Author's note: This just kinda came to me one day while I was playing Call of Pripyat. Meant as a oneshot when I started writing, but if people like it, might as well give it more depth. Totally up to you, the readers - however that means leaving reviews *sly grin*

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. series. I do, however, own Magnus Fryd and Nadja
EDIT: Since it's now a story in progress, it seemed fitting to give each chapter a name.

Chapter I

1x01-Pilot

A shrill grating sound, followed by a freezing wind, as the rusty, age-old gates of Yanov train station opened. The din inside, laughter and the occasional plucking of guitar strings, all present but a moment ago, now lay silent, replaced by a low murmur - all eyes were on the one who walked in.

By any standards he was a bear of a man, tall and massive, a machine-made-god, all the more imposing in the midnight blue exoskeleton suit he wore and the heavily modified Heckler&Koch assault rifle slung over one shoulder. And behind him, hidden from the view of most and easily dismissed as a mere shadow, stood a small figure, a ragamuffin obscured in a tattered assortment of military canvas and shreds of fatigues, sewn into a kind of raincoat. They certainly were an odd pair, odd as they get in the Zone.

The armoured one removed his gasmask, revealing first a neatly trimmed goatee, then an aging, weatherbeaten face ridden with scars and fresh cuts. His blue eyes were emotionless, scanning the assembled stalkers while he fished through his vest's pockets and procured a pair of apparently ancient corrective spectacles with round, slightly bent frames. Having put on the glasses, he strode past the whispering and angry glares to the far end of the main hall, up to where the booking office had once been, his diminutive companion matching his long steps with a cheery skipping pace, much like that of a child's.

Hawaiian, snug in his little shop he set up in the ticket booth, was painfully aware of what, or rather, who, was coming his way - the arrival of these two usually signalled the onset of a shitstorm of trouble. On the other hand, they were well-paying customers, remarkably well-to-do compared to the average human denizen of Chernobyl, and they dragged in some of the craziest stuff ever... So the young shopkeep, dreaming of untold riches and bizarre artefacts, shrugged off the dread instilled by the armoured goliath's presence, and put on his trademark goofy grin before saluting the man in broken english slang:

"Yo sup, Magnus bro! You got anything good for me today?"

Magnus Fryd, A.K.A. "The surgeon"; a cold and calculating mind combined with a steady hand and an unsmotherable will to kill. Said to have incapacitated many a man with his superior marksman skills only to have a go at them later, with a hunting knife - all that is ever left to tell the tale is a wake of bodies marked by a cold-steel instrument with a serrated edge. The Zone, however, does not judge.

Strangely enough, not much was really known about the man at the time, and even so the little history he had was fading fast into myth. He was an enigma, a phantom, coming and going as the change of seasons, bearing the markings of Duty, though never truly claiming allegiance. Quite on the contrary, the soldiers of Duty stood well clear of The surgeon - to stray in his shadow was to invite death.

"I brought you a little souvenir from up North," - said Magnus in a heavy german accent, rummaging through his backpack. Hawaiian marveled at the artefact the man pulled out a moment later.

As the two plunged into a bartering debate, the ragdoll kept dancing around Magnus happily, oblivious to everything but an invisible tune.

Hawaiian raised an eyebrow - "Ah, so you still keep *that* with you, do you?" - absentmindedly picking up a candy bar - truly a luxury item this far into the Zone - and offering it to the small passenger. Pale, cherubic fingers enclosed upon the sweet morsel, carrying it up to the mouth, hidden somewhere beneath folds of fabric. Then the makeshift hood fell down and full, red lips curled into the cutest smile in the world, warming the shopkeep's heart - a girl in her mid-teens, no more than 16 years old, with shoulder-length flaxen hair, a snub nose and a wondrous pair of eyes, one stark yellow, the other a soothing green, both staring mirthfully up at Hawaiian.

Unlike Magnus', whose were clouded over with murderous intent: "Her name is Nadja. Make me repeat it just one more time and I swear I'll come in there and break your fingers."

ΩΩΩ

Yes, many people come to the Zone looking for solace and perhaps even a place to belong. Like them, Magnus Fryd, a sociopath of questionable morals, ran from reality in search of a home. He found it in the form of a teenage girl. Nadja, he called her, a mute child of the irradiated wastes, his redemption, his absolution.

But I am getting ahead of myself, for that is another story altogether.