I carefully position myself in the attic window of the old house. My heart is pounding like a drum in anticipation. I calm my rapid pulse with a small swig of Vodka from a flask. Not enough to impair my shooting, just enough to calm my jittery nerves. I'll have the element of surprise, but the enemy outnumber me and I'll be silhouetted against the sky.
As a Duty patrol swaggers into view, arrogant and proud, I check the chamber of my PSG-1, Adelinda. She cost me a fortune in bribes to have smuggled into the zone from my home country, but the performance she gives is worth it. No time to get the windage, I'll have to guess. The apparent leader of the patrol, a tall thin man with a cruel look to him dressed in black body armor with red trim, calls a stop as they come across a couple of Loners who made camp on the side of the road. He begins to harass the Loners, gesticulating wildly and most likely feeding them the standard Duty line about how anyone who doesn't join up with them and try to destroy The Zone is a worthless piece of shit.
I quickly grow tired of watching the Dutyers harass the pair and send a round hurtling downrange, into the lead Dutyer's skull mid-gesticulation. The patrol are surprised only for a split-second before one of them screams "Snay̆per!" and they begin to run for cover, looking around for my position. Meanwhile, the two Loners run off into a thicket. Knowing his next shot will reveal my location I quickly finds the patrol's marksman and send a round into his throat. The walls and floor around me explode into a hail of splinters and lead as the patrol's two remaining members open fire on my window with a pair of old Warsaw Pact assault rifles. I drop through a hole in the attic floor, landing in a crouch with my rifle held carefully above my head. Don't want to drop it through a hole in the floor. I move to another window, careful not to reveal my position to the two idiots still firing on the attic when they should be calling for backup. Amateurs. And they're standing close together too. Duty are getting sloppy with training their thugs. Two quick chest shots and they're finished.
I signal my lookout over the radio to meet up with me here and I make my way over to the Dutyers. Need to make sure the job really is done, and they might have something I can use or sell.
Author's Notes: Well, that was it. Nothing particularly amazing I know, but I want to get my skills up before I start on anything big. I always liked the idea of Stalkers from countries other than Ukraine, but we never really see much of them in the games. About the rifle, I know there are no PSG-1s in the games. But I'd think that a foreign Stalker with military experience (a German who served as a sniper in the Bundeswehr in this case) might try to acquire the same rifle he used back then (a PSG-1). In general my concern when writing S.T.A.L.K.E.R. fics will be in capturing the tone and world of the games, not what weapons make appearances in them. This isn't really set in any particular spot in The Zone, or point in the timeline. The thoughts of this character do not necessarily represent my own. Again, please review as this is an attempt at finding my "voice" as a writer and I can't be sure what works unless I get feedback.
Translation note: "snay̆per" is the romanization of the Ukrainian word for "sniper", at least according to Google Translate. Since I don't know anyone who speaks Ukrainian or any linguists I couldn't check if that's correct. If it's not, please correct me and I'll go back and fix it.