Finally on the street, I take a deep breath of fresh air, filled with the scents of the flowers and other greenery spread on the hill near the Duty faction's base. I turn my head west, towards the factory, and see beyond it, in the distance, the sun sinking below the horizon, painting the sky with sunset rays. It's a completely different matter, not like the stale, humid, and dark underground. Stretching, I jump from the concrete onto the soft grass and look back at the mercenary, who is now squatting and staring at his PDA. I chuckle and pick up a thin blade of grass, letting it roll between my teeth, and lie down right on the ground, stretching out.
I close my eyes for a moment and exhale calmly, enjoying the summer weather. A light breeze blew, rustling the tall grass, and a barely audible bird's trill began to drift from afar. It's a beauty I'd like to enjoy for as long as possible, but business doesn't wait. Shram lands beside me, and I open my eyes to see his outstretched, strong hand before me.
"Stop lounging around," the mercenary says with a slight smile, helping me up once again. "We still need to demand our reward from Krylov and dry our things."
"Did you sort out your business?" I ask him after a light laugh.
"For today – yes," Shram replies. "I'm out of range until tomorrow morning."
"Hah, not in the Zone," I make a silly joke and laugh at it myself, the tension finally draining from me.
Then we walk in silence to the Duty faction's checkpoint, where, turning my head to the right, I notice three dead bodies on the asphalt, close to the fence, covered with blood-stained sheets, and several more stalkers standing sadly at their feet. With heads bowed, they looked at the dirty rags that hid their fallen comrades. One of them, apparently, noticed us out of the corner of his eye and approached.
"Thank you," the lanky stalker in the black and red suit croaks. "If it weren't for you, we wouldn't even be able to bury the guys."
"My condolences," I say, as the mercenary simply nods at his words. "And how is Nalivayko?"
"He got off with a couple of scratches," the Duty faction member shakes his head and glances briefly towards "Peaceful Atom." "Now he's drowning his sorrows with vodka. His first field mission as a squad leader, and immediately this... You were going to Krylov, right? Well, I won't keep you. Thanks again, guys."
Nodding to the stalker in farewell, I head towards the entrance of the main building. We leave our weapons and my trophies at the entrance and immediately go to the upper floor. The Duty faction general is again found sitting at his desk, busy shuffling papers in the light of a desk lamp and smoking "Stolichnye" cigarettes. Glancing at us, he immediately extinguishes the smoldering tobacco in the ashtray and sets the documents aside, rising from his chair.
"Thank you, you did an excellent job," Krylov says, forcing a smile and approaching us, and shakes our hands firmly. "Now, after flooding the catacombs, it will be much easier for us. And I always reward good performance of duties, right now."
With these words, the general walks back to the desk, picks up a pen and a clean sheet of paper lying there, and begins to fill them out. At the end, in the bottom right corner, he signs. Then he turns, takes a couple of steps towards us, and hands me a written order stating that Mityai should issue us forty thousand Soviet rubles, a pair of pants, and a pair of boots.
"And now, if you have no questions for me, you are free," the general smiles again, clapping us on the shoulders, and returns to his workplace.
After saying goodbye to Krylov, we leave the central building and head straight for the merchant, who is located in a small house just a few meters from the three-story structure. We climb the porch made of roughly hewn planks and find ourselves in a small, narrow corridor. Then we turn left, entering a spacious room divided in the center by a large grate, behind which Duty faction supplies were visible. In a small alcove for trade, we could see Mityai's displeased face, his expression a mixture of disgust and even anger.
"They won't let me rest," he sighs loudly, not hiding his attitude towards us at all, slamming shut a glossy magazine and pushing it aside. "They just keep coming and coming! As if honey was smeared here... Well? What do you want, sick ones?"
"Here," I approach, standing slightly to the left of a red, worn-out sofa against the wall, next to a window, and hand him Krylov's order.
"For what merits, for you, who pissed yourselves, barefoot," Mityai drawls contemptuously, looking us up and down. "A whole forty thousand and uniforms, huh?"
"For the work," I reply briefly, trying not to get angry at him. I can't do anything about it anyway.
"Ah, for the work," he grins maliciously again, looking us over. Then he gets up and heads deeper into the improvised warehouse. "Well, alright, so be it. Oh, I don't understand the general... What sizes?"
After some time, Mityai returns with the money and clothes. Taking them, we change right here, under the biting comments of the Duty faction merchant. Surprisingly, everything fits like a glove. Having finished with the new clothes, I fold the wet pants and throw them on the sofa, placing the equally damp boots on top, and address the trader.
"And I'd like to sell some trophies," I say softly, placing a bag with the mutant's severed head and paws on the table right in front of him.
"Trophies?" the merchant asks, raising an eyebrow and peering into the plastic bag. "Mm, not bad, not bad. You surprised me, stalker. However, much becomes clear from your appearance. I'll give you twenty for this, fifteen for the head and two and a half for the stumps. If you want to haggle, you can go do that outside with your buddy."
"And if I punch you in the face, will you keep being rude?" the mercenary, who had been silent until now, asks, approaching the counter.
"And if I whistle for some guys, you won't shit yourselves, huh?" Mityai retorts mockingly. "They'll beat you so badly you'll forget the way here! What bastards, not a day goes by without some idiot ruining my mood..."
"I agree to twenty," I quickly interject before the merchant can change his mind and take the money.
"What a bastard," Shram exhales quietly as soon as we leave the unwelcoming trading post. "If you had taken them to the scientists, you would have earned much more. Maybe twice, or even three times."
"Oh well," I reply, placing my hand on his shoulder. "Who cares. Of course, I could have earned more, but dragging myself to Yantar wasn't in my plans yet. Better this way than for it to rot. And here, take your half."
"Keep it," the mercenary refuses to take the money, pushing away my hand with the wad of bills. "Both for the trophies and for the work. I promised you'd get all the valuables."
"Oh, come on," I smile, folding the banknotes in half and tucking them into the breast pocket of my partner's suit. "You won't find this money superfluous, take it. And don't think about that bastard. We can't do anything to him anyway, or they'll blow our own brains out. So let him choke on his own shit."
"Thanks," the mercenary says quietly. "What do you plan to do now?"
"Now?" I ask foolishly, pausing for a moment. "It would be nice to eat and find a place to sleep, because I'm dog-tired and don't want to go back to Orest in this state. And you?"
"I was thinking, why don't we go to the local bar," Shram suggests. "We'll sit, have a drink, and chat."
"Sounds great, especially since I 'owe' a bottle to a Duty faction member."
"For what?"
"Oh, just for answering some questions, let's go. But first, I need to find a place for my footwear and pants..."
"Peaceful Atom" greeted us, despite the Russian chanson blaring from the radio, with a slightly gloomy atmosphere. Almost everyone, except for the mustachioed bartender who was diligently wiping the counter, was sullen and slowly nursing one drink after another. There weren't many tables in this bar, and almost all of them, except for one in the far corner, were occupied. Sergeant Belazov was also there
with a few Duty faction members.
"Glad to welcome you to the best bar in the Zone," the bartender says quietly as we approach his counter. "Even if the day isn't particularly joyful. My name is Kolobok, I manage this place. What do you want?"
"We'd like to eat something for two," I say. "And a drink. What do you have available?"
"Oh, I can always do that," Kolobok smiles, wiping his hands with a damp towel. "I can fry some potatoes with onions and herbs. If you want, I can add some cracklings too. But you'll have to wait a bit for it to cook."
"Sounds great, and what about drinks?"
"Vodka and two types of beer, dark and light," the bartender replies.
"Where did such wealth come from?" Shram asks in surprise.
"A military helicopter comes once a month," Kolobok says, pulling out several large potatoes from under the table and quickly peeling them with a small knife. "They bring us ammunition and food, and we give them intelligence and whatever we find in the fields. A profitable exchange. If only Mityai wasn't being so difficult..."
"Oh, he got on your nerves too?" I decide to join the conversation.
"You have no idea!" the bartender exclaims loudly, continuing to prepare the food right before our eyes. "I have to haggle for literally everything, and his character is something else entirely."
"Yeah, we had the 'pleasure' of meeting him," Shram sighs. "Alright, I'll go get us a spot. I'll have two light beers."
"Then I'll have two dark ones," I say, watching the mercenary go. "And a bottle of vodka. How much?"
"Six thousand."
"That's a bit pricey," I chuckle and pull out the folded bills from my pocket, starting to count them. "Here you go."
"What can I do?" the bartender sighs deeply, sweeping the money off the counter, and, turning around, places a large cast-iron skillet on the gas stove. "If it were up to me, the prices would be twice as low, alas. Management won't allow it. Krylov is completely against alcohol; he even tried to introduce prohibition, but it didn't help. You understand, the Zone... And the guys need to relax somehow after their runs. Here, take yours."
"Yeah, thanks," I nod gratefully to Kolobok, grabbing the bottle of vodka and heading towards the table where Belazov was sitting, and silently place the bottle on the table.
"Oh, Executioner, hello," the sergeant greets me with a restrained smile. "And thanks for the gift. Maybe you'll sit with us? You guys don't mind, do you?"
"If he's your acquaintance, then no," one of the stalkers sitting next to him replies, the others silently shake their heads.
"I can't, I already have company," I politely refuse. "But thanks for the offer. Good luck to you."
"Yeah, you too."
After that, grabbing four beers, I head to Shram, who had taken a table at the very end of the room. Unfortunately, there were no chairs provided here, so I'll have to stand. As soon as I put the bottles on the table, the mercenary grabs two of them, quickly opens the caps with a coin, and hands me a slightly frothy dark beer. I take a big gulp, feeling a light, sweet caramel and roasted malt flavor on my tongue. It's quite good, and the alcohol content isn't too noticeable. I thought the beer here wouldn't be very good.
"Not bad," the mercenary exhales, noisily placing the half-empty bottle back on the table. "How much did it come out to?"
"I've already paid," I wave my free hand, taking another small sip. "Don't worry about it."
"That's not right," he shakes his head, giving me a bewildered look. "You helped me, earned almost nothing from it, and now you're treating me?"
"Oh, come on," I set my unfinished beer aside. "Today I treat you, tomorrow you treat me."
"And what if tomorrow never comes? What if there's no one to treat you?" he asks quietly, so as not to attract anyone's attention, clenching his fists. "Why are you so strange, huh, Executioner? I've seen many stalkers, romantics who don't see the truth right in front of their noses, and those so greedy for money they'd sell their own mother if they had the chance, and cynics who didn't care about other people at all. But you... you're not like any of them, and I just can't understand you."
"Here, food is served," Kolobok suddenly appears next to us and places a hot skillet full of fragrant food right in front of us. "Enjoy your meal."
"Thanks," I nod to the bartender, who is heading back behind the counter, and pick up a fork with slightly bent tines, spear a piece of soft, juicy potato with a slight oily crust, and immediately put it in my mouth, chewing quickly and washing it down with cool beer. "Delicious, although the beer doesn't quite match... And you're bringing up this topic again, aren't you? I just live the way I think is right for myself. And you're not entirely right about me; I do get caught up in some of the Zone's romanticism."
"Sorry," the mercenary says barely audibly, picking up his fork. "It's all nerves. Ugh, so much shit has piled up on me in the last few months. I constantly have to do something, rush somewhere urgently, risking my head, and all for what? Pfft. 'Shram, listen, if you don't help us, you'll definitely die.' Yeah, right. As if I couldn't kick the bucket from your missions."
"So why do you help them?"
"I have no idea myself," Shram replies, popping a few slices of fried potato into his mouth and swallowing them quickly, then washing them down with a couple of sips of beer and looking me straight in the eyes. "You know, I have a certain feeling inside that I can trust you. For the first time in a long time... You're the only one of my acquaintances who is willing to help for free and without unnecessary questions... It happened a couple of months ago, maybe a little less. I and a couple of other mercenaries were assigned to escort a scientific expedition to the Swamps. Nothing secret, just some measurements to take."
"But something went wrong, right?"
"You have no idea, Executioner," the mercenary sighs sadly, opening the remaining bottles. "An emission. The sky clouded over, the ground began to shake noticeably, and mutants started running, paying no attention to anyone. The expedition leader was still trying to convince us that there were still several months until the emission, but my gut feeling screamed that we needed to run. I didn't make it; the peak of the emission caught me, practically in an open field. I had already resigned myself to dying, but... I got through it. Clear Sky found me and nursed me back to health."
"And they found a use for you at the same time," I chuckle, draining the rest of my drink in one gulp.
"Not without that. In short, Kalancha, their smart guy, told me that I had some anomaly in my nervous system. He said it allows me to survive during an emission, but at the cost of its damage. At first, I didn't believe him, but then I was caught in an emission again, and I survived again. And then I was really marked," Shram pauses for a moment and continues his story. "It turned out that a certain group of stalkers had somehow managed to get beyond the Burner, which caused a violent reaction from the Zone. And I have to track them down and solve this problem once and for all."
"But why you?"
"Who the hell knows," the mercenary waves his fork with a potato speared on it. "Lebedev, their leader, convinced me that it was in my own interest. He said another emission and I'm screwed. And besides, they are Zone researchers; combat skills aren't their thing, and I'm practically the ideal candidate for this job. Then, with joint efforts, we somehow dealt with the renegades, and I went to the Cordon. What happened next, you already know."
We sat in silence after that. The skillet had long been emptied, the bottles finished, Shram wasn't in a hurry to continue the conversation, and I didn't know what to say to support him. The mercenary was a grown man, who had seen a lot, but even those like him sometimes experience difficulties. Although I could find empty words of support, like, everything will work out and be fine, just wait. But no. Back in another life, he was just a game character to me, living the same story over and over in the hands of hundreds of different people. But here, now, he was a person just like me. Made of flesh, blood, desires, and fears. And leaving him alone in this situation, without any help, was beyond my strength.
"Let's go get some fresh air," I say quietly, pulling myself away from the table and heading towards the bar exit. "Kolobok, keep an eye on the place? We'll be back soon. And thanks for the cooking, it was very tasty."
"No problem," the mustachioed bartender beams.
Once outside, I look around for a suitable secluded spot for an important conversation. After a moment's thought, I turn the corner, entering a small gap between two rusty hangars, and walk to the end, through a thicket of some kind of grass and a couple of small bushes, and emerge into a large area filled with boxes. No one. I turn back and see the bewildered mercenary, not understanding why I dragged him here.
"Can I be frank with you?" I ask him, fixing my gaze on the dark, cloudless sky full of bright stars.
"Yes," Shram nods, suddenly serious. All traces of his chattiness were gone.
"Promise me you won't tell anyone the details of our conversation," I continue. "It would put me in danger."
"I promise."
"Thank you," I smile at the corners of my lips and continue speaking much quieter, so only Shram, who had come very close, could hear me. "I'll start from afar, but I won't go into detail. The Zone is man-made; it was created by humanity, its ambitions, and its greed. You may not understand what I'm saying now, but understanding will come soon. After the explosion in 1986, almost all people living in the vicinity of Pripyat were evacuated. The city was abandoned, factories, villages were fled... Not everyone, of course. This catastrophe
and the subsequent evacuation created excellent conditions for conducting experiments that no one was supposed to know about."
"Are you talking about the secret laboratories, rumors of which sometimes flare up in the stalker community and then die down?" Shram asks incredulously, raising his right eyebrow.
"Yes," I can only nod. "These laboratories do exist; there's nothing surprising about it. The conditions were indeed ideal. Ready infrastructure and not a soul around, except for the old people no one would ever believe."
"But what about the radiation? The background was practically insane then, wasn't it?"
"After the accident, all efforts were directed towards the production and improvement of anti-radiation suits," I shrug. "So the radiation issue was resolved. Perhaps not perfectly, but who cared? But that's not what we're talking about. One of the laboratories, if I remember correctly, was codenamed X-7. And it was studying the noosphere, a kind of symbiosis between the biological world and human society. In short, it is believed that the noosphere stores all of humanity's knowledge, and that it can even influence the material world. But I won't go into detail; I understand little about it. I don't know where exactly this laboratory is located, but... it was the people from it who caused the creation of the Zone."
"How?"
"It is not known for certain, but during another experiment, a fatal error occurred, which led to a large explosion in two thousand and sixth year. And then the goals of these mad scientists changed, instead of studying the noosphere, they decided to enslave it. Thus, the Consciousness appeared, and then the Zone in the form in which it exists now.
"Why are you telling me all this?" the mercenary asks, involuntarily stepping back a couple of steps. "It's very hard to believe..."
"Lebedev, Kalancha, and, it seems, Suslov were part of the scientific staff of laboratory X-7. Did you really think that by sitting in the middle of nowhere, on the very edge of the Zone, you could get so much information about it?"
"What?.."
"What Lebedev called the Zone's retaliatory strike to the irritation caused by Strelok and his team, is nothing more than an attempt by the Consciousness to protect itself," I sigh deeply before getting to the main point. "Listen, I'm not forcing you to believe all this and I'm not calling you to anything. I have absolutely no proof, and you have every right to consider me crazy."
"But why are you saying this?"
"To keep you safe," I look directly into his bewildered eyes. "Sooner or later, Lebedev will drive you to the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. And then something terrible will happen to you and the other Clean Sky fighters. You won't believe me anyway if I tell you what the Zone has prepared for you. Just... don't see it through to the end. Disappear before its climax, find the deepest hole you can."
"..." The mercenary stares at me in shock and says nothing, trying to comprehend everything I've dumped on him. And he could be understood; it's not every day that a seemingly adequate person goes crazy for no reason and starts spouting nonsense about a global conspiracy of evil scientists.
"Ask Lebedev about all this," I pause briefly, catching my breath. "About laboratories with the index X, about the Consciousness and the noosphere, look at his reaction and what he answers. And only after that, make a decision that will determine your life. This is my only request to you. And... well, it seems our paths will diverge on this note. Good luck to you, mercenary. Try to survive the meat grinder that will happen soon..."