay them enough. Next thing I know they take all my shit along with my old shotgun."
A. M. Orlov: "I fell for all the same scams when I was new to the Zone. You learn fast, but you lose a lot to gain that experience. I can help you there, though - I was going to sell this to Sidorovich while I was here, but you may as well have it."
A. M. Orlov pulls a battered pistol from his pack, a TT-33. He checks it's clear, then slides it across the dew-soaked grass to Tourist. "It's not much, but Tokarevs are good shooters. If you look after it, it will look after you. Clean it whenever you get ten minutes of peace and watch what you feed it - it doesn't like modern high-pressure rounds, but the surplus is corrosive."
Tourist picks up the TT-33 and leans his arms up on his knees. He fiddles around with the pistol for a minute and nods. "Well, if I ever make any money out here I'll buy you a drink some time. Thanks."
A. M. Orlov nods. "I'd appreciate that. A stiff drink is sometimes the best way to get by in this place. I didn't belong in the outside world, but here, it's not much better."
A. M. Orlov sighs, then reaches down and withdraws his sidearm from its holster. He quickly brass-checks the Grach, then drops the magazine and clears it in order to strip and clean the weapon.
Tourist opens up a space between his pants and his belt, sticking the pistol in between the two. He nods to himself (proud of his genius accomplishment).
A. M. Orlov watches, bemused, and then cocks his head towards the cellar entrance just behind Tourist. "I can guarantee we're going to get some rain very shortly. I'd have no trouble staying here, but you might want to find some shelter..."
Tourist sits back, leaning back onto his arms. "Let me guess, they used to call you the weather man on the 6 o'clock news? I don't mind a little rain, I need a bit of a shower anyway."
A. M. Orlov shakes his head. "This won't be a little rain. The Zone is restless, there is a huge storm brewing. It's just struck the Barrier and I have a contact up that way, sent the word through just a moment ago."
A. M. Orlov: He hesitates a moment, seemingly recalling something, then adds, "Believe me, you don't want to be caught in a Zone storm."
Tourist turns his head to the cellar, "I was hoping I didn't have to head down there. Remember how I was saying before about the dumb guys I spoke to? That's dumb city down there."
A. M. Orlov: "I can believe that. Okay, how about the smaller cellar? It's not quite as lavishly furnished, but it's good shelter. The above-ground buildings here leak like sieves."
Tourist: "Sounds like a plan. Wonder if I'll find one of those giant rats I've been hearing so much of."
A. M. Orlov laughs hoarsely. "You won't find much here except rookies, bored soldiers with itchy trigger fingers, and the occasional mutated boar or dog pack."
Tourist stands up, stretching his arms out and yawning, not having moved for the past two hours. He adjusts the pistol a little to prevent it from digging into his side and reaches down to pick up his backpack.
A. M. Orlov slowly gets to his feet, using his rifle to prop himself up before slinging it again. He snaps his holster closed (having forgotten to do so before) and stretches as well, his muscles sore from days of hard abuse.
Tourist puts one arm through the straps on the backpack and swings it around onto his back. He runs his hands through his hair, lightly scratching his head as he starts to walk to the cellar's stairs.
A. M. Orlov follows, pulling the door closed behind him to keep the wind out. It won't bother him, but he's seen far too many rookies go down with hypothermia.
Tourist tosses the rolled up mattress off the bed (It's probably got piss on it), and tries to put his weight down on the springs of the old bedframe.
The metal creaks a little but holds up under his weight.
Tourist throws his backpack down infront of himself and sits down on the bed, leaning his back against the wall.
A. M. Orlov swings the pack from his shoulders and drops it in the corner, unslinging his rifle and standing it against the wall nearby as he sits, using the pack as a pillow.
Tourist looks up at the small light to his right, "I could see that trader guy, what's his name. Well you know who I mean, sitting on an exercise bike running the power for that light."
A. M. Orlov grins, entertained by the mental image. "Sidorovich? I doubt he can even spell 'exercise'."
Tourist lets out a loud "Ha", he then smiles and nods. "I'm sure you could ask each of the guys in that other cellar what he was eating when they first met him and you'd have dinner for 7."
A. M. Orlov: "I wouldn't mind that myself  right now. There's only so long a man can survive on cans of corned beef."
Tourist: "Yeah, I guess I'll have to get used to get used to that shit, or get used to going hungry. Although I have to say someone handed me some can of, well I don't know. But it was out of date and tasted amazing."
A. M. Orlov cocks an eyebrow. "Really? I get nauseous if I eat too much of that stuff."
Tourist: "I'm a tank when it comes to food, I could probably eat shit if it tasted alright."
A. M. Orlov: "I'll take your word for it."
Tourist: "I'm glad that it doesn't though. I'm not completely insane."
A. M. Orlov nods, yawning widely. "I've had a long week... I need to go get some sleep. I'm going to go find myself somewhere nice and quiet to bunk down, I'll probably see you tomorrow." He gets back up, slowly gathering his gear and heading back upstairs and to the door. It creaks as he pulls it ajar, then he turns back down the stairs. "Good luck. The first night is always the hardest."
Tourist nods as he leaves. "Thanks."
Tourist puts his feet up onto the bed, he picks up his backpack and lays it down onto the bed to use it as a pillow.
A. M. Orlov makes one final nod at the rookie, then turns on his heel and leaves, ducking under the low doorframe and closing it behind him. He traipses across the road, headed for the basement of one of the houses where he won't be disturbed.
***
A cold wind blows through the rookie village, stirring leaves and small twigs from the ground and sending them cartwheeling across the barren dirt road. The feeble early-morning sun is shrouded by clouds; the sky is entirely overcast, and there seems to be a good chance of rain later in the day. For now, though, the Stalkers are making the most of the day; some are out hunting mutants, some are searching for artefacts, and some are simply sitting around the campfire in the open yard getting drunk.
Tourist was making the most out of his day by emptying out another can of he-doesn't-know-what into his mouth. His boots were off and sitting next to him by the fire, obviously combat ready.
A.M. Orlov, standing some distance away under a tree and talking casually with the Stalker known as Nimble, finishes his conversation and makes his way towards the campfire. His rifle, which has not left his hands the entire time, is missing its PSO scope - there's no need for it to be mounted here, so it's carried in a protective case. Tolya's faceplate is also removed, as the wind isn't too biting and the radiation in this area is only slightly higher than background levels.
Tourist runs his fingernail in between the gaps in his teeth with his left hand, throwing the empty can over the fence with his other hand. As Tolya walks towards the fire Tourist gets a good look at his face, Tourist looks a little suprised as it's been a few days since he'd seen him. He looks away quicky hoping Tolya didn't see him look.
A.M. Orlov notices the rookie glancing at him, but doesn't immediately recognise him as the Stalker he helped out the other day. The faces are all a blur to him, each new one replacing the last to be killed in their first week. He takes his place beside the fire, using his rifle to lower himself to the ground cross-legged, and blinks wearily a couple of times. Chronic fatigue is par for the course for veteran Stalkers, as are extreme cynicism and a lack of empathy. It's hard to feel anything when every other day, someone is killed.
Tourist looks directly into the fire attempting to keep his eyes off Tolya's face, he says jokingly, "Find the monolith yet?"
Tolya's reply comes sluggishly as he struggles to process the joke. "Huh? I'm not lo- oh. Right."
A.M. Orlov: "That's about the last thing I ever want to find. People talk about it dreamily, but if you ask me, nothing in the Zone is all good and no bad. If the Monolith exists... IF... I don't think I want to wish upon it."
A.M. Orlov sighs heavily, adding, "Perhaps you should give it a wide berth, too."
Tourist: "Well you know what I'd want from it? I'd get you a sense of humour. That's how nice I am."
A.M. Orlov huffs indignantly. "And I'd get you some eyes to see the situation you're in." After a slight pause, the faintest flicker of a smirk flashes across his face.
A.M. Orlov: "I have something to do... er, a 'milk run', if you will. You could come along if you'd like, you might learn something..."
Tourist slips his left boot on and starts typing the laces up, he pulls up his sock after he's finished and pulls the leg of his pants back over the top of them. He then does the same with the right boot. "Why not."
A.M. Orlov pulls a small case from a pouch on his webbing belt, withdrawing the PSO from within and fixing it firmly to the SVU's clasp rail. Replacing the case within the pouch, he goes to get up, but not before pointing at the rookie's feet.
A.M. Orlov: "Always keep one boot on. Always."
Tourist: "What, are the bandits afraid of people with one boot on?"
A.M. Orlov rolls his eyes. "No. If a blowout comes, or a Controller appears behind you, or the world is ending, you only need a few seconds to put the other boot on and fight or run... not a few minutes. Ask the soldiers next time you see them; never take both boots off at the same time."
Tourist gets up off the ground and pulls his pistol out from his belt, "Right, got it." He pauses for a moment and mutters to himself, "Sir."
Deciding not to comment on the jibe, Tolya ensures all his pouches are done up properly and his rifle is loaded. "Stay about 50 metres behind me, watch what I do and mimic it, and don't shoot unless I shoot first. Oh, and try not to be too noisy." Without waiting for the rookie to acknowledge, he sets off towards the north at a steady, deliberate pace, his eyes and his rifle sweeping the ground around him in perfect synchronisation. His feet fall as silently as possible in the tall, dry grass and knotted scrub, his footing confident and precise.
Tourist follows along about 30 metres behind Tolya contantly stepping on the loudest things he can (not on purpose of course), he frequently looks to his flanks to check if any dogs are sneaking up on him, he goes to speak but stops himself.
A.M. Orlov turns around just long enough to rapidly gesture for the rookie to keep the fucking noise down, then continues on his way. He slows the pace slightly as the old mill comes into view, then darts inside as he gets to within twenty metres of it. The cinderblock walls are damp and moss-choked, and the rusted remains of hoppers and chutes hang precariously from the ceiling. Not waiting to see if the rookie has caught up yet, he carefully scales a pile of debris to reach a window high on the side of the building that overlooks the bridge.
Tourist pays a little more attention to where he's stepping but those hidden sticks are dangerous! Tourist watches Tolya run into the building, he freezes unsure if he needs to run in there or speed up to keep at '50' metres and stay outside the building. He thinks it over while standing out in the open for a very long second and decides to run into the building following along behind Tolya.
A.M. Orlov quietly dumps his pack against a section of railing which looks like it's still firmly attached to the catwalk he is on, then carefully drags a large segment of a metal ventilation shaft across to serve as an impromptu rifle rest several feet back from the shattered glass. Using his pack as a cushion for his back and bringing his knees up to his chest to further steady his position, Tolya carefully slides the SVU along the rest and flips the bipod down to serve as a stop, its legs dangling over the front edge of the metal vent. He seems oblivious to the rookie's actions as he dials in the elevation and windage on his scope with practiced delicacy, the muzzle barely moving with his breathing.
Tourist watches Tolya as he sets up, he's not really sure why he's setting up but it sure is interesting watching him do it. He takes a quick look around at his surroundings before looking back at Tolya again, he speaks with a little bit of confusion in his voice, "Uh, should I be doing something?"
A.M. Orlov: "Just watch, for now. See what I do. Every thirty seconds or so, take a look back down towards the entrances to this building and make sure nothing is there and nothing looks different."
Tourist crouches down next to Tolya and watches out in the direction that his rifle is pointed, he takes a quick look down to the entrance to see if anything has moved. Nope. It's not like he would notice anyway.
In the near distance, the military picquet at the bridge is looking fairly weak; the usual officer in charge is not present, and the soldiers on duty look anything but alert. Only one seems to be watching out for trouble.
For several minutes, Tolya watches, absolutely focused. The minutes turn into an hour, and still nothing has changed.
Tourist has completely stopped looking back at the entrance of the building and is staring out into space. He's been quietly humming a tune to himself for a good ten minutes and is cleaning some dirt off his pistol with the arm of his jacket.
A.M. Orlov suddenly tenses up. The movement would be almost imperceptible if only he hadn't been deathly still for the last hour. With a near-silent click, he takes up the first pressure on the trigger, and his one open eye narrows slightly as a spot of light dances across its surface.
Tourist looks up at Tolya, he's gone into full alert as he's expecting a firefight to break out. "What is it?"
Showing remarkable discipline, Tolya remains focused and doesn't explode at the rookie for nearly causing him to fire before he was ready. "As I expected. Some bandits have decided to try and take the bridge, so they can extort even more money from our brethren. I- wait a moment."
The sounds of panicked shouting and then automatic gunfire can be heard quite clearly from the bridge. The fire dies down as rapidly as it began, a single pistol shot echoing into silence.
Tourist stares out at the bridge waiting for something more to happen, "I can't see shit, what's happened?"
A.M. Orlov doesn't reply, taking a series of deep breaths and taking up the slack in the trigger. As he reaches a pause in his breathing between exhaling and inhaling, the trigger breaks, the rifle barks, and he feels a firm kick in his shoulder as it sends a 7.62mm steel-cored round downrange. The bandit who appeared to be in charge, simply by virtue of being the least disorganised, crumples to the ground with a hole the size of a fist between his shoulder blades. The others scatter into what cover they can as Tolya waits patiently, slowly taking a new breath.
Tourist drops his pistol and covered his ears as Tolya shoots, he wasn't expecting such a loud noise, how silly of him to think the suppressor would make the rifle silent. He holds himself back from yelling something and keeps his hands over his ears.
One of the bandits is foolish enough to expose himself by trying to drag his fallen comrade's body into cover. Tolya is too quick, spotting the movement and firing again. The muzzle blast of the rifle kicks up a cloud of dust, glass shards and tiny fragments of oxidised iron from the rest. The second bandit is knocked off-balance and falls to the ground, then rolls onto his stomach and attempts to crawl back to his comrades.
A third thunderclap assails the rookie's ears as Tolya fires once more. The shot enters the bandit's left shoulder and exits through his right hip, then skips off of the concrete roadway and lodges in a tree trunk. The bandit twitches once and stops moving, a pool of blood slowly forming around his corpse.
Tourist keeps his hands over his ears and stares down at the road under the bridge, "Uh... I... Uh...". He's far too shocked to put any words together so he just stares down at the bodies.
A.M. Orlov's gaze remains fixed on the area under the bridge as he speaks softly, yet forcefully, to the rookie. "Quickly get down from here, get out of the building, and move around the far side of it so they can't see you. From there, get on the ground and start crawling back to the village. Keep your head down an-" A sudden whipcrack, accompanied by a shower of pulverised cinderblock, cuts Tolya off. Without losing his composure as a second shot embeds itself in the rusting grain hopper behind him, he continues. "Wait for me to come and meet up with you." Immediately, he redirects his full attention back to the bandits, who have regrouped and are now returning fire from what cover they can find along the railway embankment.
Tourist grabs his pistol and starts running out to the back of the building. He runs out the back and behind one of the brick buildings further back, he stops and catches his breath for a moment. He runs over the the other side of the building and looks around the corner, not seeing anyone he gets down and crawls to the nearest bush and continues crawling bush to bush on his way back to the villiage.
The withering rifle fire from the direction of the bridge slackens and then stops totally as two more shots ring out in rapid succession. Moments later, Tolya emerges from the millhouse, whistling out to the rookie. "I think we're safe, we should go and see what we were dealing with. Be careful, in case one is hiding or they have trapped a body."
A.M. Orlov begins to move towards the bridge, rifle shouldered and following his eyes as he scans for danger. As he reaches the barricade, he quickly moves from cover to cover, checking each direction to ensure no bandits remain alive. After waiting a full two minutes watching the perimeter, he finally relaxes slightly, and begins to move from one body to the next, systematically rifling through their packs, pouches and pockets for anything of interest.
After a few minutes, he has found what he came for: a few grubby sheets of crumpled paper and a USB memory stick. He's also taken a few bottles of antirad pills, all of which are stuffed roughly into his pack.
Tourist steps up to one of the corpses and stares down at it, after a minute he nudges it with his foot just to make sure the guy isn't alive. Tourist kneels down and quickly searches through the pockets of the bandit, thinking to himself that he'll need to get used to this.
Tourist grabs out two clips from the bandit's pockets. He assumes they're for the rifles so he grabs the rifle as well. Being fairly unfamiliar with firearms he simply assumes that the rifle he picked must be better than his pistol.
A.M. Orlov tries not to show it, but positively beams with pride as he sees the rookie take to his new weapon. He may not be the brightest, the strongest, the fastest or the richest, but he's survived long enough to at least get himself a decent starting weapon. "Let's head back. The military will have to clean up their own mess."
Tourist nods and follows Tolya back to the village, he's still a little shocked that Tolya shot all the bandits but he's sure they were probably rapists or something bad like that, whatever reason to make himself feel better.
About halfway back to the rookie village, Tolya stops suddenly, signalling for Tourist to do the same.
A.M. Orlov cocks his head to one side, listening intently. The crickets have stopped. "Trouble. Serious trouble."
Tourist, not paying full attention keeps moving and almost bumps into Tolya, he jumps back before doing so. "Uh... what? More of them?"
A.M. Orlov: "No. Worse."
A.M. Orlov feels a slight change in the ambient temperature, and the wind stops suddenly. Total silence.
Tourist: "...Bears?"
A.M. Orlov opens his mouth to speak just as a deep, bass sound, almost like some kind of twisted horn, rises above the quiet of the Cordon. The sling swivels on Tolya's rifle begin to rattle. "BLOWOUT! GET TO THE BUNKER!"
Tourist freezes, he's unsure of what a blowout is exactly. "What's so ba--" He stops himself from going any further and starts running, he's finally got the idea that Tolya knows more than him.
A.M. Orlov is absolutely sprinting now, vaulting over fallen saplings and smashing through banks of bramble and long grass. A blind dog unfortunate enough to get in his way is simply shot point-blank and then trampled over. The ground is now very plainly shaking, and the air is stifling and muggy, almost as if it has the consistency of soup.
The gap between Tourist and Tolya grows, Tourist is running out of breath but he keeps on running, he's not nearly at fit as he thought he was. While running he stumbles a few times, almost tripping over large branches on the ground. He considers throwing his rifle as it's in his right hand, having no sling for it it's only slowing down his running speed.
As he hears the rookie's ragged breathing fading into the distance, Tolya turns and runs back. He grabs his collar and physically drags him along on his feet, straining under the effort. The storm is building in intensity, and while the village is only a hundred metres away now, the two are moving at little more than a jogging pace. "Come ON! RUN!"
Tourist starts pushing himself to run faster, he's feeling a lot more pressure now, he assumes that he'll die if he doesn't make it.
Almost as the first shockwave arrives, the two stumble into the entrance to the cellar, Tolya tumbling down the stairs and dragging Tourist with him. A Stalker standing by the door, who was just about to close it, now slams the door hard and slides an iron bar into place.
Tourist yells as he falls down the stairs "Shit!", he hits the ground and bumps his head on the wall at the back, "Ugh... fuck". He rubs his head, "Why the fuck did you throw us down the stairs for."
A resounding boom hits the Cordon, palpable even through the solid earth. The power goes out, and glass bottles of vodka on the shelves in the cellar shatter into millions of shards, their contents spilling across the floor. Furious pounding comes at the door, but is soon replaced by blood-curdling screams and the sound of flesh being rendered from bone.
A.M. Orlov: "That's why."
Tourist stays quiet, he turns himself over and leans his back against the wall. He stares down at the floor waiting for it to be over.
A.M. Orlov: "Welcome to the zone. Sorry for the harsh introduction, but this is our bread and butter. It doesn't even register for me anymore."
Tourist nods slightly but stays quiet. He finally gets the point that it's not a nice place to be.
***
***
A.M. Orlov crouches low in a small defilade, rifle held at the ready. Ahead is the old checkpoint between the Cordon and the Garbage, set up by Liquidators during the cleanup; Tourist is in tow, slightly behind Tolya and doing his best to stay hidden. A group of men appeared over a small hillock that concealed a blind turn in the road, and it's not clear whether they are bandits, free Stalkers, or another faction entirely due to thick mist that is severely hampering visibility beyond a hundred or so metres. At anything over fifty it is impossible to tell friend from foe.
A.M. Orlov: "Now you see why I don't like traveling at this time of morning."
Tourist stares up the road towards the checkpoint, his body behind a tree with his head sticking out the side. "I'm a morning person, hopefully they're not."
A.M. Orlov: "I doubt we'll find out what they are until they're either patting us on the back, or taking us for everything we have and then killing us."
A.M. Orlov lets out a long, deep sigh, then pauses for a moment to think. He turns back to Tourist, his voice barely above a mumble - he knows how well sound carries at this hour. "Stay here. I'm going to try and get a little closer."
Tourist: "Don't get shot."
Without further ado, Tolya quickly runs at a half-sprint down the gully, hunched over so as not to be easily visible to the road. He reaches the wire where the gully ends, and lies flat against the soggy ground, totally still.
He waits as the men approach. They are within a few metres of him now, and don't seem very alert. They continue on towards Tourist's position at a leisurely pace, still perhaps sixty or seventy metres away.
A.M. Orlov remains still a moment longer, silently clicking the selector switch of his  SVU-AS from single shot to fully automatic. As the last man is a short dash past him, he gets up from his position, runs onto the road, takes a knee (almost slipping over in a mossy puddle in the process) and takes aim squarely between the rear man's shoulderblades.
A.M. Orlov: "IDENTIFY YOURSELVES! YOU'RE SURROUNDED!"
Tourist pulls his head back from the open and picks up his rifle from the grass, hearing Tolya's yelling he jumps out from behind the tree and points his rifle at the closest person. He takes a few steps back, they're all facing him, he doesn't really want to get shot when the bullets start flying.
A.M. Orlov's finger takes up the slack in the trigger, awaiting the response. Should one of them so much as twitch, he's ready.
The Stalkers stop thier patrol. The man at the front of the group, who seems to be the leader, drops his AKM and falls to his knees. He begins yelling, "I DIDN'T MEAN TO KILL HIM. PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!". The other stalkers behind him look at each other quickly and slowly put their weapons onto the ground.
A.M. Orlov is actually surprised his ploy worked at all, let alone so well, and has to take a few seconds to recover from the shock before he can bring himself to repeat his demand.
A.M. Orlov: "Identify yourselves IMMEDIATELY!"
The man on the ground speaks, his voice sounding angrier with each word. "It's me, Fairy. But you know that already don't you? YOU FUCKING DOGS." He pauses and takes several long deep breaths and speaks again. "I know he sent you, what I don't get is why he couldn't do it himself. He's a coward, tell him that when you see him next won't you?". One of the Stalkers behind him cuts in, "He hired us, we've got nothing to do with his shit.".
A.M. Orlov isn't actually quite sure what to do at this point, so he lowers his rifle from his shoulder (still keeping it firmly trained on the group) and lowers his voice somewhat. "I don't know anyone called Fairy. We are simply passing through and could not tell if you were bandits or not from a distance. Now what is all this about?"
Tourist stops moving back. He's a little confused with the situation, he lowers his rifle and stares at 'Fairy' with a very confused face.
'Fairy' now seems a little confused as well. "So wait, you're not here to kill me?". He stands up, takes a quick look around and speaks again. "Most of the bandits cleared off back to Agroprom from what I heard back in one of the Stalker camps in the Garbage." The PDA on Fairy's belt makes a small ringing noise, he unclips it and looks at it for a moment.
A.M. Orlov now lowers his rifle entirely, clicking the safety back on, and relaxes somewhat.
A.M. Orlov: "Tourist, on me. Relax."
Tourist nods, and starts to walk around the Stalkers -
Fairy clips his PDA back onto his belt, "Nice talking to all of you. I better be off now." He takes a small roll of notes out of his pocket and throws it to one of the Stalkers that was following him. "There's your pay, job is done." He starts sprinting down the road towards the bridge. With one swift movement one of the Stalkers he had hired unholsters his pistol and fires a shot into the back of Fairy's head before he runs too far away. He yells, "Don't fuck with Duty."
As the Stalker unholsters his pistol, Tolya also unsafes his SVU and brings it up to his shoulder, but too slowly to save Fairy. Instead, he keeps it aimed at the Stalker, and this time very forcefully demands to be told what is going on.
The Stalker holsters his pistol, "Calm down, he deserved what he got." He turns around to look at Tolya, "He shot up one of our patrols a while back. We were never sure if it was him, but he ran off when we tried to question him. He had to die."
A.M. Orlov lowers his weapon once more, chest heaving with an almighty sigh. "Such a waste of a life. In the Zone, we should treat it with more care. Still, I suppose there's nothing I can say that will change your minds... mind if I ask where you're headed?"
Tourist steps back from the Duty Stalker, he'd never heard of Duty and wasn't exactly sure what to think about the whole situation. He looks at Tolya who doesn't seem too worried, he decides to stay quiet for now.
The Duty stalker points in the direction of the Garbage, "Back to the Bar."
A.M. Orlov shoots a quick glance to Tourist. "Want to head to the Bar? It's about the only safe place in the Zone, and there are good people there. We might be able to go with these guys -" he turns to the Duty Stalker - "if that's alright with you."
Tourist nods, "A bar? I'm in."
A.M. Orlov: "Excellent. I have some business with the barman anyway, may as well get it out of the way now..."
The Duty Stalker nods, "Fine with me." He picks up his rifle off the ground and starts walking up to the checkpoint. The other two Stalkers pick up their rifles and silently walk off back in the direction of the rookie villiage.
A.M. Orlov follows a sensible distance behind the Duty man, just in case of an ambush, scanning around them as he moves.
The three reach the bar uneventfully about twenty minutes later, the Duty soldier making a beeline for a table in the corner which his comrades have claimed as their own. Tolya heads for the bar, where he is greeted with a grin and a gruff welcome by the barman. "I thought we'd lost you - again."
A.M. Orlov: "Nearly. I've been trying to teach this one how to survive." Tolya nods in Tourist's direction, then chuckles. "He's starting to learn. I hope he does, anyway."
Tourist stops at the entrance of the bar area, he freezes and a big grin comes over his face. "Fuck fighting bandits, I'll live here." He walks up to the bar and stands next to Tolya.
The first few bars of Zvezda Po Imeni Solntse rise over the hubbub of chatter, and Tolya breaks into a wide grin. "I love this song. Turn it up!"
The barman does so, and gives Tourist a weary smile. "I'm glad you like it here. Your first drink is on the house - you obviously deserve it if Hawkeye here is willing to travel with you."
Tourist gives the barman a nod, "This place just keeps getting better and better."
A.M. Orlov drags over a pair of stools as the barman pours Tourist a long drink. "Here, give your feet a rest - before someone else turns up and takes these instead."
Tourist repositions the stool and sits, he looks at the Barman and then at Tolya, "So how do you two know each other so well?"
A.M. Orlov speaks first. "When I first got to the Zone, this place was just starting up - I was rescued from my own incompetence by a couple of Duty guys and brought here. While I recovered I figured hey, I'll help them out with some work around the place... turns out they were setting up the bar here, so I helped clear this room out and move some of the furniture in. I've been a regular ever since, all of us have - I mean the guys who came in here real early. I remember when we WISHED we had some kind of magical box that could detect anomalies... now we all have detectors, we don't need them because we're so used to the Zone."
He sighs, then takes a long swig of the drink the barman poured while he was talking. "Things were a lot different then. I miss it, as funny as that sounds."
The barman chips in, a pensive look on his face. "Yeah, I think a lot of us do."
Tourist picks up his drink but pauses and speaks with it next to his mouth, "People like me ruining it?" He takes a sip of his drink, he smiles, this was much better than the dirty water he was drinking over the past few days. He takes a swig of it and puts it back down.
A.M. Orlov: "Not so much that... just it was quieter, you knew nearly everyone, there weren't so many bandits or backstabbers. It was more dangerous, but you really felt a sense of belonging, of community. You don't get that much these days."
Tourist: "I guess that does sound a little better. Please at least tell me all these bandits aren't smart enough to survive the further you get."
A.M. Orlov chuckles darkly. "Some are, but the mercs are far worse. And then, of course, there's Monolith..."
Tourist: "Yes, I've heard all about that wishing stone."
A.M. Orlov: "And its devotees?"
Tourist freezes, "Uh... what?"
A.M. Orlov: "The Monolith fighters. They're... well, they're really something else. 'Fanatical' doesn't even begin to cover it. You shoot them, you think he's dead, but he gets up and fights. You hit one with a grenade, there's nothing left below his waist... he will drag himself across the floor with his hands and bite you if he can. I heard that a few Army boys had one prisoner once, and he killed himself by smashing his head against the wall - one or two Duty guys I know have said the same thing."
Tourist: "Shit." He looks at the barman, "How much is a bed here, I'll need it for the rest of my life."
The barman rolls his eyes, then shoots a smirk Tolya's way before replying. "We don't have rooms, but feel free to shack up in one of the old warehouses with the other Stalkers. They're kind of leaky and breezier than a wind tunnel, but they're shelter, and they're safe. I think there's an effort to get some kind of sealing in them, perhaps plastic sheeting to cover the open ends or something, so it's not all bad."
A.M. Orlov takes the opportunity to chime in. "Don't worry, you aren't likely to see Monolith this far out. Freedom holds a barrier by the old Army base, it keeps them out most of the time."
Tourist takes another swig of his drink, "Oh good. Because I know I'm going right back out there to get shot at with you tomorrow. 'Milk run' my ass."
A.M. Orlov shrugs. "Sorry. I've been here so long I sometimes forget how hard it is for new blood. Bandits generally run when they see experienced Stalkers, and more than once I've had mercs leave me be as well."
Tourist: "Yes please keep in mind that I'm only wearing rags here." He pulls on his jacket a few times, "No protection from anything here."
At this point, the barman sees a business opportunity! "Well, actually..."
A.M. Orlov cuts him off, knowing all too well what the next words out of the barman's mouth will be. "No, don't even say it. He's not ready." He thinks a moment, then pulls something out of his pack. It looks like a spiky ball, about the size of an orange. Tolya is handling it very, very gingerly, so obviously those spines aren't soft. "I'll trade you this for whatever you can give him."
The barman bites his lip, taking a moment to crunch the numbers. "Some guy traded me in his old Sunrise suit yesterday. It's in shitty shape, but hey, it's as good as you'll get for that and it's certainly better than what he has now. Oh, no mask though."
Tourist: "Sunrise suit? Sounds like some Japanese shit."
The barman cocks an eyebrow, then shrugs. "If you're not interested, I could always find someone else..."
Tourist: "Oh, that wasn't a no. Anything is better than a jacket."
A.M. Orlov rolls the spiked artefact across the counter to the barman, who gingerly shepherds it into a drawer behind the bar. He disappears for a second, then after much rustling, pops up with a stained and badly worn Sunrise suit. It's been used so much the fabric is a very, very pale shade of grey-green, and in places it's almost white.
Tourist: "One size fits all I hope?"
A.M. Orlov: "No, but as long as it's close, it's fine."
Tourist: "Alright, well that works I guess. I guess this means you won't be afriad to tell me to go and run into fire now, thanks."
A.M. Orlov: "I wouldn't ask anyone to run into fire. It's a terrible idea."