This is chapter one of my story based on an awesome PC game called S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chernobyl. If you're unfamiliar with it, you can read up on it here: S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chernobyl - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Be warned, the Plot section of that article contains MAJOR spoilers, including details on all the endings of the game.
Also be warned, my story features some language. Nothing too harsh, but not completely clean. It's a little graphic as well. If you don't like that, navigate away from this thread.
Also be warned, my story features some language. Nothing too harsh, but not completely clean. It's a little graphic as well. If you don't like that, navigate away from this thread.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Roulette
Chapter One: Good Morning.
A kick to the ribs. Hell of a way to wake up, even in this dump.
My body slips off the chair I had formally been occupying and I crack my elbow against the hard concrete of the wall, all before even opening my eyes. I slump back against the wall trying to to unmuddle my head a little, figure out what the hell's going on, or where I'm at, or even who the hell I am.
No such luck.
I feel the boot scrape across my face, the treads opening up a fresh cut I got yesterday from some sharp claws out in the Garbage. And I just had that stitched up hours ago. Just great. I finally manage to open my eyes, just in time to see the boot coming at me again, this time coming straight down on my face. A quick slide to the left and that boot only connects with the concrete. I hear him yelp with surprise but I don't have time to see the look on his face. I need to get my rifle and end this. Shame it's lying in the corner ten feet away. Guess I'll have to do this without bullets...
He turns to me and sends his fist in the direction of my face. He connects, but only because I allow him to, which buys me time to grab the knife that's in a sheath on my calf. He comes in close and grabs me by the hair, to slam me into the wall, I assume, but he never gets the chance because I drive the handle of my knife into his eye. He screams in pain and rage and backs up a few steps, enough to let me get to my feet. I flip my knife around and lunge at him, directing the point at his throat. Fortunately I get the satisfaction of feeling it cut in and cause his warm blood to flow over my hands. He tries to speak, no doubt to utter some curse against my immortal soul, but all he can do is gurgle blood. Too bad I'll have to miss what was likely to be a well thought out and intelligent monologue.
I pull my knife out and let him fall to the floor clutching the hole in his throat. I wipe his filthy blood off on my pants, forever staining one spot just above my right knee a dark burgundy, as he spasms on the floor for a minute, then goes still. No one comes to check his pulse, but then again, they don't have to. Any man that can get up from having a knife shoved through his neck is no man I want to wake up beside.
I put the knife back in its sheath and look around, only to see sixteen pairs of eyes staring back at me, and about fifteen hands reaching for varying firearms. I put my hands up to show that there's no hostility, and that seems to do the trick. Everyone in the grimy, dimly lit 100 Rads bar goes back to enjoying their drinks. Everyone, that is, but the barkeep, who motions me over. I go to the corner, grab my modified AK-74 - with a tactical scope and grenade launcher, as well as a silencer that is currently in my pocket, just in case – sling it over my shoulder and go to see what's on his mind.
“You will be cleaning that shit off of my floor, eh Venya?” He motions to the body, and the pool surrounding it. I look down at the body and shrug. “He started the fight. Let him clean up the mess,” I snap back, and then flash him a smile. He doesn't seem to think it's so funny, Doesn't matter though. He'll still give me jobs, and he'll definitely still pay more, or he'll be sucking sucking down some of his own cheap bullets. See, the Barkeep – everybody calls him that because nobody knows his real name – is my supplier. Weapons, ammunition, body armor, food, work – you name it, he's got it. Or he can pay someone to get it. He's pretty well connected here in the Zone, but that won't stop me from putting a bullet in his fat, bald head if I have to. Even if I'm likely to receive fifteen or so of my own, coming from all directions.
But hey, that's him. Me, my name is Venya Ramonskin. Most of the others call me “Terminator”, mainly because I happen to kill a lot of people for money. I used to make a lot more doing it, back when I worked for the FSB. That's the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the Russian Federal Security Service, to those that are ignorant. It's really just the good old KGB with a fresh coat of paint. Now, I say worked, as in work in the past tense, because we had a bit of a falling out. I used to kill people for them too, but one job went wrong, it got traced back to them, I had to run, and I ended up here, in the Exclusion Zone. Just another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R. is an acronym used to describe the people that inhabit the Zone. It stands for Scavengers, Trespassers, Adventurers, Loners, Killers, Explorers, and Robbers. Everyone here fits into at least one, if not more, of those categories. We're all really here to find artifacts left behind by the radiation from the explosion of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. That wasn't my original reason for coming to this dump, but now it's my reason for being, my way to make some money and pay off the FSB, so that I can maybe go back to living a normal life. The Traders pay for any job you complete for them, and being a hitman for hire pays alright, but bringing in the artifacts nets you the big bucks. But, since I don't have any at the moment, and since I'm already up for the day...
“Are you going to find Haskur today, Venya? It's been weeks since I gave you that job. Others have completed TEN jobs in the time it's taken you to find and kill ONE man!” Yeah, that. I'm playing Hitman for the third week in a row, looking for a stalker named Haskur, whom the Barkeep seems to have some kind of vendetta against. I don't know why, and I don't care. Looking for Haskur gets me out in the Zone, exploring and looking for artifacts. If I find him, great, that's some more money in my pocket. If I find a couple artifacts, even better. More money, that way.
“Maybe I'll get lucky today, eh?” I smirk again and grab an energy drink off the counter, pouring it into my mouth and letting the excess flow down my chin. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and walk up the long staircase leading from the 100 Rads before stepping out into the large industrial area that's part of the Zone.
Welcome to Hell.
Chapter One: Good Morning.
A kick to the ribs. Hell of a way to wake up, even in this dump.
My body slips off the chair I had formally been occupying and I crack my elbow against the hard concrete of the wall, all before even opening my eyes. I slump back against the wall trying to to unmuddle my head a little, figure out what the hell's going on, or where I'm at, or even who the hell I am.
No such luck.
I feel the boot scrape across my face, the treads opening up a fresh cut I got yesterday from some sharp claws out in the Garbage. And I just had that stitched up hours ago. Just great. I finally manage to open my eyes, just in time to see the boot coming at me again, this time coming straight down on my face. A quick slide to the left and that boot only connects with the concrete. I hear him yelp with surprise but I don't have time to see the look on his face. I need to get my rifle and end this. Shame it's lying in the corner ten feet away. Guess I'll have to do this without bullets...
He turns to me and sends his fist in the direction of my face. He connects, but only because I allow him to, which buys me time to grab the knife that's in a sheath on my calf. He comes in close and grabs me by the hair, to slam me into the wall, I assume, but he never gets the chance because I drive the handle of my knife into his eye. He screams in pain and rage and backs up a few steps, enough to let me get to my feet. I flip my knife around and lunge at him, directing the point at his throat. Fortunately I get the satisfaction of feeling it cut in and cause his warm blood to flow over my hands. He tries to speak, no doubt to utter some curse against my immortal soul, but all he can do is gurgle blood. Too bad I'll have to miss what was likely to be a well thought out and intelligent monologue.
I pull my knife out and let him fall to the floor clutching the hole in his throat. I wipe his filthy blood off on my pants, forever staining one spot just above my right knee a dark burgundy, as he spasms on the floor for a minute, then goes still. No one comes to check his pulse, but then again, they don't have to. Any man that can get up from having a knife shoved through his neck is no man I want to wake up beside.
I put the knife back in its sheath and look around, only to see sixteen pairs of eyes staring back at me, and about fifteen hands reaching for varying firearms. I put my hands up to show that there's no hostility, and that seems to do the trick. Everyone in the grimy, dimly lit 100 Rads bar goes back to enjoying their drinks. Everyone, that is, but the barkeep, who motions me over. I go to the corner, grab my modified AK-74 - with a tactical scope and grenade launcher, as well as a silencer that is currently in my pocket, just in case – sling it over my shoulder and go to see what's on his mind.
“You will be cleaning that shit off of my floor, eh Venya?” He motions to the body, and the pool surrounding it. I look down at the body and shrug. “He started the fight. Let him clean up the mess,” I snap back, and then flash him a smile. He doesn't seem to think it's so funny, Doesn't matter though. He'll still give me jobs, and he'll definitely still pay more, or he'll be sucking sucking down some of his own cheap bullets. See, the Barkeep – everybody calls him that because nobody knows his real name – is my supplier. Weapons, ammunition, body armor, food, work – you name it, he's got it. Or he can pay someone to get it. He's pretty well connected here in the Zone, but that won't stop me from putting a bullet in his fat, bald head if I have to. Even if I'm likely to receive fifteen or so of my own, coming from all directions.
But hey, that's him. Me, my name is Venya Ramonskin. Most of the others call me “Terminator”, mainly because I happen to kill a lot of people for money. I used to make a lot more doing it, back when I worked for the FSB. That's the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the Russian Federal Security Service, to those that are ignorant. It's really just the good old KGB with a fresh coat of paint. Now, I say worked, as in work in the past tense, because we had a bit of a falling out. I used to kill people for them too, but one job went wrong, it got traced back to them, I had to run, and I ended up here, in the Exclusion Zone. Just another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R. is an acronym used to describe the people that inhabit the Zone. It stands for Scavengers, Trespassers, Adventurers, Loners, Killers, Explorers, and Robbers. Everyone here fits into at least one, if not more, of those categories. We're all really here to find artifacts left behind by the radiation from the explosion of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. That wasn't my original reason for coming to this dump, but now it's my reason for being, my way to make some money and pay off the FSB, so that I can maybe go back to living a normal life. The Traders pay for any job you complete for them, and being a hitman for hire pays alright, but bringing in the artifacts nets you the big bucks. But, since I don't have any at the moment, and since I'm already up for the day...
“Are you going to find Haskur today, Venya? It's been weeks since I gave you that job. Others have completed TEN jobs in the time it's taken you to find and kill ONE man!” Yeah, that. I'm playing Hitman for the third week in a row, looking for a stalker named Haskur, whom the Barkeep seems to have some kind of vendetta against. I don't know why, and I don't care. Looking for Haskur gets me out in the Zone, exploring and looking for artifacts. If I find him, great, that's some more money in my pocket. If I find a couple artifacts, even better. More money, that way.
“Maybe I'll get lucky today, eh?” I smirk again and grab an energy drink off the counter, pouring it into my mouth and letting the excess flow down my chin. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and walk up the long staircase leading from the 100 Rads before stepping out into the large industrial area that's part of the Zone.
Welcome to Hell.
