NOTE: I've been playing S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Call of Pripyat on Misery 2.0 mod (with Patch 2.02) and by God, I've been having some really awesome, freaky, baffling, and weird-ass headcanon experiences while playing.

So I thought about writing off to see what would come out. Expect an entirely different Major Degtyarev as well as some equally different...elements.

This is all based on my experiences while playing on the mod so...I hope you enjoy.

December 24, 2017: I've gone back rereading, proofreading, and editing.

Insertion

A stalker enters the center of the Exclusion Zone from the north. He hates it but he has a reason to be here in the first place.

Sacha hated the thick fog. He normally appreciated mists but visibility had dropped to a radius of five feet which would be disastrous given the current state of his equipment. And as a trained marksman, he preferred combat in situations where he could engage the enemy at a reasonable distance instead of reacting on impulse to a sudden ambush with a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun.

His surroundings could have been workable had not the cloud completely grounded itself. He could hear the frogs croaking in the unseen cattails not far off with the surrounding brown autumn bushes dense enough to provide concealment to any hungry mutant (or stalker) lying in wait.

Having just arrived here following misguided directions, it had become clear to him that he had maneuvered himself into a possible deathtrap where the only indication of danger hinged on his ability to pick out the faintest sound. He allowed himself a smile at that; his hearing was still good after years of exposure to deafening gunfire and explosions thanks to the amazing properties of certain artifacts.

Sacha began his walk forward, coming towards the edge of a shallow lake. The fog began to loosen up a bit, expanding his vision by ten feet. That was good. Now, he needed to make for the nearest camp which, according to (currently outdated) information on his GPS map, was across the nearby hill which he currently could not see.

"Chort," he whispered, hoping that no animals were around to hear that.

He saddled his rifle and followed the ridge line. It was the closest path he could take that led to Skadovsk, a derelict freighter which he hoped would be teeming with friendly life. That or he would have to write up a berating report on the inefficiency of his colleagues at Kiev in gathering proper intelligence. Then again, that argument could be doomed by the reasoning of how the Zone was unpredictable as much as it was unstable.

The mist faded some more as he reached a peninsula. He could see an old pier on the other side of the lake. If the water was shallow enough, he could simply wade across. But risk alerting nearby predators. He briefly pictured himself being overwhelmed by a pack of dogs while waist-deep in the lake.

"Worth a shot?" he asked himself. Definitely.

He didn't know where the answer came from but he was sure that the part of his brain that was marred by extensive stalker experience was giving the best advice. With a final check of his effects in his bags, he lifted his rifle above his head and dipped himself into the water.

By the time he was across, he found solid footing and was grateful to find a concrete road that looped around the hill and led into...an anomaly field of all places. This one was dubbed the 'Burnt Farmstead' by his associates at headquarters and it did not surprise him that the nature of this particular area was fire. No shit, I could feel the fucking heat from here.

The road led directly towards it so he turned on his heels to descend down the slope. He broke off from the path and was quickly rewarded by the sudden jolts of pain that throbbed in his head. Sacha grunted, dropping to his knees and realizing quickly enough that he was entering the effect radius of a psi-mutant. He swerved around and struggled towards the shade of a large tree.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped against the bark, leaning his back as he massaged his temples.

"Tvoyu mat'... Suka, sraty..."

Okay, so where should I go next? He checked his PDA and thumbed the GPS map, looking for any possible alternative routes he could take to get to Skadovsk. There...

He looked up at the dissipating fog and then back at his device. Then he glanced back up again and was satisfied to note that the terrain unfolded in front of him, revealing areas at distances he could work with. Good. From where he sat, he could see a pack of dogs moving behind the thick woods. Not far away was a trio of fleshes that were headed in the opposite direction.

He drew out his scope—which he had earlier detached from his sniper rifle when the mist settled in—and peered through, watching with amusement as the canines began to viciously harass the pigs.

Focus, Sacha. The stalker harrumphed at himself and quickly attached the PU-scope to his Mosin-Nagant. The rifle was unique in that the manufacturing date was around the Second World War. That, however, did not help its current condition which put a dent in his skills as a marksman trained with modern firearms. Still, he had come to admire the Mosin for its timeless effectiveness.

Sacha picked himself up from his spot and began circling around the Farmstead, opting to take his right and breathing a sigh of relief that the effects of whatever psi-mutant was around did not extend any further.

As he rounded the anomaly field, he plopped down another tree, kneeling with his rifle to check his position before settling down to rest his legs. From here, the top of this hill, he could see the landmarks situated across this region of the Zone—marked as Zaton on the general maps including Google. He took the chance he had to survey his surroundings and memorize as much of the terrain as possible...

Nimble stretched his legs, waving back at the stalker who had just received his first delivery from him. He had managed to return earlier than he had anticipated, allowing him enough rest for his back which screamed from the pressure of carrying a rare weapon prototype that cost his client a hefty sum. Well, the ammunition for it would cost more, he thought.

A series of piercing cracks reverberated from behind his barred-up window and he motioned to peek through the gaps in between the thick steel sheets he had welded into place. So far, he couldn't see anything other than a dead boar roll down the side of the hill near the massive sewage pipeline that jutted out of the ground.

Probably a hunter, he mused. Though he did find the sound of the pop to be very different from any he had heard in his year-long stay at Skadovsk. Probably someone with a unique shooter had come along. He yawned, perhaps an old model...sounds a lot like it...

Sacha knew it was rude but Kiev said this man was a trader. Climbing up the tugboat, across the plank, and onto the main deck of the Skadovsk, he took the time to admire his surroundings as he did at the Farmstead. He could hear music, laughter, and an out-of-tune guitar reverberating from below and for the first time in days, he felt genuinely grateful that there was life and relative safety.

Then he dropped his grin into a scowl after seeing a supposed trader nodding off in the middle of the day. By the looks of it, the only weapon he could see was a Desert Eagle with a silencer screwed on. Kiev better not be bullshitting about this one...

Nimble rubbed his eyes, sitting up and eyeing the man who roughly shook him from his sleep. He forced his professional mien despite the irritation of losing much needed sleep.

"Yes? Is there anything you need?"

"You are a trader, yes?"

Nimble noted the hint of aggression in his tone but nonetheless remained impassive. "Correct. I deal in high-end gear: advanced suits, latest models, and the like. All my equipment is topnotch and can last longer than most if maintained properly."

"Where are they then?"

The trader blinked. "Come again?"

"Where is your stuff? It seems like you ran out or something."

"For your information, brother, I do not usually keep my items on display. I have connections in and outside of the Zone that hold all the things that I sell. Now, is there anything you need?" For one, this was a crummy client.

Sacha scoffed. "What do you offer?"

"As I said: high-end equipment. Topnotch gear—"

"Yeah, yeah. But what exactly? Like Grozas or Dragunovs?"

"Yes, something along those lines. Though, I can assure you that the other traders here on this ship offer the same merchandise. Just not of the proper quality." Nimble leaned back, allowing himself a smile at that prideful business comparison. Owl was his frequent competitor and despite serving as the main go-to guy for general equipment, he did not keep an inventory of rare models that were often favored by Western stalkers who, specifically, were as rare a breed as their weaponry. Besides, the last time he had seen a properly functioning M16A1 rifle was when some American ex-marine had come by to check on his wares...and then promptly got shot in the head by bandits.

"So I have to order then? Is that how you do it?"

Nimble could hear the acid dripping and he was becoming increasingly annoyed by the passing minute. By the looks of it, it appeared as though he didn't have enough cash for the cheapest pistol he could offer. The man's face was partially obscured by a dirty muffler while the rest of him remained concealed under a muddy, worn-out overcoat of all things.

"Da, that is how I do business. Now, tell me: is there anything you need? If not, then I suggest you visit the other traders."

"Fine. Where are they?"

"Owl is the only one who can get you what you want. He's downstairs on the second floor. And on the ground level, there's the bar. You can check Beard—he's the barman. He'll sell you food and all that. If you have an artifact with you, take it to him. He pays well."

Sacha took it all in before giving the man a nod and heading downstairs. Nimble finally let himself fall onto his bed, drifting off to another nap.

"You new here? That's alright. You'll settle in soon enough. I'm Beard, the local bartender. You got any questions, you come to me, alright?"

"Alright. First things first, what the hell is with the rabbits? They're all over the place."

Beard crunched his face, leaning forward. "It's like this. I don't hold anything against those bastards so long as they don't shank anyone, don't steal too much, and don't puke on my mushrooms. Besides, not everyone you meet is a total douche bag. I mean, some of them were former Zoners before fate or whatever pushed them to take up banditry. I don't blame them...well, most of them, really."

Sacha turned around. Across the bar, he noticed a bald man in a brown trench coat studying him from his corner. Beside him was definitely his proxy, the goon's own hood and jacket being a menagerie of tanned mutant pelts. That sure spoke volumes.

"Who's baldy over there?"

The bartender sighed. "That's Sultan. He's the head of the bandits here. We struck an agreement in that they could take shelter here in case of a blowout. But they've been stomping their foot a little too close for comfort."

"I hear you." Territorial disputes. Just what I need. Put all the bastards in one plate and you have a pot of chili without the spices. "So, what do you have for me."

Beard straightened his back, returning to business. "Food. Drinks. Some kits and other stuff you might need. I also sell an SSP-99 Ecologist suit, if you're interested. You won't find it anywhere else in this condition especially this deep in the Zone. For just a suitable sum—"

Sacha waved it off. "Not interested. What's on the menu?"

The bartender shrugged. "Suit yourself. What do you want? Canned or the local variety?"

"How much is the canned?"

Sacha smoked his first cigarette of the day, watching the sun set in the distance. He made a mental note to dine on grilled flesh chops with a bottle of cheap alcohol until he could afford better supplements for his daily meals. He was starting to dislike the equipment issued him. 'In cognito,' they said. 'You'll move around quickly,' they said. Well, you could have at least given me some Kevlar, damn it. It's not like everyone here will get suspicious. Most of the inhabitants of the Skadovsk had at least a patch of body armor on them. He had none of the sort and the polycarbonate plates that Owl had were too expensive.

Rather, he was now broke. He tapped the end of his cigarette, puffing out a small cloud. The helicopters can wait. His hopes for the survival of any of the soldiers were slim from the start. Until he could get a feel for the center of the Zone, then perhaps he could reevaluate his judgment of the jar-heads' fates. Some of them may have survived, sure, but the Zone changed people faster than the zap from an electrical anomaly.

He looked up at the sky, seeing the first stars twinkle above the orange light that faded behind the hills.

"You must be new here."

Sacha turned his head, seeing a stalker far suited to the wastes than him. The man had a jury-rigged assault rifle slung over his shoulder and a combat helmet that had seen better days. He leaned against the railing of the hull, imitating his posture, the bulges of his vest pockets sandwiched in-between.

"What gave me away?" There was no point in defending his cover.

"Look at you, man. Is that all that you have on you?"

I could bop you one right now and take your shit but what's the use? "It's all I could afford. Getting here cost me a lot more."

The man laughed. "I feel you." He raised two fingers. "Mind sharing?"

Sacha complied, offering up a stick from his packet. He had another one in his personalized box downstairs. Beard's idea of a micromanaged storage room for all the equipment and personal effects of each individual Zoner was brilliant; effectively sustained with the cooperation of everyone else, it was considered a prime model of a Zone-esque storage locker complete with individual keys and padlocks. Even Sultan had to allow some of his goons to use up some space.

The catch was that any locker, box, or container that was untouched in a week would be cracked open and the contents acquired by the traders. It seemed hardly fair but stalkers were never fair to begin with.

"Aren't you the part of the guard detail?" he asked, leaving the other to light up his cigarette.

"Yeah. But my feet hurt and I don't feel like going around the ship again. Besides, the mutants usually steer clear of the Skadovsk, even without us to keep an eye out."

You sure are confident. "Fine. I won't blame you when a bloodsucker sucks me dry in my sleep."

The man laughed again, more haughtily this time. "You sure are someone."

Sacha hummed. He didn't feel like talking to anyone right now. He was tired from the trek from his insertion point near the southern Belorussian border. Besides, there was nothing important to talk about anyway... Not really...

"Say, I have a question."

"Shoot."

He looked at him, inhaling some of his smoke. "You hear anything about some crashed choppers around here?"

The guard paused. "Actually, I saw one myself. About a week ago, if I'm not mistaken. It didn't look like it crashed but it wasn't flying good either. It was swinging from side to side until it landed on the plateau south of here. Why?"

He shrugged. I am a lone SBU agent sent by Kiev to investigate the crash, what else? "They pay well for military equipment."

"Hah! Well, good luck getting up there. Only that psycho Noah knows a way how and nobody would bother asking him. Seriously, the plateau is as steep as a concrete wall. I know a bunch of guys who tried climbing up there. They fell on their backs and ended up limping here with broken hips...a miracle they weren't snagged by bandits... I suggest you check the other choppers instead. I hear one landed in the swamp to the west while the other is over at the Iron Forest. Swamp seems the most accessible right now, though. I'm still surprised why no one's ever tried to check it out..."

Good for me, then. "Who's this Noah guy?"

"Still interested in salvaging some stuff? Mm, I won't stop you. Noah's over there"—the guard pointed to a thin ramshackle tower in the distance, the frame of it silhouetted against the darker terrain of the marshlands. The sun had already set and the stars had begun to show. "I'm telling you, that asshole is a freaking psycho. Always has a shotgun aimed at the door so you may want to step aside when you knock."

Sacha nodded understandingly. He made a final drag on his cigarette before stomping it against the grated deck. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, man."

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 13, 2013

LAST EDITED: December 24, 2017

INITIALLY UPLOADED: December 13, 2013