Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The best part about returning to the mainland? Sleeping somewhere that wasn’t a piss-soaked mattress or straight-up concrete. The food didn’t taste like mold, the water didn’t reek of rust, and taking a shower? That was practically a religious experience.
And yet… he couldn’t shake it. That feeling. Like an itch just beneath the skin. The Zone still had its hooks in him, pulling, dragging. Back to Pripyat. 

Degtyaryov didn’t have many memories of living there. What was he, six? Maybe seven when the reactor went up? But the ones he did have were good. And despite the crumbling buildings, the radiation, the sheer hostility of the place, Pripyat still felt like home. 
The Zone hadn’t let him go either. Neither had its people. He wouldn’t say he missed them, he wasn’t that sentimental, but they were interesting, in the way a knife fight in a dark alley is interesting. Sometimes, he caught whispers, glimpses of a certain Stalker who had helped them out. 

Strelok. 

A few background checks had turned up a few odd bullet points in the man’s track record, turns out, the so-called legendary Stalker was actually a soldier. One who’d been marked MIA back in ‘05.  Degtyaryov had read his file so many times he could probably recite it like a bedtime story, trying to make sense of the man, pick apart whatever enigma lay underneath. But it was pointless. Strelok was like a shadow burned into a wall after a blast, an outline of something human, but impossible to truly see. 
And, honestly? The guy was weird. Not in the usual Zone way, either. No, when Degtyaryov first heard of the Strelok, the lone wolf, the shooter, the lunatic who’d somehow stormed the Sarcophagus alone, he’d pictured someone built like a tank, geared to the teeth, an exosuit-clad death machine. 

What he got instead? 

A rail-thin, jittery wreck of a man, looking like a stiff wind might knock him over. 
And those eyes. 
Eyes that could make the abyss blink first.

Ever since that Stalker had been dragged into SIRCAA, he’d been making progress. Slowly. Glacially, even. Degtyaryov would catch sight of him sometimes during lunch breaks, always under watch, guarded like some high-value prisoner of war. 

He wondered if he should try talking to him. Casual conversation, nothing too deep. After all, he was one of the few people Strelok wasn’t outright hostile towards, a rare honor, apparently. 

The scientists, though? Oh, they loved ignoring him. He’d heard all about the constant arguments, the way they brushed him off, disregarded him like some stray dog barking at shadows. Amusing, really. You’d think they’d listen to the one guy who actually survived the worst the Zone had to offer.

One particularly ungodly hour of the morning, maybe 4 AM, maybe earlier, Degtyaryov wasn’t exactly in the habit of checking the time when the world and his body still felt half-asleep, he caught sight of him. 

Strelok. 

Hunched in the dim glow of a security light just outside the main building, half-hidden in the shadows of the stairs leading up to the entrance, like some spooked animal.  He wasn’t doing anything suspicious, well, nothing Zone suspicious. Just sitting there, legs drawn up, chain-smoking his way through a pack like it was keeping him alive. No hesitation, no breaks between cigarettes. Just one burned to the filter, then another lit before the ember had even gone cold. 

Degtyaryov lingered in the doorway, watching. Strelok didn’t blink, didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even seem to breathe, unless you counted the slow drag of smoke filling his lungs.  For a guy who had supposedly cheated death more times than anyone could count, he looked like someone who’d already died a long time ago. The body just hadn’t caught up yet.

Degtyaryov exhaled through his nose, debating whether to step back inside and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. But curiosity, or plain stupidity, it was hard to tell the two apart sometimes, got the better of him. 

So, instead, he stepped forward. 
“You’re gonna give yourself lung cancer at this rate,” he said, leaning against the cold metal railing near Strelok. 

Strelok didn’t look up, just exhaled another plume of smoke, letting it curl in the damp morning air. “Might be the least dangerous thing I’ve ever done,” he muttered. His voice was quiet, raspier than usual, like his throat was made of sandpaper. 

Degtyaryov huffed out a laugh. “Can’t argue with that.” 

They sat there in silence for a moment, the only sounds the occasional distant hum of the base and the quiet crackle of burning tobacco. Then, out of nowhere, Strelok spoke again.  “Congratulations, by the way.” 

Degtyaryov blinked. “For what?” 

Strelok finally glanced at him, tired eyes catching the dim light just enough to glint. “Heard you got promoted. Colonel now, huh? Moving up in the world.” 

Degtyaryov snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. More paperwork, more headaches. Not much else changes.” 

Strelok hummed, like he found that vaguely amusing. “Still. Means they trust you.” He flicked the spent cigarette away, immediately lighting another. “Not many people in this line of work can say that.” 

Degtyaryov considered that. Considered the weight of his new rank, the expectations, the responsibilities. It was true, trust wasn’t exactly a currency that flowed freely in their world. 

He glanced at Strelok, the infamous legend, the man who had done the impossible and lived to tell the tale. Here he was, hunched in the cold, looking like a ghost who hadn’t quite figured out he was dead yet. 
“Yeah,” the colonel muttered finally, watching as the smoke drifted between them. “Not many can.”

Strelok had put on a little weight. Not much, but enough to make a difference. His cheekbones were still sharp enough to cut glass, his face still gaunt, his neck still rail-thin like he hadn't quite escaped the clutches of starvation. But he looked… less like a walking corpse. Less like something that had clawed its way out of a shallow grave and just kept going out of spite. 

His hands, though? Still bony, still unsettlingly veiny, like they belonged to someone twice his age. It was the kind of look that made you think of too many years spent in places where the food was scarce, the stress was constant, and survival came at the cost of your own body's well-being. 
But compared to before? Yeah. He looked a little less like death warmed over. 
Not healthy, exactly. Just… alive. 

Which, for Strelok, was probably the best anyone could ask for.

Degtyaryov watched the ember on Strelok’s cigarette glow as he took another slow drag, then exhaled smoke through his nose like a tired dragon. The silence between them settled again. It gave Degtyaryov time to think, something about this whole situation had been gnawing at him for a while now. 
So, he decided to ask. 
“Say, why did you never tell me you’re ex-military?” 

The reaction was immediate. 

Strelok snapped his head toward him so fast it was almost startling, eyes narrowing like a cornered animal. His whole posture shifted, tense, rigid, as if Degtyaryov had just hit a nerve buried so deep even he had forgotten it was there. 
“Where’d you hear that?” Strelok’s voice was sharp, words clipped, not the usual sluggish drawl he’d been using all night. 

Degtyaryov raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Come on. You think I wouldn’t do some digging?” He shrugged. “Your file wasn’t exactly easy to find, but I’ve got my ways.” 

Strelok stared at him, cigarette burning low between his fingers. For a second, it looked like he might just get up and walk away. But he didn’t. Instead, he flicked the cigarette aside and ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. 
“Yeah?” His voice was lower now, quieter. “And what exactly did that file tell you?”

“Strelok,” he said, his voice suddenly sharper, more commanding. “Or should I call you Streletsky?”

The use of his real last name made Strelok stiffen, just slightly. It was enough to make Degtyaryov push further.

“How the hell did you end up with terrorism charges, huh?” he asked, his tone flat but with a hint of incredulity. “What the hell were you really doing before all of this? You think you can just get away with it, slip under the radar?”

Strelok’s eyes flicked to him for a split second, then away, as if Degtyaryov had just cracked a secret code. But there was no humor in his expression now. No cocky attitude. Just cold, steely resolve.
“I didn’t end up anywhere,” Strelok muttered. His voice was low, almost like he was talking to himself. “I chose it. Everything I did, I chose it.”

Degtyaryov leaned in, trying to make sense of the mess in front of him. “Terrorism, Streletsky? You?” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

Strelok finally met his gaze again, but there was nothing but fire behind those eyes. No regret. No guilt. Just the kind of cold that made you wonder if the man had ever felt anything human at all.
“You think I cared about their stupid charges?” Strelok’s lips twisted in a sneer. “I was already dead before I stepped into the Zone. Everything after that was just noise.”

Degtyaryov just sighed loudly. He couldn’t muster anything else.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Strelok continued, his voice almost detached, like he wasn’t speaking to Degtyaryov anymore. “I became what I needed to be. No more, no less.” He flicked the last of his cigarette into the dark. “That’s how it works, Colonel. You stop being a person when you start doing their dirty work. You get that humanity back by stopping.”

He took a step closer, voice steady but firm. “What exactly did you do, Streletsky?”

For a moment, Strelok didn’t answer, his eyes flickering to the empty pack of cigarettes at his feet. The silence stretched between them like a tightrope, but Degtyaryov wasn’t going to let it break on Strelok’s terms.
“You don’t have to be so cryptic,” he pressed. “Just tell me. Were you one of those radical freaks? The kind who does things for the cause?” He almost spat the last words, not caring how they sounded. He wasn’t above calling it like he saw it.

Strelok’s eyes snapped to his, a brief flash of something, anger? Defensiveness?, but it was gone in an instant, buried under layers of weariness. He took a breath, steadying himself, then shook his head.
“No.” The word was firm, too firm. “I’m not some kind of fanatic.” His voice had a strange edge to it, like it was all too familiar. “My duty to serve, whether it was for the army or anyone else, it didn’t go over my morals. Or my sense of what’s right. Never has, never will.”

But even as he said it, there was something in his tone that made Degtyaryov pause, like a faint echo of something he wasn’t meant to hear.
“What does that even mean, huh?” Degtyaryov pushed, eyes narrowing. “You’re telling me you just blindly followed orders, no matter who gave them?”

Strelok’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I followed orders, yes. But I chose how I did it. You get to a point where you’re not just following orders anymore, Degtyaryov. You’re deciding who you’re fighting for.”

There it was again- vague, evasive.

“Who were you fighting for?” Degtyaryov demanded.

Strelok exhaled slowly, flicking his lighter back and forth between his fingers. “It’s not always about sides, Colonel,” he muttered. “Sometimes, it’s about the people who need help… even if they’re not supposed to be your people.”

Degtyaryov’s mind raced, the pieces clicking together just enough for him to get the hint. “You didn’t... you weren’t one of those Chechen fighters, were you?” he asked, voice low but laced with suspicion.

Strelok’s eyes snapped to him then, hard and cold. “I never said I was.” But the way his voice caught, just for a split second, told Degtyaryov everything he needed to know.

“You fought for them, didn’t you?” Degtyaryov pressed, leaning in just a little, watching Strelok’s every movement. “For the Chechens? You were on their side, all those years?”

Strelok didn’t answer at first. He just stood there, looking at Degtyaryov like he was weighing his options. Finally, he took a long breath, exhaling slowly.
“War doesn’t have sides, Colonel. Just people. And I fought for them. For the ones who didn’t have anyone else but needed them more than ever. You’ve been in the military long enough to know what horrors they are capable of.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it felt like a weight had just been dropped on the table between them.

Later that day, Degtyaryov found himself in the staff lounge, where two of the many SIRCAA scientists were once again grumbling over their coffee. The topic of conversation was, predictably, Strelok. 

“He's a damn walking security risk,” one of them, Dr. Kuznetsov, if he remembered correctly, grumbled, stirring his coffee with more force than necessary. “Have you seen his room? Cigarettes, alcohol, God knows what else he's hiding in there. No one else has the clearance to get in, so we're stuck with this mess.” 

Dr. Vlasova, the quieter of the two, nodded in agreement, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. “We can’t even conduct proper observation with all that contraband lying around. What if he’s hiding something dangerous? Something from the Zone?” Her voice was tight, her fingers drumming against the table. 

Degtyaryov leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, listening to their complaints but not letting them rattle him. He knew how this worked. These scientists saw Strelok as a specimen, not a person.
"You’re treating him like a POW," Degtyaryov chimed in, his tone low but firm. "That’s not going to get you anywhere." 

Kuznetsov shot him a look, clearly irritated. "And what exactly would you suggest, Colonel? The man is a walking time bomb. He's not cooperating with anyone, especially not us." 

"I get that," Degtyaryov muttered, his gaze flicking toward the door as if he could somehow see through the walls to where Strelok was holed up. "But making him feel like he’s in prison isn’t going to help. You want him to open up, start treating him like a person, not some animal locked in a cage." 

Vlasova scowled, clearly not convinced. "He’s not acting like a person. He’s hiding things, he’s got a goddamn stockpile of contraband, how are we supposed to trust someone like that?" 

Degtyaryov sighed, rubbing his temples. He knew the answer wasn’t simple, but someone had to say it. "You can’t just put a leash on him and expect him to play nice. He’s been through hell, and now he’s here, stuck in this place. You want him to cooperate? Give him some space, let him breathe. Stop treating him like he’s already guilty of something." 

"Space?" Kuznetsov snorted. "You’ve got a lot of faith in a man who can’t even follow basic rules. If he’d just follow orders, we wouldn’t need to worry about him.” 

Degtyaryov stood, pushing his chair back with a screech. “He’s not going to follow orders because you haven’t given him a reason to. All you’ve done is shove him in a corner and expect him to act like a good little soldier. That’s not how it works.” 

Vlasova crossed her arms, clearly frustrated. "So what do you suggest we do, Colonel? Just let him run around, break the rules, and do whatever he wants?" 

"Not at all," Degtyaryov replied, shaking his head. "But I’m telling you, there’s a better way to handle him. And right now? You’re not doing it. So, here’s the deal." 

He paused, letting the words sink in. 

"I’ll sweep the room. Check for whatever he’s hiding. He won’t let anyone else in, so that’s the only option. But if anyone’s going to confront him, it’s going to be me, not you." 

Kuznetsov shot him a look of disbelief. "You want to go alone?" 

"Yeah," Degtyaryov said. "You don’t have the authorization to use force. So, let me handle it." 

Vlasova shook her head. "You’re taking a risk, Colonel. He’s volatile. One wrong move and you could trigger God knows what." 

Degtyaryov gave her a wry smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’ve dealt with worse. Don’t worry." 

As he turned to leave, he could hear them muttering behind him, but he didn’t care. He had a job to do, and if that meant facing Strelok in his own turf, so be it. The man wasn’t going to be handled like some lab rat. That much, at least, he could fix.

Degtyaryov made his way down the quiet corridor of the SIRCAA building, the echo of his boots against the sterile floors ringing out like a metronome. He stopped in front of a small door, his hand hovering for a second. The place was far from luxurious, just a small, nondescript apartment-like branch tucked away in a corner of the facility. Not many windows, barely any light, and the door itself was a weak suggestion of privacy, Strelok had gone ahead and barricaded it.

With a sigh, Degtyaryov knocked once, twice, and then paused.
A shuffling noise came from behind the door, followed by the distinct sound of metal scraping against metal. When the door cracked open, it was only by a few inches, stopped by a thick chain. Through the gap, a single tired, suspicious eye stared at him.

Strelok had barricaded the place up. Of course, he had.
"What."

Degtyaryov sighed. “Relax, I’m not here to hassle you. They sent me to check your room. Your caretakers are convinced you’re smuggling black-market plutonium or something.”

Strelok didn’t move. Just scoffed “And you agreed?”

“No,” Degtyaryov said, rubbing his temples. “I just got sick of listening to them complain. You know, you’re making it real easy for them to treat you like some kind of caged animal.”

Strelok exhaled sharply through his nose. “Funny. I feel like a caged animal.”

“Yeah, well, you barring the damn door isn’t helping.”

There was a pause. Then, with a reluctant sigh, Strelok shut the door. A series of locks and latches clicked before he finally pulled it open all the way. It wasn’t much of an invitation, but it was enough. 

“I told them I wasn’t interested in company,” Strelok muttered, his voice raspy from both disuse and of whatever thoughts were eating at him. 

Degtyaryov took a careful look around the room before stepping in, exhaling through his nose. The air was stale, the scent of old cigarettes and something vaguely metallic. The walls were bare, stained in places. The bed was a mess, thin sheets kicked into a corner, the mattress sagging like it had given up on life. Clothes, mostly the same drab, worn-out stuff, were scattered across the floor like he’d started cleaning up and then immediately lost the will to finish. 

Then there was the desk. A disaster zone of loose papers, old maps with the edges curling up, and a couple of books that looked like they hadn’t been touched in weeks. Among the chaos sat a few packs of cigarettes, one already open with a couple missing. Next to them, a half-empty box of ammo. And then there was the hunting knife, sitting there like it had just been set down mid-thought. Not tucked away. Not hidden. Just there.

Degtyaryov sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. " You really living like this?" 

Strelok, who had retreated to sit on the edge of the bed, just shrugged, lighting up a cigarette like he hadn’t just been called out. "Didn’t realize I was supposed to impress anyone." 

Degtyaryov leaned on the desk, giving Strelok a long look. "Look, I know we’re not friends. You’ve made that pretty damn clear. But I am worried about you, whether you like it or not." 

Strelok let out a dry, almost amused snort, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Worried about me? That’s cute." 

"I’m serious." Degtyaryov crossed his arms. "This? Sitting in a barely furnished shoebox, chain-smoking yourself into an early grave, sleeping on a bed that probably qualifies as a war crime? That’s not normal. And don’t even try to pull the ‘I’m fine’ act." 

Strelok took another drag of his cigarette, his fingers tapping against the filter like he was thinking something over. Then he shook his head, staring at the floor. "It’s not about being fine, Degtyaryov. It’s about getting through it." 

"Yeah? And what exactly is it?" 

Silence. 

Degtyaryov sighed again, running a hand down his face. "Look. I don’t care if you wanna pretend you don’t need help, or if you’d rather sit in here stewing in your own misery. But this isn’t gonna work. The scientists are already breathing down my neck about your contraband, and if they get their way, they’re gonna make your life even more miserable than it already is." 

Strelok scoffed, flicking ash into an old mug sitting on the nightstand. "Let ‘em try." 

"Right. Because getting thrown in a smaller, shittier room is really gonna improve things for you." Degtyaryov gave him a pointed look. "I get it. You don’t trust them. Hell, you probably don’t trust me either. But I’m not here to screw you over. I’m here because, frankly? I don’t wanna see you go down this road. Living- or…existing like this won’t help your case." 

Strelok finally looked at him then, and for a second, just a second, something in his eyes softened. He still looked like hell, still looked like a guy who hadn’t figured out what to do with himself now that he wasn’t crawling through radioactive hellholes on a daily basis. But there was something else there, too. Something tired. 

“I don’t know how to do anything else,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I’m just... tired, Degtyaryov.”

Degtyaryov stepped a little closer, lowering his tone. “Yeah, well. We’re all tired. But that doesn’t mean we get to give up.” He paused, watching Strelok carefully. “And you know that more than anybody else.”

Strelok didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply as if trying to make sense of what had just been said. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Strelok spoke again, quieter this time. “You don’t get it. I’m not the same person I was... before."

Degtyaryov gave him a long look, then nodded. "Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be someone better. Hell, if you’re not dead yet, then there’s still time."

For a moment, it looked like Strelok might have smiled, just a little. But it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by that familiar, distant mask he’d perfected.
“Yeah,” Strelok muttered. “Maybe there is.”

Degtyaryov thought about it for a second. There was one question

“What did you see in there, Strelok?” His voice was low, as if testing the waters, his words coated with both curiosity and something else, something that almost felt like concern, but that wasn’t something he was about to admit. “The Zone. The heart of it. What did you see that made you... like this?”

Strelok didn’t respond right away. He was sitting there, still slouched against the wall, staring at nothing in particular. But his body was stiff, like a coiled spring, every muscle in his frame taut. Outside they could hear the chatter of people passing by. Degtyaryov waited, feeling the slow shift.

Then, without warning, Strelok’s breath hitched. A small, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his hand as he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the desk. His fingers brushed the paper, the slightest shake betraying him. His eyes were locked on the desk, but it was clear he wasn’t seeing the cigarette anymore. His focus was miles away, lost in whatever memory was clawing at the back of his mind.

"You don’t know what it was like." Strelok’s voice broke the silence, raw and rough, like it hadn’t been used in days, maybe weeks. It was obvious he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a long time, certainly not about this. “It… it wasn’t just the monsters. The mutants. The... things in there. It was everything. All of it. The things you don’t see with your eyes. The things that get inside your head, into your skin...” He stopped, his throat constricting, and for a split second, his eyes glazed over with something sharp, something familiar.

A cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breathing grew shallow, uneven. Strelok’s eyes flickered to the door, the windows, the walls, as if the very room itself had suddenly become the Zone, suffocating him all over again.

Degtyaryov had seen it before, in the eyes of men who had been to war and back. The dead look, that wide-eyed panic. But there was something else in the Stalkers eyes. Raw, visceral fear of someone who had been broken by witnessing something beyond human comprehension. The Zone didn’t just take lives. It twisted minds.
His eyes were wide now, pupils dilated, scanning the room with that wild, frantic look of someone trying desperately to outrun a nightmare.

“Strelok?” Degtyaryov’s voice was softer now, like trying to coax a wild animal back from running away. "Hey, look at me. You’re safe here. It’s just me, alright? Just me. You’re fine.”

The cigarette pack he had been reaching for fell to the floor with a sharp crack, but Strelok didn’t seem to notice. His chest rose and fell erratically, his breaths coming in jagged, panicked gasps. “No, no!” Strelok hissed, his voice rising in pitch, the panic creeping into every word. “You don’t get it, Degtyaryov! You don’t know what it’s like in there! What I saw... what I felt...” His voice cracked, the last syllable dissolving into a strangled gasp.

Degtyaryov took a deep breath and closed the distance, hands raised this time to make sure there was no sudden flinch. Gently, he took Strelok’s trembling wrists in his hands, grounding him, forcing him to look at him, to see him.

“Listen to me,” he said, as softly as he could manage, trying to keep the tension from his voice. “You’re not alone here, alright? You’re not in the Zone anymore. This is real. You’re here with me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Strelok’s gaze finally flickered back to him, though his eyes were still wide with fear. His breathing slowed, barely, but the panic still lingered in his chest, thick as ever.
“I'm not... I’m not crazy,” Strelok whispered hoarsely, his voice so fragile it might shatter. "I saw it. I saw it all. And it’s never gonna stop."

Degtyaryov held onto him, not with the awkward, hesitant caution of someone trying to avoid a break, but with something more grounded. Strelok was trembling but Degtyaryov kept his grip steady, gentle even, trying to anchor him to the here and now. His heart beat too fast, his breath coming too shallow, but at least Strelok wasn’t thrashing.

"Strelok, please calm down,” Degtyaryov urged, his voice lower now, softer, as if he could somehow drown out the fear with his words. He didn’t have the answers, and he certainly didn’t know how to fix this, but he couldn’t just stand there while the man slowly cracked apart in front of him. He couldn’t. He hadn’t gone through hours of CSC training to just watch.

But Strelok's mutter was like a ghost ripping through the room. His voice was so quiet and shaky that it didn’t sound like the man who had fought his way into the heart of the Zone. This was a man who had already been swallowed whole by it.
“It wasn’t the Monolith...” Strelok’s words were slow, drawn out, like they were being dragged from some bottomless pit inside him. His face was pale, eyes wide, bloodshot. It looked like his mind was still wrestling with whatever nightmare had crawled out of his past. His gaze was distant, looking not at Degtyaryov, but somewhere far beyond him. "It was the common- the- a collective consciousness."

Degtyaryov’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. A collective consciousness? What the hell did that even mean? Was Strelok talking about some kind of Zone-induced hallucination? Or was it something worse? The words didn’t settle into his head, didn’t make sense. But the terror in Strelok’s eyes? That was real.

“Strelok, I-” Degtyaryov started, but Strelok didn’t wait for him to finish. His words spilled out like a broken dam.

“The Zone isn’t just a place," Strelok said, his voice shaking with something that wasn’t fear anymore. It was something darker, something... more dangerous. “It’s alive. It breathes. It watches." His hands were shaking harder now.

Degtyaryov’s hand tightened around Strelok’s arm, but the words, they weren’t right. The coldness in Strelok’s voice made his skin crawl. He couldn’t just stand there and watch.
“Strelok…”

The Stalkers eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, it felt like a cold gust of wind had blown through the room. Something dark flashed in his gaze, something that wasn’t just pain.
"It’s not fair, is it?” Strelok’s voice was chilling, steady, like he was talking to himself, to the wall, to the emptiness around him. “Why did I have to suffer, huh? Why did I-” He cut himself off, his breath hitching again, like a dam was about to burst. But then the words came, louder now, each one sharp enough to cut.

“You’re gonna run,” Strelok spat, his voice venomous and low. “To those scientists. Tell them. Use my suffering as something to research-!” He stopped, leaning back, his eyes narrowed as he chuckled, but it wasn’t a laugh. It was a rasp, a sound that was nothing short of empty. “I bet they’d love that. They’d love to dissect it. They’d love to study me like a rat."

Degtyaryov flinched. There was something almost... bitter in Strelok’s words. Something that felt like he was already beyond saving, already too far gone.

“No,” Strelok continued, and his voice dropped to a low, guttural whisper, one that made the hairs on the back of Degtyaryov’s neck stand up. “The Zone is alive. She breathes. And we... we’re her children. Her children. You think you can just take me out of here and fix me? You think I’m just a- a thing to be studied? A walking talking source for one of those eggheads?!” He got up, his breath ragged as he stared at Degtyaryov, eyes wide. “To forget would be my second wish. My first wish...” He trailed off, a dark smile curling on his lips. “My first wish is to make every single one of you... every last one of you,” he gestured with one hand, slowly stepping closer, his voice growing quiet, „go through what I went through."

Strelok’s words hit him like a punch to the gut. Degtyaryov didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know how to calm him down. But he wasn’t a stranger to suffering, and he wasn’t going to let Strelok drown in it. Not yet.

“Stop it.” Degtyaryov’s voice was quiet but forceful. “You don’t want that. You don’t want to drag everyone else down with you, Strelok.”

The laughter died. Just like that, gone. 

Whatever half-assed attempt at keeping it together Strelok had been pulling off just collapsed in on itself, and all that was left was a man who had nothing left in the tank. His whole body tensed like he was bracing for a punch that never came, his breathing went to hell, and then,   

He broke. 

No dramatics, no screaming, no falling to his knees like some tragic movie scene. Just this sharp, shaky inhale that got caught in his throat, shoulders jerking like he’d been sucker-punched. His hands clenched into fists, then unclenched, then clenched again like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hit something or just let himself go. 
The Stalker just… folded in on himself. 

“Fuck,” Strelok muttered, voice wrecked, barely above a whisper. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, like if he pushed hard enough, maybe he’d stop seeing whatever fresh horror was eating him alive from the inside out. But it wasn’t working. His hands were still shaking. Hell, everything was shaking.  

Degtyaryov hesitated. Shit. He wasn’t built for this kind of thing. He wasn’t a shrink, he wasn’t a priest, he was just a soldier who’d seen a lot of things and knew what it looked like when someone hit the end of the road and found out it didn’t actually end, it just dropped off into endlessness. 

"Hey," Degtyaryov kept his voice low and steady, like he was trying not to startle a wounded animal. "Strelok, breathe." 

Strelok let out this short, ugly little laugh, more like a cough, really, but it was weak. Shaky. He shook his head, rubbing his face hard like he was trying to scrub the emotions off. "It doesn’t stop," he mumbled, barely audible. "It never fucking stops." 

Yeah. Yeah, Degtyaryov had nothing for that. What the hell was he supposed to say? “Cheer up, buddy”? “It gets better”? Strelok would either punch him or laugh himself into a full psychotic break. So instead, Degtyaryov did the only thing that made sense, he sat down in the rickety-ass chair in the corner, not too close, not too far, and just stayed. 

Not as a colonel, not as an investigator. Just as someone who wasn’t about to let him go through this alone. 

For a while, the only sound in the room was Strelok’s uneven breathing. It took time, but eventually, the shaking lessened. Not gone, not even close, but enough. Just enough. 

Degtyaryov sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I’m not gonna run to the scientists, alright?" His voice was rough, but firm. "I’m not. You really think I’d be sitting here listening to you if I just wanted to sell you out?" 

Strelok let out something that was almost a laugh, but it was weak, barely there. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, flicked up to meet Degtyaryov’s, searching for something. 

"Then why are you here?" he rasped. 

Degtyaryov leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "Hell if I know."

At first, he tried to fight it. He clenched his jaw so tight Degtyaryov thought he might crack a damn tooth. His hands twitched like he wanted to tear at his own skin, anything to keep it together. But the fight was over before it even began. His breath hitched, once, twice. He tried to blink them back, tried to swallow it down, but it wasn’t working. His face crumpled, silent at first, just a few streaks running down his hollow cheeks. Then he let out this tired little exhale, like the weight of it all was finally too much. 

The Colonel just sat there, watching the strongest man he’d ever met crumble. 

“I can’t remember their voices.” 
Strelok sniffed, dragging a sleeve across his face like that’d do anything. His fingers twitched toward his pocket, muscle memory properly.
“They took it,” he muttered, voice thin, fraying at the edges. “My PDA. I used to, I used to listen to them. Just to hear them again.” His breath hitched, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, shoulders shaking. “But I can’t, I can’t remember. It’s been too long. I try, I try, but it’s just gone.” 

Oh. Oh. 
Degtyaryov felt something settle in his chest, heavy and cold. He knew the scientists were pricks with some pretty bullshit rules, but this? This wasn’t just confiscating a piece of tech. This was just cruel.

Strelok let out a wet, miserable laugh, shaking his head. “I used to know,” he whispered. “I used to know what they sounded like. Now it’s just… fading. Like they were never real.” 

Degtyaryov exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. 
“That’s…so messed up,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. 

Strelok let out another humorless little chuckle. “Yeah. I guess.” 

Degtyaryov wasn’t good at this kind of thing. Comforting people? Not exactly his specialty. But he also wasn’t gonna sit here and watch the guy drown. 
“I’ll get it back then,” he said, getting up with a little groan.

Strelok blinked up at him, eyes glassy and wary. “What?” 

“Your PDA,” Degtyaryov repeated. “I’ll find out who’s got it, and I’ll get it back.” 

Strelok eyed him, skepticism creeping back onto his face. “Why?” he asked flatly. “Why the hell are you doing this?” he wiped the last remnants of his tears away.

Degtyaryov raised a brow. “What, you think I’ve got some grand scheme? That I’m gonna turn around and sell you out the second you let your guard down?” 

Strelok didn’t answer. He just kept watching him, like he was waiting for the real answer to slip out. 

Degtyaryov sighed, crossing his arms. “Because I owe you.” 

That got a reaction, a flicker of confusion, a slight tilt of the head. Strelok wasn’t the kind of guy used to people owing him, he could tell.  

“Operation Fairway,” Degtyaryov said, tapping his fingers against his forearm. “You might not know that much about it, but to keep things short, you’re the reason me and the last survivors of it made it out. And I don’t forget something like that.” 

Strelok frowned slightly, but Degtyaryov could see the gears turning. The Zone did a number on people’s memories, but he knew Strelok still had fragments of what had happened buried in his head. 

“You didn’t have to help us,” Degtyaryov continued. “You could’ve just let us rot, let the Zone take us like it took everyone else, maybe loot that military grade stuff off of his. But you didn’t.” He met Strelok’s wary gaze, voice steady. “So yeah. I owe you. And this? This is me paying a tiny bit of that back.” 

Strelok didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just sat there, staring at him like he was trying to pick apart every word, searching for any trace of a lie. Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re a weird one, Degtyaryov.” 

Degtyaryov smirked. “Takes one to know one.” 

Strelok almost, almost, smiled. But it was brief, gone in a blink. 

“…Fine,” he muttered. “You get my PDA back, I’ll play nice.” 

Degtyaryov nodded. “Good. Then we’ve got a deal.”

Chapter Text

Strelok jolted awake, sucking in a sharp breath like he’d just broken the surface after drowning. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim, shitty glow of the streetlight outside, its sickly yellow hue filtering through the blinds. It wasn’t enough to make the room feel any less suffocating.

He sat up, rubbing a shaky hand over his face. Another one.

The Monolith. The CNPP. The Representative, if that’s even what it was. That thing, that voice, burrowing into his skull like a parasite. A chorus of whispers that never really left him, promising, demanding, pulling. He could still hear them if he listened too hard, crawling in the back of his mind like static from a broken radio.

Then Ghost.

Ghost, sprawled out in that lab like a broken doll, his body mangled beyond recognition, mutants ripping into him as if he was just a worthless pile of meat, eyes dull and lifeless. The smell of decay clinging to the air, so thick Strelok could still taste it if he thought too hard. His fault. Should've been faster. Should've been there to help him. And Fang, God, Fang. Gone before Strelok could even make sense of it, just another name swallowed by the Zone. Their voices were slipping away now, their faces turning into a haze, details fading like an old photograph left too long in the sun. His PDA would’ve helped, but of course, they took that from him. The last thing keeping them real. Keeping him real.

He swallowed hard and scrubbed at his eyes until they stung, forcing himself to breathe. Deep in, slow out. Didn’t help much. The Zone was in his bones, in his head. It never let go. He could leave the Zone, sure, but it wasn’t leaving him. Nothing was, yet he still felt abandoned by everything.

The room was silent, but silence didn’t mean peace. The clock on the wall read 03:14. Too late to sleep, too early to function. Too early for anything but regrets.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grounding himself with the cold floor under his feet. The room was a mess, like the inside his head. Papers scattered, half-empty bottles on the desk, cigarette butts overflowing in old cups and tins.
Strelok ran a hand down his face, exhaling a breath that felt too shaky for his liking. His body was already moving on autopilot.

First things first, cigarette. Always a cigarette. He snatched the pack off the desk, knocking it against his palm before sliding one between his lips. The lighter was next, the tiny flame briefly flickering to life before the burn hit his lungs. He sucked in deep, letting the nicotine claw its way through the lingering fog in his head. Not enough to fix him, but enough to make him feel functional.

The apartment was cold. He wasn’t sure if that was the air or just something in him, but either way, it ate through the fabric of his clothes.

He stood up, stretching just enough to pop the stiffness out of his back before trudging toward the sink. The bathroom was barely more than a closet, the mirror above the sink cracked in the corner, distorting his reflection just enough to be unsettling. He avoided looking at it as he turned the tap, cupping his hands under the water and splashing his face. The cold shock helped. A little.

He reached for his toothbrush, eyeing the near-empty tube of toothpaste with vague irritation before squeezing out what little was left. This bare minimum attempt at hygiene was less about self-care and more about routine, if he stopped doing stuff like this, he might as well give up entirely. He took a piss after that, ran a hand over his damp hair to make it look slightly less like a bird’s nest and just stared at himself. He really needed a haircut.

But coffee. If he was going to keep pretending to be a functional human being, he needed coffee. He grabbed the stained kettle, filled it with water from the sink, and set it on the stove. While he waited, he leaned against the counter, cigarette still dangling between his fingers, watching the tiny flame flicker under the metal. The glow reminded him of campfires in the Zone, of nights spent with Ghost and Fang, passing a bottle around and pretending the world wasn’t falling apart around them.

His grip tightened on the counter. Don’t think about it.

The kettle whistled, dragging him back. He poured the water into the waiting mug, stirring in a spoonful of instant coffee that smelled like burnt dirt. Didn’t matter. He took a sip, grimacing slightly at the bitterness but drinking it anyway. Cigarettes, water to the face, shitty coffee. Same as always. He leaned back against the counter, running a hand through his hair, exhaling another long stream of smoke before flicking the butt into one of the empty soup cans on the counter.
The world outside was starting to wake up, muted sounds of movement in the hall, the distant hum of city life beyond the window. He lit another cigarette instead of acknowledging it, leaning against the counter, watching smoke curl up toward the ceiling.

Strelok dragged himself over to the window, gripping the edge of the blinds between two fingers before pulling them back just enough to peek outside. The mainland stretched out beyond the compound, streets quiet, buildings standing tall and undisturbed, trees swaying gently in the early morning breeze. Birds were singing. 

He almost forgot what that sounded like. 

The Zone didn’t have birds. Not really. Oh sure, you’d see a crow here or there, usually just before something went horribly wrong. But songbirds? The kind that just existed without a care in the world? No. Every blowout wiped them out, like the Zone itself refused to let them stay. 

His fingers lingered on the blinds for a moment longer before he let them fall back into place. 

The room felt too quiet. Too empty. His mind was already starting to drift back to places he didn’t want it to go. So, before he could think too hard about it, he turned toward the radio on the windowsill, twisting the dial. The old thing crackled to life, static humming before resolving into something coherent.  

"-and looking ahead, we’ve got a cold front moving in, bringing rain showers throughout the week. So if you’re heading out today, best bring an umbrella-"  

The weather forecast. 

He didn't even like listening to it. But his hand never strayed from the dial. 

It was habit. Something ingrained deep in him, muscle memory from childhood mornings spent in a cramped apartment, the smell of fresh coffee and an actual breakfast clinging to the air. He didn’t remember much, but that part stuck.

Right on the dot, 4 AM sharp, there was a knock at his door. 

Strelok didn’t bother answering. He just stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed his jacket, and opened up. 

Two guys stood there, both built like the kind of men who’d happily throw you headfirst down a flight of stairs if they were told to. Standard SIRCAA security. He didn’t know their names, and they didn’t bother offering them. 

“Testing time,” one of them grunted. 

Strelok just nodded, stepping out without a fuss. He caught a surprised glance from one of them, like they expected him to resist, or spit in their face, or try something interesting. Sorry to disappoint. 

Strelok walked between his two escorts, his footsteps nearly silent against the floors. Everything was too smooth, too polished, too perfect. The tiles were a uniform, sterile white, so clean they might as well have been bleached down to the molecules. No scuff marks. No dirt. No signs that actual people existed here outside of work. 

The lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that sickly, artificial glow. Bright enough to make his head hurt, but not in the way the sun did when it hit the eyes just right. No warmth, no flicker, just constant. The kind of lighting that made people look like corpses, skin too pale, shadows erased. It flattened everything, turned the world into something cold and clinical, like walking through a high-budget morgue. 

The walls weren’t much better. Smooth, featureless, stretching on in long, sterile corridors that all looked the same. Occasionally, a door would break up the monotony, plain white with nothing but a small metal plaque bolted onto it, stamped with numbers instead of names. No personal touches. No signs of life. 

Strelok had seen plenty of bunkers and research facilities in his time. Hell, he’d slept in places worse than this, half-collapsed buildings, rusting metal shacks, underground labs where the air was smelled of death and mutant shit. But even those places, for all their rot and ruin, had something. A sense of history. Of people passing through, leaving traces of themselves behind. The Zone, for all the hell it put him through, still felt more alive than this sterile concrete coffin. Even Pripyat, hollowed out and left to the elements, still whispered with memories of the people who once lived there. A broken doll in an abandoned apartment. A sun-faded mural on a school wall. The wind carrying the echoes of something that once was. 

Here? Nothing. The SIRCAA facility wasn’t just lifeless, it felt like life had been scrubbed out of it. Every wall was blank. Every hallway identical. The floors gleamed with the kind of artificial cleanliness that only came from trying too hard to erase anything human.
No clutter, no stray papers left behind in a rush, no scuffed-up boots lazily kicked into a corner. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint, chemical-tinged scent of sterility.
It was like walking through a place that had never been meant to be lived in. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that was the point.
They passed a few people along the way, scientists, officers, men and women in crisp uniforms and lab coats. No one lingered. No one loitered. No one even looked at him for more than a second. Just quick, impersonal glances before they returned to whatever they were doing, like he was nothing more than another box to be checked off on their schedule. A task, not a person.

It was eerie.

Even in the Zone, where death lurked around every corner, where a single misstep could leave you as nothing more than a tangled chunk of meat on the ground, people still lived. Strangers would chat you up by the fire, swapping rumors over cheap vodka and bad jokes. People laughed. Smiled. Hell, even the bastards that would knife you for a good rifle at least had some personality. He remembered sitting around a campfire with men he’d only just met, listening to some guy pluck out an old tune on a busted guitar, and for a few moments, it almost felt like home.

The air felt off, like even the dust had been forcibly removed. No static. No natural drift, no shift in temperature. Everything was regulated, filtered to the point that it felt unnatural. Even the hum of the ventilation system was too smooth, too even, like the place was trying to pretend it wasn’t even breathing. 
It reminded him of an ant colony. Perfectly structured, perfectly efficient, no wasted movement. Everything serving a purpose. Except if you looked too hard at the perfect little tunnels and endless repetition, you realized something, there was no individuality. No space for anything that didn’t serve. 

The Zone might’ve been hell, but at least it had personality. At least it had life. This place had nothing. Just a blank, artificial void, stretching on forever.
And he really had believed that this was his salvation. Pathetic.

The first stop on the morning routine of bullshit was the vitals check. 
Strelok was led into a room that was just as sterile and impersonal as the rest of the building, white walls, bright overhead lights, a single metal examination table in the center, and a few machines humming softly in the background. The air smelled like antiseptic, sharp and artificial, like a hospital that had never actually seen a patient. 

A technician, lab coat, dead eyes, clipboard in hand, gestured for him to sit down without so much as a hello. Strelok didn’t argue. He just dropped himself onto the cold metal stool, elbows resting on his knees as he watched the guy move around with mechanical precision. 

“Hold out your arm,” the tech muttered, already fitting a blood pressure cuff around Strelok’s bicep. No eye contact. No wasted words. 

Strelok obeyed, watching as the cuff inflated with a slow hiss, squeezing tight. The technician stared at the numbers on his monitor, brow furrowing slightly. 

“You running on caffeine and nicotine again?” the guy asked, finally sparing him a glance. 

“What gave it away?” Strelok drawled, raising an eyebrow. 

“Your blood pressure’s a mess.” 

“No shit.” 

The cuff deflated with a soft hiss, and the tech scribbled something onto his clipboard before moving on. Strelok let his gaze wander, taking in the room. Same as always. No windows. No distractions. Just the dull hum of machines and the occasional rustle of paper. 

Next was the pulse check. The guy pressed two fingers to the inside of Strelok’s scarred wrist, expression unreadable. The touch was impersonal, clinical, like he was handling an object instead of a person. 

“Still alive?” Strelok quipped. 

The technician didn’t even look up. “For now.” 

Strelok smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

The tech barely looked up from his clipboard as he spoke. "Bandages off." 

Strelok didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight ahead like he hadn’t heard him. 

A sigh. Then, sharper this time, "Mister Streletsky." 

That got a reaction. His fingers twitched slightly, his jaw tightening. Right. Degtyaryov’s promise. Keep cooperating, and he’d keep his file clean. Keep them out of his business. Let him keep his smokes, his booze. Let him keep something.  Slowly he rolled up his sleeve. 

The bandages clung to his skin, stiff with dried blood. The fabric peeled away in slow, sticky strips, exposing the mess beneath. The deeper sections had scabbed over in jagged, ugly ridges, but the shallower cuts were still fresh, seeping sluggishly. The skin around them was inflamed, tight and fever-hot, an angry red creeping past the edges of the wound.

The word, the mark, was barely recognizable now. Just torn-up flesh where the ink used to be, like something had been violently scraped away. Which, well. It had. The tech didn’t sigh this time. Didn’t look exasperated. Just stared at the mess for a long, uncomfortable moment before setting the clipboard down, snapping a pair of gloves on, flexing his fingers to make the rubber settle.

"You've been picking at it."

It wasn’t a question.

Strelok’s fingers twitched in his lap, but he said nothing. He kept his face blank, shoulders loose.
The tech’s face didn’t change. No surprise. No disgust. Just cold, clinical observation.

Strelok exhaled through his nose. “And?” 

The silence stretched, before the guy finally reached for the antiseptic. Strelok braced himself, but not enough. The first touch of the swab burned like acid. He still didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there as the cold fire of disinfectant seeped into the carved-out tissue, as the tech worked with the same impersonal efficiency he’d use on a spilled sample. Strelok focused on the hum of the machines, the scratch of pen on paper, the sterile nothingness of the room. Anything but the sensation crawling up his arm. 

"You know," the tech muttered, "they make lasers for this." 

Strelok let out something between a laugh and an exhale, low and dry. "Yeah. And let you lot keep another record of me? No thanks." 
It still stung, hot and biting, sinking into exposed nerves and pulsing there. The guy wasn’t gentle, either. He wiped at the wound like he was scrubbing a stain off a counter, muttering under his breath.

"You think this is funny, Streletsky?"

Silence.

"This is self-mutilation."

Strelok finally let out a slow breath through his nose, fingers curling against his knee, trying to focus on anything but the pain. "You’re acting like I slit my wrists."

"You are carving pieces of yourself off. If that’s not a cry for help, I don’t know what is."

"Funny," Strelok muttered, his voice low and dry. "I don’t recall asking for your opinion."

The tech’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Just finished wrapping the new bandages tight, tighter than necessary, like he was trying to hold Strelok together by force. The fresh layers were clean, stark white, a sharp contrast against the bruised, scarred skin of his arm.

"You’re lucky this hasn’t gotten infected yet," the tech said flatly. "Keep this up, and it will. Maybe that’s what you want, but I doubt your handler will be too pleased."

Strelok didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer for that.

The tech pulled back, tossing the used swabs and gloves into the trash. He grabbed the clipboard again, pen scratching against paper in quick strokes. 

"This is going to the psychiatrist," he said, voice clipped. 

Strelok tensed. "No, it’s not." 

The tech didn’t even bother looking at him. "It is. Its protocol" 

"It’s nothing," Strelok shot back, his voice edging toward something defensive. "I handled it." 

"Yeah," the guy snorted, flipping the clipboard shut, giving him a condescending smirk. "I can see that." 

Strelok clenched his fists. "I don’t need another suit poking around in my head." 

The tech finally looked up, expression blank. "Not my problem." He stepped back, eyes cold, posture rigid. "You’re not in the Zone anymore, Streletsky. You don’t get to call the shots. You don’t get to decide what’s ‘nothing.’" 

Strelok opened his mouth to argue, but the tech cut him off with a look. 

"You will go to that session. You will sit there and play nice. Because if you don’t?" He leaned in just a fraction, lowering his voice. "I make a note. One that says you’re showing clear signs of self-harm and psychological instability. And then? You don’t get a choice anymore." 

The words hung in the air like a loaded gun. 

Strelok’s fingers twitched, curling into a fist so tight his nails dug into his palm. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to move, to lurch forward and put this smug little bastard on the floor. He could already see it, the satisfying crunch of knuckles meeting bone, the way the tech’s head would snap back, how he’d go stumbling into his pristine little equipment, knocking over his neatly arranged instruments like a ragdoll. Oh, he’d love that. Just one hit. One solid punch to knock that condescending tone straight out of his mouth. 

The guy didn’t even know what real pain looked like. He’d never had to dig a bullet out of his own thigh with a hunting knife. Never had to sprint through an anomaly field while something hungry snapped at his heels. Never had to wake up in a pool of his own blood and wonder if it was worth standing up, never had to carry his friends for hours just for them to die anyway-!

And yet here he was, talking like he had Strelok all figured out. Like he was a little puzzle for the real professionals to piece back together. His muscles coiled, and for half a second, he was ready to swing. Ready to wipe that clinical indifference off the tech’s face with a broken nose. 

Degtyaryov’s voice, unshaken and steady, echoed in his head. 
"You cooperate, I’ll advocate for you. I’ll keep your file clean. I’ll get your PDA back." 

Strelok inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stay still.  His PDA. 

The last piece of them he had left. The voices, the faces, the proof that they existed. That they weren’t just fading ghosts in the back of his mind. 
If he fucked this up, if he lost that, then what? 

He forced his fingers to uncurl, stretching them out like he wasn’t two seconds away from planting them into this guy’s face. Instead, he exhaled slow, pressing his palms flat against his knees. His voice, when he finally spoke, was eerily even. 
"Fine." 

A single word, sharp enough to cut, but he let it drop like dead weight. 

He saw the way the tech lingered for a second, maybe expecting more of a fight. But when nothing came, he simply gave a stiff nod, jotting down the last few notes, before he finally stepped back. “You’re stable enough then. Move along.” 

Strelok stood, stretching his arms above his head with a lazy sigh. The security guys flanked him again as he stepped out into the too-bright hallway. One station down. Too many left to go.

Next up was the psych eval, a term that made Strelok’s teeth grind.

The walk there was short. His boots clicked against the polished floor, echoing through the emptiness. He’d been through enough of these goddamn evaluations to know the drill. The questions, the tired look the doctors gave him, like they were trying to dig into his skull with a spoon.

When they arrived at the door, the guard outside barely glanced at him as he swiped his card and opened it.

The small office was just as artificial as the rest of the building, but it had a few more personal touches, piles of books nobody had ever touched stacked neatly in one corner, a couple of fake plants, probably plastic, and a chair behind a desk that looked like it came straight out of an office supply catalog. The doctor, however, didn’t look anything like the sterile, unfeeling place. He looked tired in that specific, corporate way, like he’d spent more time taking tests than giving them. There was a certain weariness in his eyes, like he was just done with the whole thing.

“Streletsky,” the doctor greeted him, his voice almost too pleasant, like it was a rehearsed line.

Strelok didn’t bother replying right away. He just let the door close behind him and took a seat in the chair opposite the desk, arms crossed, posture slouched. There was a subtle shift in the doctor’s demeanor as he sat down, probably noting the lack of any real interest in the situation.

“Alright,” the doctor said, settling into his chair. “I’m sure you know why you’re here. Just a quick check-in, make sure everything’s… functioning properly.”

Strelok huffed, letting his head tip back slightly, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like he was praying for patience. Functioning properly. Yeah, sure. If you ignored the fact that he hadn't had a decent night’s sleep in years, had a crippling fear of dense forests since his service in the Caucasus, had to physically stop himself from putting some poor lab tech through a wall this morning, and was pretty sure his entire nervous system had been rewired by a bunch of omnipotent, hive-mind freaks. Then yeah, he was functioning properly. 

Instead of saying any of that, he let out a slow breath and shrugged. "Guess that depends on what you mean by ‘functioning.’” 

The doctor didn’t react much, just made a small note on his clipboard. That was already annoying. Strelok hated that kind of shit, like this guy had already decided what kind of patient he was before he even walked in. 

“I’m going to ask you a few questions," the doctor continued, like Strelok hadn’t spoken at all. "Just answer as honestly as you can.” 

Oh, honestly? Sure, let’s be honest. "I think this place is worse than the Zone, and I’d rather be shot at by Monolithians than sit through another one of these meetings." 

The doctor raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop writing. "You’d rather risk your life than be here?" 

“If you knew half the shit I’ve seen, you'd get it." 

There was a beat of silence. 

Then, finally, the doctor leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. His fingers tapped against the clipboard, thoughtful. "Alright. Let’s start with the basics. How’s your sleep?” 

Strelok let out a short, humorless laugh. “What sleep?” 

“Nightmares?” 

He clenched his jaw. That was a loaded question. He could tell the doctor about the nightmares, the way they dug their claws into his skull and left him waking up with his heart in his throat, drenched in sweat, feeling like the they were still whispering to him from somewhere just out of sight. 

But that would just mean more sessions, more notes scribbled onto a file, more concerned professionals hovering over him like he was some kind of malfunctioning experiment. 

So instead, he just shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

The doctor sighed through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Streletsky…” 

Something about hearing his name like that made his skin itch. 

The doctor glanced down at the file in front of him, flipping through a few pages before stopping on one. Strelok recognized the format immediately. His incident report. Which meant- 

His stomach twisted. 

“You’ve been removing that tattoo,” the doctor said, not even looking up at him. "Self-inflicted injuries. Reopening wounds. I’m supposed to refer you to a specialist." 

Strelok stiffened, fingers digging into his arms where they were crossed over his chest. Of course that tech had run his mouth. 
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Not what you think.” 

“Then what is it?” 

What do you think it is, genius? Strelok clenched his teeth, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not to some suit who had never set foot past the perimeter. 

So he just shook his head. “It’s nothing.” 

The doctor didn’t look convinced. “Mutilating your own body isn’t nothing, Strelok.” 

Oh, great. Now he cared. Now it was mutilation. Never mind the fact that the scars underneath those tattoos had been there long before he’d taken a knife to them. Never mind that the marks meant something they couldn’t possibly understand. 
The doctor leaned back, exhaling. "I need you to work with me here. If you keep resisting treatment, I don’t have much of a choice." 

There it was. The thinly veiled threat.
Strelok clenched his jaw so hard it ached.
He could already feel it, the way they were tightening the leash, bit by bit. If he kept pushing back, they’d drag him in kicking and screaming. Then all of this, the thin layer of freedom he still had, would be gone. 

He forced himself to relax, to breathe. 

"You cooperate, I’ll advocate for you. I’ll keep your file clean. I’ll get your PDA back."  Degtyaryov’s words echoed in his head, again.

So he swallowed the bile rising in his throat, unclenched his fists, and forced himself to nod. 

“Fine.” 

He barely got the word out, but it was enough. The doctor studied him for a moment before writing something down. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his knee bounced as he leaned forward, rubbing at the back of his neck. The doctor watched him with that same unreadable, clinical expression.

Strelok set his jaw. “Alright. You wanna talk? Fine. Let’s talk.”

The doctor blinked. Perplexed. "Go on."

“I assume you know about the labs," Strelok started, his voice flat. "X-series. X-18, X-16, X-10. The others."

There was a pause. The doctor hesitated just long enough for Strelok to pick up on it.
“I’m familiar.”

“Then you should know that whatever you think you understand is a fraction of what’s really there.” Strelok leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring the doctor down. “You people study the Zone like it’s some science experiment gone wrong. Like it’s something that can be mapped, controlled, contained. But you don’t get it.”

The doctor folded his hands in his lap. “Enlighten me.”

Strelok inhaled, steadying himself. He had to play this carefully. If he went too deep, if he started talking about the whispers, about the things that had crawled into his head, they’d write him off. Again. He forced himself to keep it measured.
“You’ve heard of the Monolith, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“It’s not what you think it is.” Strelok’s fingers twitched, restless. “It’s not some mystical artifact. It’s a lure. A tool. The real thing, the C-consciousness, that’s what’s pulling the strings.”

The doctor made a small, noncommittal noise and wrote something down.

Strelok gritted his teeth. “I’m serious. The CNPP, the epicenter, it isn’t just another reactor. What happened there wasn’t just a meltdown. Something was created there, something that shouldn’t exist.”

The doctor hummed again, scribbling in his notebook.
And just like that, Strelok knew. He knew that whatever he said wouldn’t matter.
They weren’t listening.

He could sit here and hand them everything, every goddamn secret, every horror buried under the Zone, and it wouldn’t change a thing. They’d still pick it apart like it was an equation to be solved, something they could bend to their will.

His hands curled into fists, his breath came in slow, measured inhales.
He'd tried. He'd really fucking tried. But just like always, they were too blind to see it.

The doctor finally looked up. “You seem stressed.”

Strelok let out a short, humorless laugh. “No shit.”

The scratch of pen on paper dragged against Strelok’s nerves like nails on glass. The doctor was still writing, not even looking at him. Strelok sat back, stretching his arms out over the chair’s armrests, feigning boredom.

The doctor finally broke the silence. “Let’s talk about you for a moment.” 

Strelok sighed through his nose. “Aren’t we already?” 

“Your mental state, I mean.” The doctor leaned forward slightly, folding his hands over the clipboard. “You’ve been here for months, and every report from your evaluations points to the same conclusion.” 

Strelok said nothing. 

The doctor clicked his pen, tapping it against the desk. “Do you want to hear what they say?” 

No. Absolutely not. 
But he already knew he wasn’t getting out of this. 

The doctor flipped back a few pages. “Chronic insomnia. Hypervigilance. Frequent dissociative episodes. Depression, obviously. And, most notably, untreated post-traumatic stress disorder, severe enough that it’s actively impairing your ability to function in a controlled environment.” He paused, glancing up. “Does that sound about right?” 

Strelok’s jaw flexed. “How the hell would you know what I can function in?” 

The doctor gave him that same, measured, corporate smile. “I don’t. But the data does.” 

Strelok laughed, short and humorless. “The data, huh?” 

“You’ve shown patterns of avoidance, refusing to engage in certain discussions, brushing off questions with sarcasm. You rely on vices, nicotine, alcohol, to manage your symptoms instead of proper treatment. And then there’s the self-inflicted wounds.” His gaze flicked down to Strelok’s arm. 

Strelok tensed, his fingers twitching toward where the fresh bandages sat. “That’s not-” 

The doctor cut him off, voice as level as ever. “Streletsky, you carved a tattoo out of your own skin, multiple times. That isn’t just a physical response, that’s a psychological one. A rejection of identity. Self-directed violence. Call it whatever you want, but we both know it’s not just about getting rid of a mark.” 

Strelok clenched his fists. “It wasn’t-” 

The doctor leaned in slightly. “Say it, then. Say it wasn’t self-harm.” 

His throat closed.  Because he couldn’t. 
Because it wasn’t just about getting rid of the mark. It was about taking something back. About purging the last remains of what the C-Con left inside him. About making sure, physically, tangibly, that they didn’t own him anymore. 

But it wasn’t just that, was it? 

The knife in his hand. The sting of torn flesh. The way the pain cut through the static in his head, grounding him in a way nothing else did.  The doctor watched him closely, like he was waiting for something to crack. 
Finally, Strelok scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re reading too much into it.” 

The doctor made another note. Strelok wanted to rip that fucking clipboard out of his hands and throw it across the room. 

Instead, he forced himself to relax, slouching back again. “So what? You’re gonna throw me in therapy? Pump me full of pills? Lock me up until I start giving you the right answers?” 

The doctor sighed. “No. But you will be meeting with your assigned psychiatrist more frequently. And if we see any more incidents like today, there will be consequences.” 

A threat. Wrapped in clinical professionalism, but a threat nonetheless. 

Strelok held his gaze. “Noted.” 

The doctor nodded, flipping his clipboard shut. “We’ll continue this in a few days. Dismissed.” 

Strelok didn’t wait for another word. He pushed himself out of the chair, barely restraining the urge to slam the door on his way out.

As Strelok walked out of the office, the guards trailing behind him like shadows, his mind slowly started to slip away from the sterile, soulless walls of the facility. The echo of his boots on the hard floor began to fade into the background. 

His thoughts wandered, more like a memory than a conscious decision. He missed the Zone.

The Cordon. Rostok. Even the rusted gates of the old checkpoint. Hell, he missed the sound of the Geiger counter clicking erratically, the faint, reassuring beep of his detector picking up something, anything, that wasn’t this. The warmth of a fire shared between stalkers, the chatter, the quiet laughter, the stories. The simple, brutal rhythm of survival. The knowledge that, out there, the Zone was alive. That it had a pulse, even if it was a deadly one. 

Back in the Zone, it felt real. It wasn’t all this, this fake perfection, these concrete walls, this relentless, artificial order. Out there, there were dangers, sure, but there was also freedom. No one giving you orders. No one pretending to know what you needed. No sterile rooms, no fake smiles. The air was prickling with radiation, yes, but it was real air.

The Zone didn’t try to scrub you clean. It just accepted you for what you were, warts, scars, sins and all. It didn’t care if you were a murderer, a soldier, a scientist, or a thief. Out there, you could be whoever you wanted to be. There was freedom in that.

She, the Zone, had taken him in when he’d had nothing left. She had rebirthed him in a way no one else had. He owed her everything.

The guards didn’t notice how his pace had slowed, how his expression shifted from distant detachment to something softer, maybe even longing. They kept their distance, walking behind him like they always did. 

He found himself thinking about Rostok, the quiet early mornings when he would climb up the old belltower, looking out across the cracked earth. The way the sun rose over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the light catching on broken glass and rusted metal. There was a certain peace there. A sense of belonging he couldn’t find here. Not in this place. 

He missed the camaraderie too. The constant buzz of life around him, even when it was just a handful of stalkers clustered around a fire, telling jokes no one would repeat outside the Zone. He could still hear their voices, feel their presence. They’d been his family in a way, the family that the Zone had made. 

He wanted to return. No, he needed to return. He could feel it in his bones, an ache deeper than anything physical. 

The guards stopped at the door leading back to his assigned quarters, pulling him back to the present. But the pull of the Zone was stronger, and as he walked into the empty room, he felt the walls close in again. He hated it here. He hated the emptiness. The absence of life. Of meaning.

But the Zone? She had always been alive. Even in the darkest, most twisted corners. And he, he was alive there.

Chapter Text

Degtyaryov rubbed his temple as he sat at his desk, staring at the request form in front of him. Getting Strelok’s PDA back should’ve been a simple request, one that required nothing more than a signature and maybe a half-hearted explanation. But of course, nothing was ever that easy in this bureaucratic hellhole. 

First problem? Nobody seemed to know where the damn thing was. 

“I don’t have any record of a confiscated PDA under that designation,” one of the administrative staff had told him, squinting at her monitor with the enthusiasm of a government drone five years past burnout. “If it was seized as part of medical intake, it might be in the psychiatric department’s storage. But if it was flagged for research, it could be with the data analysts. Or security.” She exhaled sharply. “You’ll need higher clearance for some of those areas.” 

Right. Of course. 

Second problem? The facility was a labyrinth of restricted zones. He could move freely in most of the common areas, but anywhere important, the places where Strelok’s PDA was likely stored, required clearance levels above his pay grade. That meant one of two things: either he found someone who did have access and played the long game of bureaucratic persuasion… or he got creative. 

Which led to the third problem, staff suspicion. 

Every idiot would realize that the moment he started asking about confiscated items, he got looks. People were cautious around him, measuring his words, watching his movements just a little too closely. It was subtle, but he could feel the shift. He was a soldier first, colonel second, another government guy, sure, but that wasn’t the issue. The problem was the other badge he carried, the SBU. In a place like this, where research mattered more than regulations, that made people wary . A soldier wasn’t supposed to ask questions about research property. An SBU agent asking rather than ordering? That made them nervous

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.

This was turning into a bigger pain in the ass than he’d expected. But then again, he wasn’t doing this just to be nice. Strelok had saved his life, and he wasn’t about to forget that. 
Issue was that the Stalker had to wait, but for how long could he hold out before he lost his mind in that shoebox?

Degtyaryov had run through all the alternatives in his head, sneaking in, swiping a keycard, bluffing his way past restricted access, but all of them had too many risks. He was trying to help Strelok, not land himself in a disciplinary hearing and the Stalker in Isolation.
The official route was safer. Slower, yes, but safer for both of them.

He had just enough clearance to request temporary access to research materials for security review. If he framed it right, claimed it was a routine assessment, maybe hinted at a potential data risk, he could probably get his hands on Strelok’s PDA for a short window of time. Long enough to retrieve whatever the hell the guy needed from it.

He typed out the rest of the request, keeping the wording vague but official-sounding.
Review of confiscated electronic device for security compliance.
No outright lies, just... selective phrasing. He attached the necessary documentation, double-checked for any obvious red flags, and then submitted it. The printer on his desk made a pathetic little noise. 

Now, all that was left was to hand in the physical copy.
His stomach gave a low, irritated growl. Right.
He hadn’t eaten yet…
Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Sliding the printed form into a folder, he stood up, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness. The cafeteria wasn’t exactly Michelin-star dining, but it was better than going through the rest of the day running on tea and rye bread.

Besides, he had a feeling he’d need the energy.

The cafeteria was as sterile as the rest of the facility, white walls, bright lights, the faint hum of ventilation drowning out the low murmur of conversation. The air smelled like reheated food and burnt coffee, the kind of lifeless meals that only a government-funded facility could serve with a straight face. 

Degtyaryov scanned the room on instinct. The usual crowd of researchers and security personnel sat at the metal tables, hunched over their trays, eating in silence or muttering about their work. Nothing interesting. Nothing out of the ordinary…

Until he spotted him. 

Strelok stood at the back of the meal line, hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans, squinting at the digital display listing the day’s meal options like he was staring against the desert sun.
Degtyaryov almost chuckled at the sight.

The guy looked so out of place here, even after weeks in the facility. He still carried himself like a stalker, like someone expecting a blind hound to lunge at him from the next corner. His stance was too tense, his movements too careful, as if he were a skittish cat. It was painfully obvious that the Zone hadn’t left him and probably never would. 

He let his eyes drift lower, the Stalker had folded the sleeves of his shirt up, he noted the fresh bandages wrapped tight around Strelok’s forearm and frowned. The tech hadn’t been lying, Strelok was still at it, carving himself up like he could scrape something out of his skin. 
He sighed and shook his head. He’d deal with that later. 

Degtyaryov took his time walking up, keeping his steps casual. No sudden movements, Strelok spooked easy, like some wounded animal that wasn’t sure if it should bolt or bite. 
He came up beside him, leaning just a little too close, enough to make it clear this wasn’t just a passing interaction. 
“Didn’t take you for the indecisive type,” he murmured, eyes flicking from the menu to Strelok’s face. “What, too many good options?” 

Strelok startled just a little, it was barely noticeable, just a flicker of his fingers before he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He turned his head slightly, side-eyeing the colonel with an expression caught between tired suspicion and something softer. 
“Didn’t take you for the chatty type,” Strelok muttered, but there was no real bite to it. 

Degtyaryov just grinned, tilting his head. Interesting. Strelok wasn’t immediately brushing him off. That counted as progress. 
“Figured I’d check in on you,” he said smoothly. “You look great, by the way. Real picture of health.” His gaze flicked to the fresh bandages, then back up. “New fashion statement?” 

Strelok huffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re always this insufferable, or just when you’re trying to be cute?” 

Oh, that was fun. 
Degtyaryov chuckled, low and warm. “Depends. Is it working?” 

Strelok’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, like he wasn’t sure if Degtyaryov was fucking with him or not. But then, after a long pause, he huffed again, quieter this time, almost amused. He finally looked away from the menu, shifting his stance just slightly toward Degtyaryov. 
“Mm. Jury’s still out,” he muttered. 

Strelok tilted his head and got back to squinting at the menu like it was written in a language he didn’t understand, leaning in just slightly, like getting closer would somehow make the words clearer. 

Degtyaryov watched for a second before exhaling through his nose, shaking his head. Christ.  "Here," he reached up and plucked his glasses off his shirt collar, holding them out. 

Strelok blinked at him. Then at the glasses. Then back at him. "...What?" 

"Put 'em on," Degtyaryov said, waving them a little. "Unless you like pretending you can read that thing." 

Strelok frowned but, after hesitating for a bit, snatched the glasses from the colonel’s hand. He pushed them onto his face with a slight grimace, like he expected them to be uncomfortable. 
Then his brows furrowed, his gaze shifting up to the board again. There was a slight widening of his eyes, it was easy to miss, but Degtyaryov caught it. 
"Son of a bitch," Strelok muttered under his breath. 

The colonel barely held back a snicker. "See something new?" 

Strelok lowered his head slightly, adjusting the glasses. "...Didn't realize it was this bad," he admitted. There was something weirdly vulnerable about the way he said it, like this was a realization he wasn't exactly comfortable with. 

Degtyaryov just hummed. "Guess those scientists don’t really check past the stuff they need from you, huh?" 

Strelok didn't answer right away. He just stared at the board a second longer before letting out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Guess not." 

He let that sit for a second before casually nudging him with his elbow. "Alright, now that you can see, what do you want? My treat." 

Strelok turned his head just slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the charitable type." 

"Didn't peg you for the type to need glasses." 

Strelok clicked his tongue, but Degtyaryov caught the faint ghost of a smirk. "Fine. I'll take whatever the least offensive option is." 

"So indecisive," Degtyaryov teased, stepping up to order. But he couldn’t help glancing at Strelok one more time, watching the way he still looked a little thrown off by the whole thing. He had to admit, the Stalker looked quite good with those glasses.

Strelok poked at his food like it was some kind of lab experiment, tilting his head slightly as he examined the texture of what was supposed to be mashed potatoes. He gave it a tentative sniff, his nose wrinkling just a bit, before taking the smallest possible bite, chewing slowly, processing the texture, the taste, everything.  

Degtyaryov had seen men disarm landmines with less caution. He raised an eyebrow, already halfway through his own meal. "You always eat like that?" 

Strelok swallowed, clicking his tongue slightly. "It's about understanding what you're eating. Texture, flavor, consistency…" He frowned, stabbing the potatoes with his fork again. "This is not mashed potatoes." 

Degtyaryov leaned on the table, resting his chin on his hand, amused. "So what is it, then?" 

Strelok tapped his fork against the plate, deep in thought. "...I believe it’s some kind of powdered substitute. It's too smooth, no lumps, a little gluey…" He took another bite, slower this time, and smacked his lips together before his expression tensed a little. "Definitely margarine. No real butter. Could be worse but it still doesn’t really taste good." 

He could only shake his head, this guy was unbelievable. "You ever just eat without overanalyzing it?" 

Strelok looked at him like he was the weird one. "Why would I do that? That’s kinda risky.“ 

Degtyaryov stared at the man for a second. Blinked. Then just shook his head. "Nevermind. What’s the verdict on the rest?" 

Strelok took his time, testing everything on his plate with the same methodical process, sniff, taste, slow chew, thoughtful pause. Apparently, the vegetables were overcooked, the meat was suspiciously uniform in texture and the gravy had way too much thickener in it. 
Finally, he sat back slightly, crossing his arms. "It’s edible." 

"High praise," the colonel muttered, shoveling another bite into his mouth without a care in the world. 

Strelok huffed, but something about the way his shoulders sat a little looser told Degtyaryov he was more relaxed than before. 
A few minutes passed like that, just eating in relative silence. But then, just as he was about to finish, Strelok set his fork down and glanced toward the window. 

It was still raining outside. Cold, grey, uninviting. 
Still, the Stalker tilted his head toward it
"Walk with me?" 

The colonel raised an eyebrow. "Now?" 

Strelok nodded, already pushing his half finished tray aside. "Yeah. Now." 

Degtyaryov exhaled, giving him a long look before shrugging. He wasn’t made of sugar, the rain wouldn’t hurt him. "Alright. Let’s go then."

The rain came down in steady, misty sheets, soaking into the pavement and pooling in uneven cracks. It was cold, the kind that seeped through skin and bone, but Strelok didn’t seem to care. He stood just outside the cafeteria doors, squinting up at the sky.

Degtyaryov sighed, shaking his head as he popped open his umbrella. “You’re planning on standing there all day?” 

Strelok blinked, glancing over. His face was unreadable, but something about the way he hesitated made Degtyaryov think he really had forgotten that umbrellas were a thing normal people used.  
Without waiting for an answer, he stepped beside the Stalker, tilting the umbrella just enough to cover them both. Strelok glanced up at the fabric, then back at Degtyaryov, a little crease forming between his brows.  
“…I always just wore a hood,” he muttered, almost like he was trying to justify himself.  

“Yeah, well, welcome back to civilization,” he shifted the umbrella a little more over Strelok’s side. “We have modern luxuries here.”  

Strelok just huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as they started walking. The rain hit the umbrella in soft, rhythmic little taps. The outdoors of the SIRCAA headquarters looked much more…real the further they walked. Cracks in the pavement, grass that wasn’t perfectly cut. It was refreshing.

Degtyaryov gave him a quick side glance. The Stalker was still wearing his glasses, they sat a little awkwardly on Strelok’s face, too narrow, sliding down the slope of his nose ever so often, forcing him to push them back up absentmindedly. It made him look younger, somehow. A little lost.   

His dark brown hair was a little too long for what had probably started as the average military buzzcut, now slightly overgrown and uneven, sticking up at odd angles where the rain had dampened it. His skin was pale, too pale, with faint bruises lingering at his cheekbones and jaw like shadows. And so thin. The man had always been lean, but this? His jeans, already looking worn and patched up at places, were cinched at the waist with a belt that had extra holes punched into the leather, still barely keeping them up. The quarter-zip sweater he wore, some standard-issue SIRCAA drap, hung loose on his frame like it belonged to someone two sizes bigger.     
He looked small. 
Not in the way a survivor should. Not in the way a legend should. 
Degtyaryov clenched his jaw slightly, swallowing down whatever that thought made him feel.  

They walked in silence for a bit, the only sounds around them being the rain and the soles of thier boots against the wet pavement. Then, finally, Strelok spoke.  
“The PDA,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “Any progress?”  

Degtyaryov exhaled, adjusting his grip on the umbrella. “Working on it.” 

Strelok didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze ahead, but his fingers twitched slightly where they were stuffed in his pockets. 
“How long?” 

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days. I filed for temporary access, security bullshit, you know how it is.“ he sighs, tongue darting out to wet his lips „Better than trying to break in.” 

Strelok hummed, but there was something off in the sound. Something tired and impatient.
“I need it back,” he grumbled.   

Degtyaryov looked at him, watching as Strelok’s shoulders curled inward just a little, like everything around him was too much.  
“I know,” he answered. Voice softer now. “I’ll get it to you. I promised, remember?”   

For the first time, Strelok finally glanced at him, pushing the glasses up again. His eyes were dark, searching. He didn’t even hesitate. “So why don’t you just steal it?” 

Degtyaryov sighed, tilting his head back slightly. Should’ve seen that one coming. 
“Because I’d need a keycard for that,” he muttered, giving Strelok a sideways glance. “And while I could swipe one off some poor bastard, I’d rather not get caught sneaking around a high-security facility like a snot-faced rookie.” 

Strelok just hummed, narrowing his eyes to slits. He pushed Degtyaryov’s glasses up his nose again, eyes flicking ahead, scanning the walkways, the buildings, the guards posted here and there. Like he was already mapping out the entire place in his head. 

Degtyaryov rested a hand on the Stalkers shoulder, forcing him to a halt. He gave him a stern look.. “Don’t you dare even think about it.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

Strelok gave him a look, too neutral to be innocent, too casual to be genuine. Then he shrugged, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Just saying, if you did steal one, they’d probably assume some scientist lost theirs. Happens all the time.” 

The colonel exhaled sharply. “Yeah? And if they check the logs and see an unauthorized access attempt?” 

“…Then we blame the scientist.” 

Degtyaryov exhaled through his teeth. “Jesus Christ.” 

Strelok’s mouth twitched, like he almost smiled. But then, just as quick, the amusement faded, and his gaze drifted forward again. 
“…I just want it back.” 

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the damp chill of the air settle into his skin. 
“I know,” he said. “I told you, I’ll handle it.” 

Strelok didn’t respond right away. He just let the silence stretch. He nodded eventually. 
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Degtyaryov let his shoulders slump, a long sigh escaping him without thinking. He could feel how miserable Strelok was. He didn't need to imagine how bad it was, he saw it in the way the man carried himself, in the way he spoke, like he'd been worn down by something too big to fight back against on his own. Day in and day out, locked up in this sterile shoebox, poked and prodded by scientists who treated him like a lab rat, having to deal with the horrors in his head alone.

He could relate, in a way.
He couldn’t scrub his memories of what he saw in Makeni and Magburaka, couldn’t unsee the mutilated bodies, the children who were used as cannon fodder. But that was the aftermath. The closest he got to the rotten core of war was in a helicopter or days, maybe even weeks after. Strelok had lived through the hell that was active combat. He’d been in the thick of it, seen and done things that no one should ever have to. Unlike Degtyaryov he wasn’t just hearing about it secondhand; he was the one that could recollect the nightmare.

He had heard the stories from some men in his unit, from the ones who fought in the Caucasus. Hell, even just listening to them had made his stomach turn. Those were things he didn’t want to picture in his head. But Strelok? He lived that shit. Every day. Probably reliving it every time he closed his eyes. And now, he was here, still trying to make it through all of it, in a place that didn’t care about him, didn’t see him as a person but the very memories that ate him alive.

And yet, it wasn’t pity he felt for the man. It wasn’t about feeling sorry for him, it was about understanding just how tough it was, how tough he was, to still be standing. It was nothing short of admirable.

Degtyaryov was ripped out of his thoughts, he barely had time to react before Strelok snatched the umbrella from his hand, angling it just enough to obscure his face as a pair of guards walked past. 
 “The hell are you-??” 

“Shhh.” Strelok’s voice was low, almost casual, but there was a sharp edge to it. He kept his head tilted down, posture just slightly stiff, he was trying way too hard to look natural. 

He glanced at the passing guards, nothing out of the ordinary. They didn’t even spare the two of them a second look. But Strelok didn’t relax until they were a good distance away, finally lowering the umbrella just a little. 

“…Something you wanna tell me?” Degtyaryov asked, crossing his arms. 

Strelok exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the bridge of his own, well, Degtyaryov’s, glasses.
“I may be on room arrest.” 

Degtyaryov blinked. “You may be?” 

Strelok gave a noncommittal shrug. 

The colonel let out a slow, tense sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Strelok.” 

“Look, they didn’t explicitly say I couldn’t leave, they just..,” he gestured with his hand, “strongly implied it.” 

“That is not how room arrest works!” Degtyaryov knitted his eyebrows together, trying to keep his tone even.

“Well, in my experience, when people want me locked up, they at least put a lock on the damn door! So its their fault!” 

Degtyaryov was going to lose his mind. He stared at Strelok, who was still holding the umbrella like it was a makeshift disguise, the damp tufts of his buzzcut clinging to his forehead, his too-loose quarter-zip practically swallowing his frame. He looked more like some stray cat the Zone spat out than a high-profile detainee. 
“…Unbelievable,” Degtyaryov muttered. “You do realize if they catch you out here, they’re just gonna make things worse for you, right?” 

“I’ve had worse.” 

“That is not the point, Strelok!” 

Strelok sighed, finally handing the umbrella back. “Relax. I won’t get caught.” 

Degtyaryov sighed, shaking his head. "Look, whatever stunt you're pulling, just remember our deal. I am working on getting your PDA back, so don’t go making things harder for yourself.” 

Strelok hummed, looking off toward the gray horizon, rain pattering against the pavement. He didn’t argue. Didn’t promise, either. Classic. 

He glanced at the Stalker. “By the way, how did you even sneak out? The entire building’s locked down tighter than Rostock after dark.” 

Strelok finally turned to him, adjusting the glasses that still sat awkwardly on his face. “Oh, that? Simple.” 

Degtyaryov arched a brow. Simple?  That’s not how he would describe it.

Strelok shifted his weight slightly, slipping into the kind of tone someone might use when explaining how to change a tire. Degtyaryov knew he was in for a treat when the Stalker started speaking while gesturing with his hands. “Security works in rotating shifts of six hours, four primary guards per floor, two at the main entrance, plus an emergency response team on standby. You can tell when shift change is about to happen because the guards get antsy; their patrols get sloppier, their pacing changes as well. At about fifteen minutes before shift turnover, there’s a gap when the replacement officers haven’t fully checked in, and the old shift is just done with their day. That’s when they’re the least attentive.” 

Degtyaryov just blinked. 

Strelok continued like he was rattling off a grocery list. “Most patrol routes prioritize high-traffic zones, meaning the maintenance hallways get neglected. I took a side route through the janitorial wing, found an old supply closet with a vent access panel. Security doesn't check those because, structurally, they aren't rated for the average human weight. But the ones in this building? Installed with a reinforced frame. I don’t know why. Still a little tight, but manageable.” 

The Colonel rubbed his temples. “You crawled through a vents like a rat?” 

Strelok shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Degtyaryov ran a hand down his face. He wasn’t sure if he could believe that. “Jesus. Alright. And what about the cameras?” 

Strelok smirked. “Blind spots! Every system has them. This one’s not as modern as I thought, probably running on motion-triggered sensors with a ten-second delay before refocus. Walk slow enough, you don’t trip it. The cameras in the maintenance corridors are positioned high, covering entrances and exits, but they’re angled for general coverage, not detailed monitoring. If you move right along the edge of their range, you stay in the shadow zones.” 

Degtyaryov exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Unbelievable. 
“…And the guards?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. 

“Distracted,” Strelok said simply. “One of them was more focused on scrolling through his phone than watching the hall. They usually station the rookies there anyway because those areas are easier to guard I suppose. I just had to time it right. Walk like you belong, don't hesitate, don't draw attention.” 

Degtyaryov stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. “You are insane.” 

Strelok smiled faintly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Looking a little proud. „No, it’s called practice.”

The rain had stopped by the time they were headed back inside, the air still humid but not as cold now. They walked side by side, the sounds of their boots tapping on the concrete floor, echoing down the hallways. It felt... easy, comfortable, almost normal, which was a bit of a rarity for Strelok.

By the time they got to the Stalkers quarters, Degtyaryov stopped in the hallway and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tossed it to Strelok.
“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, it wasn’t a big deal to him, but he still felt bad for making Strelok wait for his PDA.

Strelok caught it, staring at the pack for a moment like it was some kind of puzzle. He didn’t open it right away, just gave it a quick once-over, clearly surprised by the gesture.
“Something like a bribe?” Strelok said with a light smirk.

The colonel just gave him a half-chuckle. “Take it how you want. Just don’t make me regret it.”

After a beat, Strelok shrugged, popped a cigarette out of the pack, and offered one to Degtyaryov.

He simply shook his head with a polite chuckle. “Nah, I’m done. For good.”

Strelok blinked, surprised. “Really?”

Degtyaryov nodded, not bothering to elaborate. He didn’t need to. Strelok didn’t press it either, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, respect, maybe. He tucked the cigarette between his dry, chapped lips.

“Your loss,” he said, but the tone wasn’t as teasing as usual.

Degtyaryov sighs, trying to not glance at the stalkers bandaged arm. He didn’t want to press the issue now, sure, this was something that bothered him and it was serious, but Strelok looked much happier than he had in a month or two. He wasn’t gonna ruin that now, especially not in the middle of the hallway.
He was about to head out when Strelok’s voice stopped him.

“Hey.”

The Colonel turned back, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

Strelok was holding the lighter out to him, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You quit, but you can still light it for me.”

Degtyaryov blinked, caught off guard by the small request. He took the lighter and flicked it open, leaning in just enough to light the end of Strelok’s cigarette. The brief moment of their eyes meeting felt heavier than it should’ve, like something unspoken was there.

Strelok didn’t say anything at first, just took a long drag from the cigarette, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks,” he muttered quietly, before looking down at the smoke curling around him.

Degtyaryov nodded, the faintest of smiles on his face. “Anytime, Strelok.”

As he turned to leave, the feel of the moment stuck with him. It wasn’t a lot, just a simple gesture. But it felt... significant, in its own way. Like maybe Strelok wasn’t a lost cause after all.
He trusted him, that was good. That was…nice.

Chapter Text

The cigarette burned low between his fingers, its ember glowing dimly in the darkness. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, fading into the stale air of his tiny room. Strelok lay sprawled on the mattress, head tipped over the edge, bare skin prickling in the morning chill. His arm was stretched out, resting over his ribs, bandages loose around his forearm, the edges stained a sickly mix of red and yellow. He hadn’t changed them since yesterday. Maybe the day before. 

He took another drag, let the smoke sit in his lungs until it burned, then exhaled slowly. His head throbbed dully. The song playing on the radio was one he still remembered from childhood, a ghost of a time before war, before the Zone. He should’ve turned it off, shouldn’t have let himself linger on the memories, but something about it kept him there, staring at the ceiling, cigarette dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. 

He had to get up. Had to shower.  

But the thought of it made his stomach churn. 

The bathroom was always the worst. Too bright. Too clean. Nowhere to hide from himself. The steam made his skin crawl, made the bandages loosen, made everything sting. He could pretend, for a little while, that the pain didn’t exist. That the weight in his chest was just exhaustion, nothing more. But in there? He’d have to look.

He ran his free hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his unkempt hair. His arm twinged when he moved too fast, skin tight and raw. The place where the tattoo had once been was a mess of fresh scabs and half-healed tissue, jagged and uneven, it had been torn open too many times, the scarring standing out in thick ridges and discolored patches.
He'd cut out more when no one was looking, carving the ink out of his skin in the shower, when the walls felt too close and his thoughts felt too loud. 

He told himself he was getting rid of it. But really, he knew it wasn’t just about the tattoo. 

He took another slow drag, exhaled through his nose. The cigarette was almost finished now, the filter warm against his lips. 

Another minute. Just one more. 

Then he’d get up.

The pounding in Strelok's head felt like it was ready to split his skull open as he shuffled into the bathroom, bare feet dragging against the cold floor. The air smelled sterile, overly clean, like it was trying to scrub away any trace of the chaos inside his head. The mirror stared back at him, showing a face he almost didn’t recognize anymore.

He pulled off his shirt and stood in front of the shower, the cold scraping against his skin. His eyes found the bloodstains that marred the floor, dried rivulets from the bandages he’d removed earlier, circling the drain. The scar tissue on his arm was raw, freshly bared, a bloody mess of flesh where his mark used to be. A tattoo that had once been a symbol, his claim to the Zone. But now? Now it was a reminder. Of weakness. Of failure. Of everything he couldn’t outrun.

His hand trembled as he turned the water on, the steam fogging the mirror up even more. He scrubbed at the stains, the blood from his arm, his skin still stinging from where he'd carved away the mark. It hurt, yeah, but it was nothing compared to the other pain, the kind that dug deeper into his soul. The kind that the Zone had carved into him and left his soul in pieces.

It wasn’t just about the tattoo. It wasn’t just about the blood. It was about the anger that still burned in his chest, the rage that never quite settled, the memories of the Zone and the people he’d lost. He wasn’t some hero, wasn’t some legend to be idolized. No.
He was just a guy trying to survive long enough to find someone, anyone, that felt the same way he did, someone who could understand and listen to his pain without judging him.

He leaned against the shower wall, letting the hot water pour down over him, but it did nothing to drown out the pounding in his head. The thoughts were louder now, clearer than ever. The fading faces of his fallen friends, the ones he couldn’t save.
The faces of the people who’d abandoned him, left him alone to rot in the ruins. The faces of the ones who deserved to burn, to feel that same agony he carried in his chest.

His hands clenched into fists, the sting of the raw skin on his arm reminding him of the part of himself he couldn’t kill. The tattoo should have been his badge of honor, the mark of his survival. But it was just another piece of the shit he couldn’t leave behind.
He didn’t want to show weakness, didn’t want to let anyone see his agony, wanted to cover up for the rest of his life.
But deep down, he wanted them to see.

He wanted them to know how much it hurt. How it never stopped hurting. Wanted them to see the blood he bled, the blood of a man who had been stripped of everything and yet refused to die, like a cockroach, getting off its back even after its legs had been plugged out.
But that part of him, the part that wanted revenge, that wanted to tear the world apart for what it had taken, was starting to rot him from the inside out.

Strelok scrubbed at the floor harder, almost desperately, as if the more he tried to wash the blood away, the more he could wash away the rage, the guilt. But it never worked. It never helped.
He had no idea how to be free of it.

Eventually, he just gave up. The bloodstains weren’t coming out without proper cleaner, and he didn’t have it in him to sneak out for something so stupid. He pulled on a shirt and the cleanest pair of jeans he could find, the fabrics clung uncomfortably to his skin, offering little warmth against the biting chill in the air. 

Still toweling off his hair, he barely had time to register the sharp knocking at his door. That particular rhythm only ever meant one thing, trouble. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before dragging himself over to answer. 

Degtyaryov stood on the other side, looking as composed as ever, arms crossed, expression unreadable. And that, more than anything, set off alarms in Strelok’s head. Degtyaryov was a man of subtle tells, little flickers of amusement, irritation, or exhaustion always written somewhere on his face. 

This? This was different. 

"Good morning. I hope I’m not bothering you." Degtyaryov stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, forcing Strelok to sidestep him at the last second. 

"Is it?" Strelok muttered, kicking the door shut behind him. He tossed the damp towel onto the bed, not missing the way Degtyaryov’s gaze flicked toward the open bathroom door. He saw the blood streaks, the ones Strelok had half-heartedly scrubbed at. His expression didn’t shift, but Strelok could tell, he had noticed. 

Degtyaryov exhaled through his nose, his tone dipping into that frustrating, careful neutrality he used when he was trying to make something sound better than it was. 
"I talked to them. About your PDA." 

That got Strelok’s attention. He straightened a little, arms crossing. "And?" 

"And they’ll give it back." A beat. "When they’re finished testing it." 

Strelok’s stomach dropped. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes went flat. 
"Testing it," he echoed, voice devoid of anything resembling emotion. 

Degtyaryov shifted slightly, clearly not liking where this was going. "Yeah. Which is code for ‘whenever the fuck they feel like it.’ I’m sorry." 

Strelok almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he shook his head, something sharp and ugly twisting in his chest. "Great. Fantastic. Love that for me." 

"Strelok-" 

"No, really, this is just perfect!" He threw his arms out, his voice biting. "What’s next? They wanna test my brain too? Oh, wait-" He tapped a finger to his temple, mock realization creeping into his tone. "They already do that! Every. Fucking. Week." 

The colonel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a headache. "Look, I know this is frustrating-" 

"Frustrating?" Strelok barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "No. Getting rained on five minutes into a mission is frustrating. This?" He jabbed a finger toward the floor, toward nothing in particular. "Finding out the last fucking piece of myself is being held hostage for ‘testing’?" His voice cracked, rage bubbling up like bile. "That’s not frustrating. That’s just... " 
The pressure in his chest had nowhere to go, the fury crawling under his skin like a live wire. He turned, kicking the basket of dirty clothes he had placed on his desk chair so hard it crashed against the wall, snapping one of the handles clean off. The impact did nothing to quiet the storm in his head. 

Degtyaryov didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold him. He just stood there, watching, before his voice softened, just enough to be noticeable. "I’m still pushing for it, okay? I haven’t given up." 

Strelok clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders to shake out whatever was still clawing at his muscles. "Yeah," he muttered finally, voice rough. "Neither have I."
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before dragging it down to his neck. He needed a minute, just one fucking minute, to shove everything back into the mental lockbox he’d built for himself.
But Degtyaryov, to his credit, was still watching him, like he knew pushing right now would just make Strelok shut down entirely. 

Instead of hammering on about the PDA, the colonel shifted gears.
"What’s up with your arm?" His voice was level, lacking the clinical detachment of the scientists or the condescending tone of the security personnel. 

The Stalker stiffened before he could stop himself. Instinct. His fingers curled slightly. He hadn’t expected him to ask, not directly, not like that.
"Nothing," Strelok muttered, far too quick. 

Degtyaryov’s brow lifted slightly. "Nothing doesn’t usually need that much gauze." 

Strelok’s jaw tightened. He glanced away, staring somewhere past Deg’s shoulder. "It’s fine." 

"Strelok." The way Degtyaryov said his name, it wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even pity. Just concern, simple and direct.

Strelok clenched his teeth. "I took care of it." 

"Yeah?" Degtyaryov tilted his head slightly, not in disbelief but in that way someone does when they’re trying to piece together a puzzle. "And what exactly were you taking care of if you don’t mind me asking?" 

Silence stretched between them, before the Stalker just sighed, rubbing at his temples. "Just… getting rid of something I didn’t need anymore." 

"Was it the mark?" 

That made Strelok glance back at him. 
Degtyaryov’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t ask why, didn’t act like Strelok had done something insane. He just nodded slightly, like he understood more than he was letting on. 

"You know the scientists reported it," Deg continued after a beat. "They’re pushing for psych intervention. They think it’s self-harm." 

Strelok scoffed. Of course they did. "And what do you think?" 

The colonel studied him for a second before responding. "I think you’ve been through shit most people couldn’t even begin to process." 

Strelok blinked. That… wasn’t the answer he expected. 

Degtyaryov shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "You can tell me to fuck off if you want," he said lightly. "Just figured I’d rather hear your side of it before someone who doesn’t care about your actual wellbeing decides what it means." 

That, God, that hit harder than it should’ve. Strelok swallowed, suddenly feeling like the floor was just a little unsteady beneath him. 
For the first time in a long time, someone had actually asked.

Strelok huffed out a laugh, quiet and dry. "You always this nosy?" 

"Only with people I like." Degtyaryov shot back, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just slightly. 

Strelok blinked, caught off guard by the ease of it. Degtyaryov wasn’t kissing ass, not really, but there was something in the way he said it, something warm, something teasing. It was disarming in a way he wasn’t used to. He’d gotten so used to people talking at him, demanding explanations, trying to pick him apart like some broken piece of tech. But Degtyaryov? He just asked. 

Strelok shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "Christ." 

"Not quite," the colonel replied, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "But I’ve been called worse." 

Strelok snorted, against his own damn will. It was small, barely more than a breath of amusement, but Degtyaryov noticed. His expression softened, just a flicker, just for a moment. 

"Seriously, though." Degtyaryov leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. "You don’t have to explain yourself to me. But if you ever feel like it…" He trailed off, shrugging one shoulder, leaving the offer hanging in the air. 

Strelok looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like someone was trying to pull him apart just to see how he ticked. Degtyaryov wasn’t a scientist, wasn’t a bureaucrat with a clipboard and an agenda. He was just… there.
And fuck, that was dangerous. 

Strelok swallowed. "I’ll think about it." 

Degtyaryov’s lips twitched again, barely holding back another smirk. "That’s all I ask." 

Strelok winced as he adjusted his arm, the bandages still fresh but tight around the wound. His eyes flicked to Degtyaryov for a moment before quickly looking away. The Colonel hadn’t taken his eyes off him,.
"You sure you don’t want me to help with that?" the colonel eventually asked, voice low but not unkind. "I can clean it up for you, if it’ll make it easier."

Strelok hesitated. The offer was genuine, too genuine. He wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t used to anyone offering something for free. His past experiences with “help” had been either calculated or manipulative. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before, he just needed some time to lick his wounds. The blood, the pain, the marks. They were all just part of him now.
"I’ve got it," he muttered, tightening his grip on his arm. "Don’t need more people poking around in it."

There was a brief silence, Degtyaryov seemed to consider pushing further, maybe even offering again. But then, to Strelok's surprise, he simply nodded. "Alright." he sounded so casual about it, as if he wasn’t offended, or hurt, like most would be.

Strelok blinked, looking up at him again. For a moment, he thought he saw something else in the Colonel’s eyes, something that made him hesitate. It wasn’t much, not really. But it was enough for Strelok to realize that there was more to the Colonel than he had thought. Maybe this kind of kindness wasn’t just a transaction? He had to dig deeper to find out.  

Strelok looked away, focusing on the bandages again. But the warmth still lingered. And for once, he didn’t feel the immediate urge to close himself off, to block it all out. 
"Thanks," he mumbled, his voice came out softer, like he actually meant it.

Strelok had half-expected the conversation to end there, to return to the eerie quiet. But, surprisingly, Degtyaryov stretched, massaging the back of his neck.
"Come on," he said with a small nod. "Let’s get some air. You’ve been cooped up here long enough."

Strelok blinked at him, unsure if he’d heard that right. He had never expected anyone to offer him a walk, let alone someone like Degtyaryov. And yet, here the man was, looking at him expectantly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Fresh air," Degtyaryov repeated, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It helps with the fog. Trust me."

Strelok’s first instinct was to refuse. He was never good at this, this kind of casual, normal interaction. It felt almost too intimate, too… human. But then he thought of how it had been for him, these last few weeks, how the walls had been closing in on him, how every moment felt like it was suffocating him. Maybe just a little bit of space, a little bit of time outside the sterile halls wouldn’t hurt.
"Alright," he muttered, a little reluctant, but not entirely opposed.

The two of them walked through the building’s quiet corridors, the light outside still soft and hazy in the early morning hours. Strelok couldn’t help but notice how different it felt with Degtyaryov beside him, his presence, the slight warmth of his body just close enough to be reassuring without being intrusive.

As they reached the doors that led outside, the cool air hit Strelok like a brick to the face. The wind crept under his shirt but it was refreshing, cleansing almost. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe.
"This... is nice," Strelok muttered, hivering slightly as he shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the awkwardness of the moment. He didn’t know what to say. What do you even say to someone who just offered you... normalcy?

Degtyaryov smiled softly, "Yeah, it is."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the crunch of gravel underfoot filling the space between them. Strelok stole glances at Degtyaryov every now and then, his posture remained casual. The man didn’t seem in a hurry to go anywhere.
"So," Degtyaryov spoke up, breaking the silence. "What’s it like out there? In the Zone, I mean. You ever miss it?"

Strelok was taken aback by the question. He thought about it for a second, the familiar, raw ache of longing creeping up on him. "I do," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I miss the sound of the wind in the trees, the distant howls and gunfire. The beeping of my detector. The freedom of it all... You know, it’s like, in the Zone, nothing’s expected of you. It’s all chaos, but there’s a weird sort of peace in it."

Degtyaryov nodded, as if he understood, though Strelok wasn’t sure how he could. He’d never been out there long enough, never had the time to really go through what Strelok had lived through. And yet, there was something in the Colonel’s expression, something close to knowing.
"I I get it," Degtyaryov said simply. "I think I understand a little more than you’d think."

Strelok wasn’t sure how to respond. They kept walking, their footsteps syncing up with an ease that felt natural. He glanced sideways at Degtyaryov, his eyes lingering for just a second too long before quickly darting away. He felt a strange flutter in his chest, something warm and unrecognizable. Was it... hope? Or just the comfort of someone who didn’t see him as a broken machine, but as someone who could still be a little human?

The two of them reached a small bench, tucked off to the side in a forgotten corner of the courtyard. The bench was old, but sturdy, and they both sat, the silence between them not uncomfortable but... nice.

Strelok sighed, his voice quieter than he expected. "I don’t think I’ve ever had someone just... walk with me, you know? Just... be there."

Degtyaryov gave a soft chuckle, turning his head just enough to meet the Stalker’s gaze. "It’s the least I can do, Strelok. Just... don’t go making a habit of it, alright? I’ve got a reputation to maintain."

Strelok snorted, feeling a reluctant smile tug at his lips. "Right. Can’t have the mighty Colonel Degtyaryov being seen as soft, huh?"

"Exactly," the colonel chuckled, his smile widening just slightly. "But, for the record... it’s good to be able to just be for a change. No orders, no pressure."

Strelok looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. There was something there, something more than the hardened military persona he’d always carried. Something real. And maybe, just maybe, Strelok was starting to understand that there could be room for that in his life again.
He found himself leaning back against the bench, closing his eyes for a moment as the cool wind tugged at his hair.
"You don’t talk much about yourself, I’ve been wondering... what was your life like before all this?"

Strelok hadn’t expected the Colonel to share much about himself. After all, Degtyaryov was a man of few words, always measured, always the professional. But as they sat there, the faint breeze tugging at the leaves around them, he noticed something change in Degtyaryov’s demeanor. A shift in his posture, a slight relaxation of the tension that always seemed to hover around him.

"You know," Degtyaryov began, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "I was born in Pripyat."

Strelok turned his head slightly, not quite meeting the Colonel’s eyes. For a moment the stalker wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right.
"You were born there?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral but curious. He didn’t know if this was something the Colonel had shared with anyone before.

Degtyaryov nodded, his expression distant now, almost lost in the memory. "Yeah. Lived there until I was…hm...six? maybe seven." He paused, his eyes flicking to the ground for a moment as if gathering the right words. "My father worked there. I guess he thought he could be part of something bigger, you know? The whole Chornobyl thing, the nuclear dream, they were building things, testing things. And for a while, it seemed like they had it all. But then..."

He trailed off, shaking his head slightly as if brushing away the memories, the ghosts of his childhood. Strelok’s gaze lingered on him, sensing that there was something deeper in those words, something more personal than he was letting on.
"The accident," Strelok finished the sentence quietly, his voice low, as if speaking too loud would shatter whatever fragile space they had between them.

"Yeah," Degtyaryov replied, his voice hollow, almost distant. "I don’t remember much of it. I was just a kid. But I remember the fear in my mothers’ eyes when she told me we had to leave. Everything I knew, everything that felt normal, was just gone in the blink of an eye,” he snapped his fingers, “They moved us out of Pripyat and kept us under close observation for a few years. I guess that’s why I ended up here."

Strelok didn’t say anything immediately, his mind spinning. He could only imagine what it had been like for a kid, torn from everything familiar, everything safe. The Zone had been a place of rebirth for Strelok, but it had also been a place where he’d had to bury so much. He wondered if, for Degtyaryov, the Zone had been something entirely different, a place where all the pieces of his past had been lost, only to be reborn in this stark, sterile world.

"I don’t really talk about it much," Degtyaryov continued, his voice quieter now, almost like he was admitting something he felt guilty about. "Too many people around here don’t care where you come from, only what you can do. And, well... I learned early not to expect anything from anyone."

Strelok nodded slowly, understanding more than he was willing to admit. It wasn’t just about the work or the mission for people like Degtyaryov. It was about survival, about getting through the next day, the next hour, without being pulled under by the weight of the past.
"I get it," Strelok said finally, his voice sincere. "Sometimes it feels like the world’s moved on, and you're still stuck with the ghosts of what came before."

Degtyaryov looked at him then, his gaze softening. "Exactly."

The wind picked up again, but it didn’t feel as cold as it had before. Something about the Colonel’s words, something about the way he had opened up, had made everything feel a little more human, a little less clinical.
And for Strelok, that was enough, for now.

The Colonel glanced at Strelok. "You hungry?" he asked, the words coming out almost casually, but there was sincerity behind them. He could tell. "The food in that goddamn cafeteria's overpriced and undercooked, but it's better than whatever they put in these MREs. My treat."

Strelok blinked, surprised at the invitation. His first instinct was to say no, to keep his distance, to remain in the shadows. But there was something in the Degtyaryov’s voice, something real, that made him hesitate. For a moment, he wondered if this was some kind of trap, he had learned to be suspicious of anything too friendly, but then again, the Colonel had already shown that he wasn’t like the others. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have breakfast with him.

"I guess I can eat," Strelok muttered, not entirely sure how to respond. The idea of eating with someone, of sitting down and talking casually, still made him uneasy. He wasn't used to it. He didn’t even know what normal conversation was anymore. But the Colonel was waiting, and Strelok didn’t feel like turning him down.

"Good," Degtyaryov said, giving him a slight nod, and there was a glint in his eyes that made Strelok feel, for the first time in a while, like maybe he wasn’t a complete burden. "I swear, the prices they charge for that slop, could feed a family of five for a week with that money." He shook his head with an exaggerated sigh as they walked toward the cafeteria. "They must be buying the food from the same place they get their cleaning supplies."

Strelok let out a short, startled laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He felt his shoulders relax just a little, the tension that had clung to him since he’d woken up this morning slowly easing off. It wasn’t much, but it was the first time today that he felt like maybe he wasn’t entirely alone.

As they sat down at the same table from yesterday’s lunch, Strelok looked at the tray of food in front of him, poking at it with his fork. The mushy eggs, the sad-looking bacon, the pale rye bread that tasted like cardboard, it all felt like something that didn’t belong in his world. His eyes narrowed, staring at the food in front of him, and he began to pick it apart methodically, one small piece at a time.

He hated eating in front of people. Hated the way they watched him, the way he had to figure out how to chew without making a weird noise or looking like weird. Eating was something that, for Strelok, required an immense amount of focus. It was like a puzzle. Every bite had to be precise. The way the food fit into and felt in his mouth, the texture, the temperature, everything had to be just right or it made him want to spit it out.

But the Colonel was talking, no, rambling, about what seemed to be casual things, the way the tea tasted like battery acid, how the entire place seemed to run on some bureaucratic nightmare logic that made no sense. It was enough to distract Strelok, even if only for a moment.

"I don’t understand how they’re so efficient with everything else, but they can’t figure out how to cook an egg properly," Degtyaryov shook his head, stabbing a sad piece of the limp bacon with his fork.

Strelok hummed in agreement, giving a half-hearted shrug as he pushed his plate forward, almost absentmindedly. "It’s not food," he said quietly, but there was a certain calm in his voice now. "It’s... just calories."

Degtyaryov looked at him, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

Strelok shrugged again, this time a little more vigorously, like he was trying to explain something that didn’t have words for it. "I don’t care about the taste. I don’t care about how it looks. I just... want to get through it. It’s not food to me. It’s just... fuel."

There was a long pause, and for a moment, Strelok thought he might have said something wrong, something that would make the Colonel look at him weird. But then Degtyaryov nodded, as if he understood. "Yeah," he said softly. "I get that. Just enough to get by. I feel the same about some of the stuff they serve here."

Strelok focused back on his food, picking it apart with more precision than was probably necessary. He could hear the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the low murmur of conversation from other tables, the clink of trays and silverware, but it all felt distant, like he wasn’t quite a part of it. He wasn’t sure if he ever would be again.

But for a moment, it didn’t matter. Degtyaryov was here, across from him, not making it awkward, not rushing him. Just letting him be. Strelok had to admit, it felt... nice. A small, warm thing in a world that had been cold for so long.

Strelok caught himself stealing glances at Degtyaryov now and then, noticing the way his eyes softened when he spoke, how the lines around his mouth relaxed when he smiled.
It wasn’t a flirtatious glance, not really. Just something that Strelok couldn’t help, something in his brain that noticed. He was aware of the Colonel in a way that felt... important. He didn’t quite know what to do with that feeling, though.
"So... what do you think about the Zone?" Strelok asked, almost shyly now, as if testing the waters.

Degtyaryov looked up. "The Zone?"

"Yeah," Strelok answered, his voice softer, almost uncertain. "You ever thought about going back?"

Degtyaryov paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "I think... if it wasn’t for this job, I’d probably be back there. It’s where I feel most alive, you know? And Pripyat is still my home, after all."

Strelok nodded slowly, his heart tightening just a little. For the first time in a long while, he realized he wasn’t alone in that feeling.
"Maybe... maybe we could go back one day," he muttered quietly, as if making a promise, even though he didn’t know if it would ever come true.

Degtyaryov looked at him, his eyes softening, and for a moment, Strelok thought he saw something more there, something that wasn’t just duty or distance.
"Maybe we will," the Colonel replied, his voice low and sincere.

Chapter Text

Degtyaryov was running on caffeine and stress, and it showed. He hadn’t put his phone down all day, his fingers tapping out messages on the computer, checking encrypted channels, waiting for a response from his superiors that never came. The Russian Federation had its eyes on them now, and when they wanted something, they didn’t ask, they took. SIRCAA was feeling the pressure, and by extension, so was he. 

The last thing he needed was to play political chess with bureaucrats while also keeping an eye on internal security threats. He’d been briefed, sternly, that the Russians were accusing them of harboring a terrorist. Pavel K. Streletsky. Not that Degtyaryov saw it that way, but what he thought didn’t matter. The Federation had power, and they would use it if they saw fit. 

And on top of that? There was still an ongoing investigation into that false fire alarm from the other week. Some asshole had pulled it without cause, throwing the entire facility into chaos for the past three days. No official suspects yet, but there were whispers. If someone inside was testing the system, or worse, planning something, he needed to know before the Russians used it as an excuse to make their move.

His head pounded as he scrolled through his messages. Nothing useful. No orders, no direction. Just vague assurances that they were “handling it.” He grit his teeth, suppressing the urge to throw his phone across the room. 
Handling it, his ass. If they didn’t move soon, the Russians would.
Degtyaryov pushed his chair back with a groan, his neck and back stiff from sitting at his desk for so long. He needed to step outside and get some fresh air before his head exploded.

The cold air bit at his face the moment he pushed open the heavy door. He let it wash over him, dragging in a deep breath like he’d just surfaced from drowning. His hands were already in his coat pockets, but not for warmth, he was fishing for something he knew he shouldn’t have in the first place. Something he had fetched for Strelok earlier. It was stupid really, he tempted himself by running around and fetching contraband for the man like some errand boy. But he couldn’t help it. 
His fingers closed around the pack. 

For ten months, he’d managed. Ten months of clenched teeth, of gum that tasted like rubber, of pacing like a caged animal when the cravings got bad. He’d promised himself he was done. But right now? Right now, with the Russians breathing down his neck, with SIRCAA’s bureaucracy making his life hell, with the worry about Strelok‘s wellbeing in the back of his mind, he just needed something to ease his nerves before they snapped. 

The cigarette was between his lips before he could think too hard about it. A flick of his lighter, the brief glow of flame, and then, inhale. 

The first drag burned in a way that was almost comforting, the familiar bite of nicotine flooding his system, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air in wide, lazy spirals, carried off by the light

“Ten months,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Ten months down the drain. But right now, he didn’t have it in him to really care.

Degtyaryov sat down on the cold concrete stairs, his free hand scrubbing down his face as he let the cigarette dangle between his fingers. The burn in his lungs went from uncomfortable to grounding really quick.
Ten months clean. Gone in a heartbeat. But if it meant staying sane he wouldn’t regret it as much. 

He could still feel the weight of his phone in his pocket, practically vibrating every second, every call he’d been ignoring for the past few minutes. Moscow wanted updates. SIRCAA wanted compliance. His own agency expected him to walk this impossibly thin tightrope without stumbling. And to top it all off, Strelok, the supposed terrorist at the heart of it, was sitting somewhere in this godforsaken building, waiting for something that might never come. 
It was all starting to feel like one bad joke. 

He took another drag, exhaling through his nose as he let his head tilt back. His gaze drifted upward, toward the overcast sky, the heavy clouds stretching out like the sea. Somewhere out there, past all the steel and bureaucracy, was the Zone. 

He wondered if Strelok was thinking about it too. 

That man had been made by the Zone, reforged by it and spat back out into the world with nothing but ghosts and scars. And now they had him here, in this lifeless, sterile box, poked and prodded like a specimen under glass. No wonder he was coming apart at the seams. 
Degtyaryov sighed, taking another slow pull from the cigarette. 

What the hell was he even doing anymore? 

He knew where he should stand in all of this, knew what his job, his orders, demanded of him. Strelok was a person of interest, a potential danger, a liability. The reports were clinical, the warnings from his superiors were clear. But none of that changed the fact that when he looked at Strelok, he didn’t see a threat. He saw a man held together by sheer spite, someone whose suffering had been repackaged and sold as an asset to the people who needed him but refused to help him. 

And, God help him, Degtyaryov was starting to care. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning under his breath. Maybe it was the stress talking. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe, just maybe, he was in deeper than he wanted to admit.

What if I went back? 

The thought had crept in before he could stop it.
He let the cigarette burn low between his fingers, staring past the concrete, past the barbed wire fencing in the distance, past all the red tape that kept him here instead of there. 

Pripyat. His home, once. 

For years, he’d traced his fingers over old photographs, the colors fading along with his memories. He’d tried to hold onto them, tried to remember the way the city had felt before the sirens, before the evacuations, before it became just another corpse in the Zone’s ever-growing graveyard. But it was slipping, bit by bit. He could recall the shape of the buildings, the way the streets wound together, but the feeling? That was gone. 

And yet, that pull remained. 

He had spent his life walking the line between duty and something more personal. The SBU had given him a career, a purpose. But the Zone, his Zone, had always been calling him back. It wasn’t just Strelok who felt it. Maybe it was something in the air, in the dirt, in the ghost of what used to be. 

He exhaled, watching the smoke curl up into the cold sky. Maybe it was time to stop fighting it.

Degtyaryov had been buried in work all day, his phone buzzing constantly with updates, demands, and thinly veiled threats from higher-ups. The sun had already dipped low by the time he finally dragged himself away from his desk. His nerves were fried, his head pounding, and his cigarette craving was clawing at the back of his throat like it had never truly died. But before heading back to his quarters, he decided to check in on Strelok. 

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because, despite everything, Strelok was the only one who really understood what it felt like to be trapped here, stuck between two worlds. Or maybe because, if he was being honest with himself, he just wanted to see him. 

So, he knocked. No answer. 

He waited a few moments before knocking again, firmer this time. Still nothing. He was starting to get a little concerned now. Was he even in there? Strelok had been doing a little better but the man was still mentally unstable- maybe he just snuck out? Who knows.
He was about to turn away, deciding not to push it, when he finally heard movement from the other side of the door. A series of locks clicking open, a heavy sigh, and then- 

Strelok yanked the door open, short tufts of hair dripping wet, wearing nothing but a pair of haphazardly pulled on jeans and a towel slung loosely around his neck. He looked like a soggy cat that huffed vinegar.

Degtyaryov blinked. 

“The fuck do you want?” Strelok grumbled, rubbing at his face with one hand. His skin was still flushed from the heat of the shower, steam curling into the cold air of the hallway. His expression was caught somewhere between pissed off and half-asleep, like he’d been rudely interrupted from the one moment of peace he allowed himself.

Degtyaryov took a second longer than necessary to respond. “Just checking in…” 

Strelok squinted at him, looking him up and down, then scoffed. “What, you thought I drowned?” 

The colonel shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest way someone’s died around here.” 

That earned him a short, amused huff before Strelok leaned against the doorway, clearly unimpressed. “Well, congrats. I’m alive. Now are you gonna stand there like a creep, or are you coming in?” 

Degtyaryov stepped inside without another word, pretending not to notice the way his pulse kicked up just a little. He shut the door behind him, shaking off the lingering cold from the hallway. The room looked a little foggy, smelling like cheap soap and something vaguely metallic, probably from whatever fresh wounds Strelok had been tending to. 

He leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed, watching as the stalker ran a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets cascading onto his shoulders.
God help me, the colonel couldn’t help himself, this is the most shirtless I’ve seen another man in months. 

“So,” Degtyaryov started, keeping his voice light, “you gonna tell me why you’re so pissed, or do I get to guess?” 

Strelok shot him an unimpressed look, rubbing the towel over his head before letting it hang around his neck once more. “I don’t know, maybe because some asshole wouldn’t stop knocking while I was in the shower??” 

“Yeah, I got that much.” Degtyaryov smirked. “But that’s not it, is it?” 

Strelok exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. He turned away, pacing toward his desk, which, much like the rest of his room, was a mess. Papers, cigarette packs, and an untouched plate of food sat next to his radio, which was still murmuring some old tune under its breath. 
“They’re never giving it back,” Strelok muttered, barely above a whisper. 

Degtyaryov didn’t need to ask what it was. He sighed, running a hand over his neck.  
“They’re still running tests,” he offered carefully. 

Strelok barked out a humorless laugh as he rolled his eyes. “Yeah? And how long do you think that’s gonna take? Another few months? Years? Until they decide I’m not useful anymore and toss me into a hole?” 

Degtyaryov didn’t have an answer for that. 

The Stalker turned back to him, arms crossed over his chest, his expression guarded but raw underneath. “That PDA is the only thing that kept me me when I had nothing else. And now it’s locked in some lab while they pick my most important memories apart like fucking vultures.” 

Degtyaryov watched him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the restless shift in his stance. The way his fingers twitched like they wanted to curl into fists but had nowhere to put the anger.  And maybe it was a bad idea, maybe he was stepping over a line, but he crossed the room before he could think better of it, placing a firm, steadying hand on Strelok’s bare shoulder. 
“I will get it back,” his voice was quieter now. No teasing, no bullshit. “I am a man of my word. May the Zone take me if I can’t keep that promise.”

Strelok didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhaled, some of the fight leaving him. 
“…You better,” he muttered, but there was something almost soft about the way he said it. “Liars don’t have good chances with me.”

Degtyaryov gave his shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back, Christ, if this man didn’t kill him in the Zone, he sure as hell was gonna kill him here with more than just a firearm. He let his eyes wander for a bit.

He had seen Strelok injured before, beaten, bloodied, half-dead, covered in radiation burns, but somehow, this felt worse. Up close, with the steam still clinging to his skin, he could see it. The way his ribs pressed sharply beneath pale flesh, the faint hollows between them. The way his spine jutted out in sharp relief when he shifted, his hipbones barely holding up the hem of his jeans. Lean muscle, yeah, like the man was held together by sheer stubbornness.
He didn’t say anything right away, but something in his expression must’ve shifted, because Strelok noticed. 

“What?” the stalker muttered, fishing a clean undershirt out of his laundry basket, avoiding eye contact. 

Degtyaryov hesitated, then sighed. “You’re eating enough?” 

That got him an unimpressed look, dark eyes flicking up at him. “What, you’re my mother now?” 

“Just answer the question.” 

Strelok scoffed, eventually tossing the towel onto his chair after getting his shirt on. “I eat.” 

“When?” 

That made him pause. Just for a second. A second too long. 
Degtyaryov huffed, crossing his arms. “That’s what I thought.” 

Strelok rolled his eyes, turning toward his desk, reaching for his cigarettes. “You worry too much.” 

“And you don’t worry enough,” the colonel shot back, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “You look like you’d lose a fight with a strong breeze.” 

Strelok clicked his lighter, the small flame flickering to life. “I’d win. Barely.” 

Degtyaryov didn’t laugh. He just exhaled, shaking his head. 
“Strelok,” there was something almost gentle in his voice now. “Seriously. How are you doing?” 

Strelok stilled. The flame hovered at the tip of his cigarette, untouched. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, without looking at him, he muttered, “I miss home.” 

Degtyaryov felt something tighten in his chest. The Zone. That’s what he meant. Not this place, not “civilization.” The twisted, broken land that had nearly killed him more times than he could count, that was home. 
“I know,” the colonel murmured. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room was quiet except for the soft flick of Strelok’s lighter as he finally ignited the end of his cigarette. Smoke curled from the stalkers lips up toward the ceiling in slow, lazy spirals. 

Degtyaryov could see how tense Strelok was, wound tight beneath the skin, like a wire pulled to its breaking point. 
“I want to go home too.” 

Strelok’s fingers twitched around his cigarette. He tilted his head just slightly, glancing at Degtyaryov out of the corner of his eye. His expression was unreadable, but the way his shoulders shifted, how those dark, bottomless eyes flickered a little told the colonel enough. 

“You?” the stalker asked, voice rough with smoke. “Since when?” 

Degtyaryov huffed a quiet laugh. He leaned against the edge of the desk, rubbing at his jaw, like he wasn’t quite sure how to put it into words. “Since always, I think,” he admitted. “I just never let myself think about it too much.” 

Pripyat. His Pripyat. Not the ghost city it was now, but the one he still saw in the back of his mind, in old photographs, half-faded memories of warm summers and cold winters, of his mother’s voice calling him inside, of the streets bustling with life.
The afternoons spend looking out his classrooms window, playing with other children his age and listening to his father read the newspaper in the morning before he headed off to work…
He had spent years remembering, looking at those pictures, feeling something twist in his chest. A kind of homesickness that never really faded, no matter how long he’d been away.

Then there was the Zone’s Pripyat. A hollow, broken thing. 
And yet, despite everything, he wanted to see it again. Not through reports, not through grainy satellite images, for real. He wanted to stand in the middle of its ruins and remember. 

Strelok took another slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. His eyes flickered over Degtyaryov, sharp and considering. 
“Thought you had a whole life out here,” he muttered. 

Degtyaryov shrugged. “So did you.” 

Strelok scoffed, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the tray on the desk, tapping it twice against the edge. 
“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type.” 

Degtyaryov gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Didn’t take you for the type to let someone get close, and yet-” 

Strelok shot him a glare, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Shut it,” he muttered, but it was softer than usual. 

Degtyaryov chuckled, watching as Strelok shifted, snatching and turning a new cigarette over between his fingers. The tension in his shoulders had eased just slightly, he looked less on edge.

For a moment, they just sat there. And then, quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, Strelok murmured, “If I ever go back…are you coming with me?” 

Degtyaryov didn’t even have to think about it. “Yeah, I am.”

Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was just stupidity. 
Degtyaryov didn’t know why he didn’t step back as quickly as he should have. Why his fingers lingered just a second too long, why he let his gaze drop, to the sharp line of Strelok’s collarbone, the faint scars that traced his skin.

But it still was Strelok who moved first.

Maybe it was the frustration, the months of being treated like an experiment instead of a person, the aching need to feel something real. The isolation propably had finally forced Strelok to break. Or maybe it was just him being reckless, as always. But before Degtyaryov could process it, the Stalker grabbed the front of his jacket, yanking him forward with a roughness that sent them both stumbling.

Degtyaryov barely caught himself before colliding into him completely, one hand bracing against Strelok’s hip, the other curling instinctively around the back of his neck.
"Strelok-?!"

But whatever protest he’d been about to make died in his throat, because Strelok was already kissing him. It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful. It was hungry, all sharp edges and desperation, like he was trying to carve out something solid in the despair they were drowning in.

Degtyaryov’s pulse roared in his ears. His first instinct was to push back, to resist, because this was stupid, reckless, complicated. But then Strelok made a quiet, frustrated noise against his mouth, fingers curling tighter in his uniform shirt like he was daring Degtyaryov to pull away.
Fuck it. Fuck thinking.
He kissed the Stalker back.

He pushed forward, walking Strelok back toward the bed with slow, careful steps. Strelok let him, gripping onto him like a lifeline, stumbling slightly when the backs of his knees hit the mattress. He sat back, pulling Degtyaryov with him, hands roaming, dragging nails lightly over the fabric of his uniform.
Degtyaryov braced himself over him, one knee sinking into the bed, the mattress creaked quietly, his hands moving to cup Strelok’s jaw, thumb tracing over the faint stubble along his cheek. Their breathing was uneven, slightly ragged.

Strelok looked up at him, those sad, dull eyes half-lidded, pale, chapped lips kiss-swollen, dark hair still damp where it curled at the nape of his neck.

“You’re sure about this?” Degtyaryov murmured, voice lower than he meant it to be. His eyes remained glued to the Stalkers face, those endless, dark, hopeless yet also beautiful eyes taking all of his attention. 

Strelok huffed, something almost amused in the sound, but there was no teasing in his expression as he ran the pads of his fingers along the colonels jawline. 
“I’ve been through hell and back.” He tugged him closer, breath ghosting against his lips. “You think I don’t know what I want?”

Degtyaryov exhaled sharply, fingers tightening against Strelok’s jaw. “Just wanted to make sure,” he muttered, before kissing him again, slow and deep, letting himself sink against the other mans lips.

Strelok pulled him down fully, their weight sinking further into the thin mattress. The room felt smaller, warmer, like the world outside of it didn’t exist. 
Degtyaryov deepened the kiss, one hand threading into Strelok’s damp hair, the other bracing against the bed to keep himself steady. Strelok wasn’t gentle, he never was. He kissed like he fought, like he survived. Fingers gripping at Degtyaryov’s shirt, tugging him closer with a quiet, impatient grunt when he didn’t move fast enough. 

Degtyaryov chuckled against his lips, breathless. “Impatient, huh?” 

Strelok huffed, but it wasn’t quite annoyed. “Shut up and focus.” 
He pulled him down again, lips parting just slightly, enough for Degtyaryov to feel the warmth of his breath, the faintest hint of cigarettes and cheap coffee. It was grounding in a way he didn’t expect. The scent of the Zone still lingered on him, beneath the sterile soap and whatever antiseptic they doused him in after every exam. 

The weight of him, the warmth, the stubborn way Strelok refused to let go, it was real. It felt good. Too good.  
Degtyaryov let out a satisfied little noise as he traced his thumb over Strelok’s cheek, his jaw, mapping out the faint scars, the rough patches of skin left behind by time and war. Strelok just blinked up at him, brow slightly furrowed, like he wasn’t used to being touched like this. 

“What?” he muttered, voice softer now, quieter. 

Degtyaryov shook his head, barely smiling. “You’re…really pretty,” he murmured.

Strelok’s eyes met his with that half-dazed, half-confused look he always wore. He almost smirked, like he wanted to brush it off. But there was something in his expression that softened the edges, made him look a little less guarded.
“What?” the usual edge in his voice dulled, like he wasn’t sure whether to fight it or let it go.

Degtyaryov smiled, genuinely this time, and ran his hand back through Strelok’s damp hair. “You heard me.”

Strelok narrowed his eyes, probably unconvinced, but he didn’t push it. He just tugged him back down, lips brushing against Degtyaryov’s again, slower this time, less frantic. 

It wasn’t something either of them had planned. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was doomed from the start. But right now, with Strelok’s hands fisted in his shirt, his heartbeat steady beneath Degtyaryov’s palm, it didn’t feel like a mistake, it felt like home.

The first thing Degtyaryov noticed when he woke up was warmth. 
Not the suffocating, sterile heat of the facility, but something softer. Familiar. He cracked one eye open, the dim morning light filtering through the blinds casting long shadows over the room. It was quiet, save for the faint hum of the radio on the nightstand, rattling off some old song in a language neither of them spoke. 

Strelok was still there, half-draped over him, one arm lazily slung across his waist, face buried somewhere against his shoulder. His breath was slow, steady, warm against Degtyaryov’s skin. Still half-asleep, probably. 
Degtyaryov exhaled, staring at the ceiling for a moment. He should move. Should get up, straighten himself out, get back to work. But Strelok shifted slightly, murmuring something incoherent, fingers twitching against Degtyaryov’s shoulder like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. 

He turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Strelok’s face, relaxed in a way he rarely was. Not tense, not on guard. Just there, breathing, existing. His hair was a mess, sticking up in places from sleep, and there was a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. 

Degtyaryov smirked to himself, reaching up to carefully trace the contours of the Stalkers face. “You awake?” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep. 

Strelok huffed a little, shifting but not quite opening his eyes. “Mmph. Depends.” 

Degtyaryov chuckled. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Strelok grumbled something else, too quiet to catch, before finally cracking one eye open, squinting at him. He looked at Degtyaryov like he was trying to process why the hell he was still there, why they were still tangled together like this. But instead of pushing him away or making some sharp remark, he just sighed, closing his eyes again. 
“Five more minutes,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Degtyaryov couldn’t help but snicker. “Don’t worry, take your time.” 
Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

He stretched slightly, adjusting his position without fully pulling away from Strelok’s lazy grip. Waking up in his bed, tangled up like they had nowhere else to be. It was… nice. Almost dangerous, how nice it was. Degtyaryov couldn’t help but be happy about it.

Strelok cracked his eyes open again, studying him in that way he usually did, like he was dissecting a puzzle, like he was weighing whether or not to say something. Eventually, he exhaled through his nose and reached past Degtyaryov, fumbling for something on the nightstand. A second later, he held up a slim, dark blue keycard.

Degtyaryov blinked, raising a brow. “What is that?”

Strelok smirked, real subtle, like he was waiting for a reaction. “Clearance. High-level. Swiped it off some idiots desk who left it lying around.”

Degtyaryov’s stomach twisted. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope.” Strelok flicked the card between his fingers, watching Degtyaryov’s face like he was gauging his response. “Figured I should tell you. Y’know. Since I trust you now.”

Degtyaryov narrowed his eyes. “Now?”

“Yeah, well, I had my doubts.” Strelok shrugged, as if this was the most casual thing in the world. “You’re some fancy SBU guy and in the military. Could’ve been in their pocket. But you’re not.” He tapped the keycard against Degtyaryov’s chest, grinning slightly. “And now you’re in mine.”

Degtyaryov groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine coming in. “Strelok, do you have any idea how badly this could backfire?”

“Im aware.” Strelok tucked the keycard back under his pillow, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “But I’ve got nothing but time.”

Degtyaryov sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. Jesus. He should be furious right now. Should be tearing into him for doing something this reckless. But all he could feel was a weird, reluctant admiration, and the fact that Strelok had just admitted, in his own roundabout way, that he trusted him.

The colonel blinked up at the ceiling, half-awake, brain moving sluggishly through the fog of sleep. Strelok had stolen a keycard. Of course he had. The guy could probably swipe a man’s wallet right out of his pocket mid-handshake. But something else was nagging at him, something that didn't quite click until now.

His brows furrowed as his mind churned through the last few weeks. The SIRCAA reps breathing down his neck. The fire alarm incident still being investigated. No culprit found. No real reason behind it. A perfectly timed distraction just before security rotations changed.

His stomach dropped.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at Strelok, who was still lying on his side, half-draped over the pillow, watching him with the faintest hint of amusement. He looked too relaxed, like a cat that had just knocked something expensive off a shelf and was waiting to see if anyone noticed.

“…Strelok.” Degtyaryov’s voice was still rough from sleep.

“Mm?”

“The fire alarm.”

Strelok didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept looking at him with the same expression.
Degtyaryov stared at him, the last pieces snapping together in his head.
“You pulled it, didn’t you?”

Strelok tilted his head slightly, giving the colonel that innocent, puppy dog look. “Maybe?”

Degtyaryov exhaled sharply, sitting up a little, staring at him with something that came close to disbelief. “Do you even know the kind of hell that caused me? The reports? The security audits?”

Strelok yawned, stretching lazily. “Sounds rough.”

Degtyaryov’s eyes narrowed, his body stiffening as he pushed himself up on one elbow. He looked at Strelok, something sharp flickering in his gaze. The initial shock of the realization passed, but the anger that followed wasn’t so easily dismissed.
“You think this is funny?” he asked, keeping his voice level. His hand rested on the bed, just inches away from Strelok’s, trying to keep his temper in check. “You pulled the fire alarm. You disrupted everything in a government funded facility. That was more than a petty prank.”

Strelok’s expression faded, but only a little. His eyes, though, lost their usual teasing edge and locked onto Degtyaryov’s. For a moment, there was no more amusement, just something almost...calculating.
“I’m aware,” he eventually replied, his tone shifting. “But you’re not the one running interference on this whole operation, are you? I had to make sure you were…focused.”

Degtyaryov’s gaze sharpened even further. He could feel the tension building between them, something that hadn’t fully been acknowledged until now.
“You’re not in charge here,” he said, more firmly than he intended. “This isn't the Zone, Strelok. There are rules here. People’s lives are affected by decisions like that. With me here this could’ve easily escalated into a national security issue!”

Strelok raised an eyebrow, but his posture softened slightly. “I get it. You’re the one with a job to do.” For a moment it sounded like Strelok maybe understood that more than he let on. “But you’ve been stuck here, haven’t you?” His voice was quieter now, almost contemplative. “Just like the rest of them.”

Degtyaryov didn’t respond right away, his hand flexing into a fist before relaxing again. He looked at Strelok, whose expression had grown more serious than he was used to seeing. There was something vulnerable about him now, something that reminded him of those long conversations they'd had over lunch or late at night, before things had blurred between them.

“Just because you’re stuck doesn’t mean you can drag others down with you,” Degtyaryov replied, though his tone had softened slightly. He sat up, looking over at Strelok, who still hadn’t quite moved. “I’m not playing your games. You can’t just disrupt things and expect me to look the other way.”

“I didn’t do it for nothing.” Strelok’s voice was quieter now, almost reflective. “You know that, right? I did it to give you space, room, to move. To make sure the Russians don’t get their claws deeper in all this.”

Degtyaryov stared at him, trying to make sense of it. A part of him was angry, no, furious, at the stunt Strelok had pulled. But another part of him... something he wasn’t quite ready to admit, felt a strange appreciation for it.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” his voice was barely above a whisper now. “This is more than just a fire alarm, Strelok. You have no idea what you’re messing with.”

Strelok met his gaze, eyes steady. “I know exactly what I’m messing with. You might be stuck in this concrete hellhole, but I’m not. I did what needed to be done.”

Degtyaryov sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re lucky I don’t report you for this.” But his voice lacked the venom it had carried earlier. It was tinged with something else, a complicated mixture of begrudging respect and something softer, buried deep underneath.

Strelok just shrugged, unfazed. “Oh, and what would that accomplish?”

Degtyaryov's gaze lingered on him a moment longer. He should be furious. He should be at least somewhat pissed off. But instead, he found himself almost...relieved. It was as if, in some twisted way, Strelok’s recklessness had given him the opening he needed. The zone had always done the same, never easy, never simple, but it always forced you to look closer.

Strelok muttered, “I’ve done most of the work here, you know. All the favors. You’re probably pissed you can’t get anything out of me anymore.” He sounded provocative, like he was trying to push the colonel’s buttons on purpose.

Degtyaryov didn’t flinch. He just leaned back a bit, taking in the words and keeping his cool. “Strelok, I’m not pissed,” he replied, voice calm. “You think I’m counting favors? I’m not. That’s not what I care about.”
Strelok shot him a look, like he didn’t quite believe it, but Degtyaryov pressed on, “You’ve done enough. I don’t need to squeeze anything out of you, alright? And if you’re trying to play the ‘I’m a burden, don’t trust me’ card, that is where were going to have some issues because that’s bullshit.”

There was a pause as Strelok seemed to weigh his options. He glanced away, his expression a little guarded, like he wasn’t sure if he could let his guard down. But Degtyaryov wasn’t going to back off. “You don’t need to play games with me,” he reached out, carefully cupping Strelok’s cheek, his voice lower, a little more serious. “Whatever it is you’re dealing with, I’m not going anywhere. You don’t need to worry about me turning on you.”

Strelok sighed, clearly frustrated, but also kind of... relieved? “I’m just trying to make sense of it all, okay?” His voice softened a little. “It’s hard. I’ve been alone for so long, and you’re the first person who actually seems to get it. But I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

Degtyaryov was quiet for a second, his eyes steady on Strelok. He could see the cracks in his tough exterior, even if Strelok wasn’t ready to admit it. “You’re not gonna mess it up,” he kept his voice calm but firm. “You don’t have to do anything, Strelok. You’re not alone anymore. I’m here, alright?”

Strelok stared at him for a moment, almost like he didn’t know how to respond. But then he just muttered, “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Degtyaryov said with a small smile. “Just know you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself. I’m with you.”
He pressed a chaste kiss against the Stalkers forehead, caressing his face.

Chapter Text

The hallway felt eerily quiet as Degtyaryov walked through the concrete maze, his boots clicking softly on the polished floor. His heart was steady, pulse measured, his breath slow and controlled. He’d been in enough high-pressure situations to know that this, sneaking around in the heart of SIRCAA's archives, right under their noses, wasn’t much different than any other operation. 

Confidence was everything. Confidence and preparation. No room for hesitation. He slipped the keycard out of his pocket, gave it a quick glance and checked his surroundings one last time before swiping it against the security reader. The door clicked open with a soft, almost welcoming sound. Easy enough.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and old paper, it was obvious many of these documents haven’t been touched in years. The archives were a labyrinth of filing cabinets, shelves stacked with paperwork, and rows of storage units labeled with what seemed like a bizarre mix of codes and scientific jargon he didn’t even bother to decipher in passing. He didn’t mind a little bit of bureaucracy and filing, hell Degtyaryov had actually enjoyed sorting documents and cataloguing information a lot in his early days.
But this? This was a little too pretentious, even for him.
This wasn’t just a place for records. It was a fortress.
But he’d seen worse. 

His first task was simple: find Strelok’s file. The thought of the PDA made his stomach twist in a strange mix of anticipation and dread. He knew it was in there somewhere, tucked away among the thousands of documents, protected like a precious relic. It was the key to everything. The personal memories that Strelok was denied, his life locked away in digital form.
This little device would probably help the Stalker more than the ungodly amounts of mirtazapine Dr.Kuznestov had been describing the man.

The trick was getting to it without drawing attention. Degtyaryov tried to appear casual but stayed as quiet as possible, walking between rows of shelves, scanning labels. He didn’t waste time on the ones he didn’t need. Project C-Con, subject 4-7, unknown anomaly, classified, Level 9 clearance. He sighed. A lot of it was nothing but dead-end files that wouldn’t give him anything.

There. 

A small, metal filing cabinet labeled with an alphanumeric string that matched the identification code printed onto Strelok’s nametag. He knew this was it. He paused for a moment, eyes darting over the room one last time before he carefully pulled the drawer open. A thick, light brown folder, overflowing with papers, more than he expected, came into view, but that wasn’t the main prize. Not by a long shot.
He pulled it out and skimmed through it quickly. Nothing of immediate interest, more reports, more notes from scientists, some of it was borderline nonsense, filled with technical jargon about anomalous activity and Strelok’s, or rather his bodies, reactions to it. 

At the bottom, buried beneath the paperwork sat small black case. The kind of case that screamed “classified,”. It would have been comical how much somebody at this facility seemed to disregard security and encryption measures, if it wasn’t such a serious matter.
Degtyaryov’s breath caught slightly in his throat. He didn’t need to open it to know what it was. He'd seen enough of these to know. The PDA. 

His hand hovered over the case for a moment, just a split second. And then, without further hesitation, he snapped it open. 

The PDA itself was old, worn, and battered. The plastic bag it was encased in was a little yellowed with age, probably from being locked away in this sterile hellhole for too long. A fine layer of what looked like Zone dirt clung to the edges of the casing.
The small screen flickered slightly when Degtyaryov pressed the power button. He ran his thumb over the cracked surface, imagining the things it held, Strelok’s memories, the fragments of his life in the Zone, all locked away behind that broken screen.

He couldn’t help but smile faintly as he slipped the device into his coat pocket. It wasn’t just a piece of technology. It was a lifeline, the very thing that could safe him.

The Colonels eyes flickered back to the drawer. He moved a few more papers aside, flipping through some of the documents, trying to get a glimpse of what had been hidden alongside Strelok’s PDA. The drawer was a disorganized mess of files, some neatly stacked, others shoved hastily to the side. He glanced at one of the many loosely tossed in papers and scanned it quickly. Black bars obscured much of the text, typical of the kind of documents this place loved to churn out. They’d been digging into Strelok, tearing apart his history, analyzing his every move. How much of this research was authorized? That’s something he would look into later.

He shifted his weight on one hip, this was going to be interesting, but he had to be quick. He directed his attention to the thick brown folder.

Mental/Physical Health Assessment #12. It probably had been gone over more than once, notes and memos added and removed from it. Degtyaryov felt his brow furrow as he read. The report didn’t mince words.

“Subject presents with symptoms consistent with prolonged PTSD, exacerbated by exposure to radiation and anomalous entities. Subject reports frequent flashbacks, intrusive memories, and an inability to distinguish between past and present experiences. There is a marked reluctance to engage in discussions about --- --------------- and specific incidents in the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. Subject claims disconnection from others, and a distorted sense of self.”

The report continued with an assessment of Strelok’s cognitive state, listing various tests that had been performed on him. A few of them stood out to Degtyaryov, though he didn’t recognize half of the jargon. “Severe emotional blunting,” “hallucinations and dissociation,” and the phrase that nearly made his blood run cold: “Subject reports hearing ‘voices’ from --- -------- and other anomalous phenomena during extended exposure.”

He flipped through a few more pages, finding radiation exposure records, some of which had clearly been marked as “confidential.” His eyes scanned the figures; heavy exposure to gamma radiation, unidentified particulate matter in blood, elevated traces of Cesium-137 in tissues, and anomalous readings on multiple scans.

One note, however, caught his eye. The words “possible mutation markers” practically jumped at him, he had to pause there. Was it possible? Was Strelok’s exposure to the Zone’s anomalies messing with him in ways they hadn’t even figured out yet?
Degtyaryov skimmed through the bizarre, oddly vague notes that looked like they’d been copied directly from a field notebook rather than something formal. The language was weird, but he could make sense of it, “sustained exposure results in increased sensory sensitivity, unpredictable emotional responses and long-term dissociative behavior,” and, “in some subjects, exposure triggers a heightened connection to anomalous entities and --- ----- ---------, leading to an almost symbiotic relationship.”

The more he read, the more it became clear that they’d been trying to study the Stalker’s reactions, trying to break him down in the most methodical ways possible, but what they couldn’t have known was how deep the connection ran. How much of Strelok was wrapped up in the very thing that had caused him so much pain.

The file started to blur together, too many terms that seemed like they belonged in a different universe. Some of it sounded too academic. "neural adaptation" and "quantum signature response." Degtyaryov definitely needed to look some of those up later.

Testimony Log #11, which stood out like a sore thumb, caught his eye next. A few lines hadn’t been censored yet.

“Subject continues to resist questions concerning a specific event that occurred in the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, incident involving a representative of the Monolith. Subject appears to recall vivid details of the event but remains adamant about their inability to describe it further. Subject’s demeanor shifts dramatically when discussing this. There is a suggestion that the encounter may have triggered a major psychological and cognitive break, which may be irreparable.”

Degtyaryov’s stomach sank. He remembered the way Strelok had spoken of the Monolith, the haunted look in his eyes whenever it came up. But that wasn’t all. The Monolith. The representative...?

He shook his head, almost as if trying to shake off what he had just read. He wasn't one for conspiracy theories or paranoia, but the more he uncovered, the more it felt like they were playing a much deeper game here. They don’t bother to black out these parts of the documents, that means they’ve done worse. His fingers tightened around the PDA in his coat pocket.

Degtyaryov crossed his legs and settled onto Strelok's bed, his eyes glued to the plastic bag in the man’s trembling hands. He watched in silence as Strelok carefully unzipped the bag and pulled out the PDA. The stalker’s hands shook, and for a moment, Degtyaryov felt like everything around them had slowed down. He was nervous, for some reason, even though this technically was none of his business.

Strelok’s tired eyes flickered back and forth between the device and Degtyaryov, his gaze distant, as if he was watching something else entirely, some far-off memory. With a quiet sigh, he powered the PDA on, the screen flickering to life with a soft hum. The blue glow illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows across his angular features. The Stalker stared at the screen, his expression blank.

“Does it… does it feel real?” Degtyaryov asked quietly, he was contemplating to even ask, he didn’t want to ruin this moment for the other man.

Strelok didn’t answer right away. Instead, his lips parted slightly, his breath shallow. For a moment, it looked like he wasn’t even aware of the colonel’s presence, his voice was barely a whisper when he replied. “I don’t know… it’s been so long.” He swiped the screen gently “I used to know the names. I used to know everything. But now… it’s like trying to remember a dream. It’s all slipping away.”

Degtyaryov’s heart twisted in his chest. He wanted to say something comforting, something that would fix it all, but he knew better than that. There were no easy words for something like this. Instead, he reached forward, his hand lightly touching Strelok’s, just enough to make sure the man knew he was there. The contact was soft, unspoken. Strelok looked up, meeting Deg’s eyes, and for a moment, there was no need for words. 

Strelok’s lips twitched slightly, like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite have the strength for it. His fingers brushed against Degtyaryov’s, the touch just a little longer than necessary. “I don’t want you to try and fix me,” Strelok muttered, almost to himself.

“I don’t intend to,” Degtyaryov replied, his tone firm. “I just want to be there for you.”

The colonel leaned forward slightly, watching as Strelok’s fingers trembled over the PDA, scrolling through the files. His gaze was distant, as though he were searching for something that would give him the sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years. Then, his eyes stopped on something, a voice recording.
It was dated long ago, and Strelok’s finger hovered over the play button for a moment, unsure whether to listen. Degtyaryov didn’t interrupt, sensing that whatever this was, it was something the Stalker needed to hear, or maybe something he’d been avoiding.
Strelok clicked the play button.

The first words crackled out of the speaker, sharp and rough. Degtyaryov’s eyes softened. Strelok’s entire demeanor shifted.

“Where the hell are you, Strelok? And Doc's gone too, I could really use some help right now! When I get back from the mission, I’m gonna find the guy at the perimeter. He goes there a lot… And he may help me find Doc. And if Strelok’s still alive, Doc will know for sure where to find him…”

Strelok’s hand tightened on the PDA, his knuckles white. He didn’t say anything, but the muscle in his jaw clenched.

“Anyway, that’s for later. And now, I’m all alone, on this stinking underground mission. Vasiliev doesn’t count, he’s just a burden I have to protect. Fucker lost it at the very last moment, and when the door opened, he ran off instead of deactivating the lower consoles. I shouldn’t have relied on him. I’m sorry Strelok, you were right to mistrust those lying dogs. My only chance is to get to the door before the contro-”

The recording cut off abruptly, leaving only silence. Strelok didn’t move, didn’t speak. His eyes were fixed on the screen, but they weren’t really seeing anything at all.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, like he was speaking to the room rather than to Degtyaryov. “If I’d been there… maybe Ghost, maybe he’d still be here.”

“You couldn’t have known,” the colonel muttered, his voice soothing, trying to ground Strelok. “You did what you could. You can’t carry all of that.”

Strelok didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, his fingers trailing over it, as if searching for something, anything that could bring him back to a time when things made sense.

Degtyaryov’s hand remained on Strelok’s shoulder, his thumb gently rubbing over the fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something, a small comfort in a place that had stripped both of them of nearly everything.

Strelok’s voice cracked, and for a moment, it sounded like he was on the verge of breaking completely.

“I couldn’t protect him. And now… now I can’t even remember the last time I heard his voice.”

Gently, Degtyaryov wrapped his arms around Strelok, pulling him close in a tight hug. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just something that felt right in the moment. Strelok stiffened at first, but then, as if he couldn’t hold it in any longer, he sagged into the embrace.

The colonel could feel the tremors running through the man’s body, the way his breath hitched in small, controlled bursts. “I couldn’t protect him,” Strelok muttered again, voice muffled by the fabric of Degtyaryov’s shirt. “I should’ve done more...”

Degtyaryov didn’t have a perfect answer to offer him. He knew the guilt would never fully disappear, not for Strelok, and probably not for him either. But what he did know was that sometimes, just being there, just holding on, was all you could do.

“Strelok, listen to me,” his lips brushed against the stalkers forehead as he pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to carry this guilt by yourself.”

Strelok let out a shaky breath, his fingers still gripping the PDA like it was the only thing anchoring him to the present. He didn’t meet the colonel’s gaze at first, just staring down at the screen, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. “I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted, voice rough, almost hoarse. “I’ve spent so long just… moving forward. Surviving. I don’t know how to stop and-” he hesitated, shaking his head. “And deal with it.”

Degtyaryov’s heart twisted at that. He’d seen soldiers with that same look, men that couldn’t escape the ghosts in their own heads. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” his hand still rested against Strelok’s back, his lips against the mans forehead. “But you have to let yourself feel it. You can’t just bury all of this trauma and hope it goes away. It never does.”

Strelok exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to a bitter laugh. “Yeah? And what the hell am I supposed to do then? Sit around and reflect?” He scoffed, rubbing his free hand over his face, pulling away. “That’s never helped me before.”

Degtyaryov tilted his head slightly, watching him carefully. “Maybe not. But shutting it all out isn’t helping either, is it?”

That made Strelok pause. His fingers twitched against the PDA, grip loosening just slightly. He finally glanced up, and for the first time in a while, Degtyaryov saw something there that wasn’t just exhaustion or anger. It was uncertainty. Maybe even a little bit of hope, buried deep beneath everything else. The colonel gave him the faintest smile. “I believe in you. We can get through this, together. Just promise me you at least try, okay?”

The Stalker let his head tip forward, resting it against the colonel’s shoulder. He let his heavy eyelids fall close, exhaled slowly and nodded eventually. “Whatever…”

Degtyaryov gently interlocked their fingers, pulling Strelok’s hand up and brushing his lips against his knuckles. “That’s all that I ask. You’re so much more capable than you think.”
He kept his arm draped loosely around the Stalker’s back, fingers idly tracing circles against the fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t sure if it was for Strelok’s comfort or his own. Maybe both.

Strelok’s fingers moved over the screen, pulling up old files, flipping through messages, notes, and recordings. His brows furrowed the longer he searched.
“…This isn’t right.”

The colonel glanced down. “What?”

Strelok’s jaw tightened. He scrolled through a few more folders, then set the PDA down with a sharp exhale. “Some of it’s missing. Wiped.”

Degtyaryov straightened slightly. “Wiped…?”

Strelok shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he stared at the device like it had personally betrayed him. “I don’t know. Some of my recordings, old maps, notes, just gone. Like they were never there to begin with!”

Degtyaryov frowned. He reached over, tapping at the screen, flipping through what was left. “SIRCAA did a deep scan. They had the thing for weeks.” His voice dipped slightly, frustration lacing his tone. “Of course, they went through it. I don’t think they deleted it, that would be reckless. I believe it must be for security reasons.”

Strelok let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Does it matter? Either way, it means they don’t want me to have it.”

Degtyaryov tightened his grip on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out-“

“The fuck we arent!” Strelok snarled, his voice raw with fury. He shot up from the bed, pacing the room like a caged animal, hands gripping at his hair before dragging down over his face. His breaths came fast and uneven, his entire body taut with frustration, rage, and something deeper, something hollow and helpless underneath it all.

Degtyaryov stayed where he was, watching carefully. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move to calm him down just yet. Strelok needed this.

“They took everything,” he spat, voice shaking. “Everything I had left! My recordings, my maps, Ghost’s and Fang’s fucking logs! Do you know how long it took me to gather all that? How much of my life I spent-!!” He cut himself off, teeth grinding together so hard it hurt. He braced himself against the desk, fingers digging into the wood, shoulders trembling.

Degtyaryov exhaled through his nose, got up, and walked over, carefully. He crouched down, picking up the PDA, wiping a bit of dust off the screen with his sleeve. “It’s not broken.” He kept his voice quiet. “It’s still yours.”

Strelok let out a bitter laugh, turning just enough to glare at him. “Mine? What’s left of it, yeah.” He gestured wildly toward the PDA. “And what, I’m just supposed to accept that? Accept that these bastards got to dig through my life and decide what I do and don’t get to keep?”

“No,” Degtyaryov said simply. He stepped closer. “You don’t accept it. You fight back.” He barely had time to react before Strelok shoved him back, hard enough to make him stumble a step.

“No,” Strelok growled, voice low and shaking with barely contained rage. “No playing detective, no figuring it out. I don’t give a fuck why they did it! I don’t give a fuck what they think I should or shouldn’t remember!” His breathing was ragged, his fingers twitching where they hovered near the PDA, like he was resisting the urge to throw it again.

Degtyaryov steadied himself, hands raised in placation. “Strelok…”

“I’m going back.” Strelok’s voice cracked, and something in his face twisted, rage, grief, exhaustion, all tangled together. He pointed a shaking finger at Degtyaryov. “With or without you. I can’t be here. I can’t do this anymore!” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, shoulders rising and falling unevenly. “You’re either with me or I’ll put a fucking bullet in my head myself if I stay here a day longer than I have to!”

Silence. The words landed like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. He had seen men break before, had seen them crushed under the things they couldn’t carry, had seen them snap and take the only way out they thought they had left. But hearing it from Strelok, from the man who had survived so much, clawed his way back from death itself, it chilled him to the bone.

And worse, he believed him. For the first time in a while, Strelok looked genuinely like a dead man walking, like whatever had kept him going all these years had finally run out.

Degtyaryov’s throat was dry. He forced himself to swallow, forced himself to keep his voice steady. “You don’t mean that.”

Strelok let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “The fuck I do.”

The colonels jaw clenched. His mind was racing, trying to find the right words, the right thing to say that wouldn’t make this worse. Because if he lost Strelok now, if he let him spiral, if he let him walk out of here alone, he wouldn’t see him again. Not alive.
So he took a cautious step forward.

“Alright,” his voice was quiet but firm. “Alright, we’ll go back.”

Strelok’s breath hitched, his whole body trembling from the force of everything he was holding back. Degtyaryov reached out, hesitant, resting a hand against Strelok’s shoulder. This time, Strelok didn’t shove him away. He just stood there, shaking, as if waiting for someone to wake him up from this nightmare.

Degtyaryov sighed, "I was planning on going back anyway," he admitted, voice careful. "With a small team. Officially, it's for monitoring purposes, keeping tabs on anomalies, checking on SIRCAA’s little science projects. Making sure things don’t spiral out of control again…"

Strelok scoffed, shaking his head. "Bullshit." His voice was raw with leftover rage, but now there was something else behind it, something knowing. He narrowed his eyes at Degtyaryov, scrutinizing him like he was peeling back layers. "You're just using that as an excuse to go back to Pripyat, aren't you?"

Degtyaryov’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it.

Strelok huffed out a dry, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Knew it," he muttered.

The colonel shifted, glancing to the side, his silence speaking louder than words. Because Strelok was right. Of course, he was right. For years, Degtyaryov had buried it, had told himself that his childhood home was just another place, another casualty of history. That it wasn’t worth longing for, that it wasn’t his anymore. But the idea of walking its streets again, even in their ruined state, had always gnawed at the back of his mind.

"I miss it," he admitted at last, exhaling smoke as he glanced at Strelok. "Not just Pripyat. The whole damn Zone." He let out a dry chuckle. "Figured you, of all people, would understand that."

Strelok's lips pressed into a thin line. He looked away, staring at the floor as if trying to swallow whatever emotions had crept up. "Yeah," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "I get it."

Degtyaryov straightened up, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the conversation. His expression shifted, calmer now, more controlled. He'd spent enough time with Strelok to know that emotions, especially heavy ones, had to be dealt with carefully.

"Alright," he said, voice steady. "Listen to me. If we're doing this, we're doing it right. No half-baked plans, no rushing in blind. You want back into the Zone? Fine. But we do it on my terms."

Strelok eyed him warily. "Your terms?"

"You heard me." Degtyaryov slumped back down on the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. "I’ve got clearance to put together a small team, officially, we're going in for monitoring and security. But you? You're not just gonna waltz back in there without a damn good reason." He exhaled sharply. "The higher-ups still see you as a liability. If I bring you, I need to justify it. Which means you’ll have to play along."

Strelok frowned, still gripping the PDA like a lifeline. "And what, exactly, does 'playing along' mean?"

"It means you let me handle the red tape. You don’t do anything reckless. You don’t mouth off to the wrong people. And you don’t pull any of that ‘lone wolf’ bullshit the second we cross the perimeter." Degtyaryov fixed him with a look, one that brooked no argument. "You work with me, not against me. Otherwise, you're on your own. And trust me, you do not want that."

Strelok scoffed, but there was something uncertain in the way his gaze flickered. "And if I refuse?"

Degtyaryov met his eyes without hesitation, rubbing a hand down his face before he leaned in, deadly serious. No more careful phrasing. No more sugarcoating.
"If you refuse," he said, voice low, "The Ukrainian government will disavow you at this rate, they'll either lock you down so hard you’ll never see the outside world again or worse. No second chances, no loopholes. They’ll call you a security threat and throw you into the federation’s hands. You think SIRCAA is bad? You think this place is suffocating?" His eyes darkened. "The Russians will make sure you beg for this kind of treatment as soon as they get their hands on you."

Strelok swallowed. "Fuck," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Degtyaryov let out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah," he murmured. "Exactly."

The Stalkers jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the PDA. It was obvious he hated this, hated being backed into a corner. But the colonel trusted that he knew when to pick his battles.
"...Fine," the words obviously tasted like ash in Strelok’s mouth. "I'll play along."

Degtyaryov nodded, satisfied. "Good." He leaned back slightly. "We leave in a week. Until then, keep your head down, keep your shit together, and let me handle the rest."

Strelok was watching him too closely now, sharp eyes narrowed like he could pry the answer straight from his skull. "So” he muttered, voice hoarse from all the shouting. "What exactly are you gonna do?"

Degtyaryov took a calculated pause, then shrugged, forcing a smirk. "Me? Oh, you know. Paperwork. Talking my way out of some very pissed-off meetings. Making sure this whole operation doesn’t come crashing down before we even set foot in the Zone." He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out as if this was just another routine briefing. "Just the… usual stuff."

Strelok squinted at him, skeptical. "Bullshit," he repeated flatly.

Degtyaryov chuckled, but it felt a little too hollow. "Alright, fine. A lot of bullshit." He tapped his fingers against his knee, eyes flicking away for just a second too long before meeting Strelok’s gaze again. "Point is, you let me handle it. You just focus on keeping yourself together until then."

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Just… not the whole truth.
Because what he didn’t say, what he couldn’t say, was that he was about to pull the most reckless, career-ending stunt of his life. But for Strelok? It was going to be worth it.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria was quieter than usual, the overhead lights flickering faintly as if the building itself was barely holding it together. Degtyaryov had gotten used to the sterile ambiance, but today, the low hum of machinery and distant voices felt almost oppressive. He scanned the room quickly before his eyes landed on Strelok, sitting at their usual spot in the far corner, looking a little… off.

Strelok was slouched in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest, staring at the plastic tray in front of him without really seeing it. His eyes were heavy, pupils dilated slightly, the colonels’ glasses still perched on his nose. It wasn’t the first time, and Degtyaryov hated it. He hated the way they did this to him, turning Strelok into a half-dazed version of himself. But it was the system. The scientists were too busy with their experiments to care about why Strelok was slowly falling apart.

"How are you holding up?" Degtyaryov asked as he slid into the seat across from him. His voice was casual, but there was an underlying edge to it. He knew Strelok wasn’t in the best shape today.

Strelok blinked slowly, his gaze lifting just enough to meet Degtyaryov’s. There was a faint furrow in his brow, his lips pressed together in a tight line as if he were struggling to focus. He didn’t respond at first, taking a slow breath before he spoke, his voice rougher than usual.
"Fine," he muttered, and it was clear even to Degtyaryov that the word was an automatic response, one he said because it was expected, not because it was true.

Degtyaryov frowned but didn’t push it. Instead, he pushed the tray of food a little closer to Strelok. "I got you the beef stew today. They’ve been making it pretty good lately."

Strelok’s eyes flickered down at the food, and for a moment, it seemed like he didn’t even recognize what was in front of him. He stared at the spoon in his hand for a while, unsure of what to do with it, before finally scooping up a bit of the stew and bringing it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, mechanically, like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

"You know," Degtyaryov said, trying to lighten the mood, "I used to hate this stuff. But after a few weeks of surviving on camp rations, it actually doesn’t taste half bad."

Strelok didn’t laugh. He barely even looked up from his food, his expression distant. "Guess it doesn’t matter," he said softly, almost to himself. "Nothing really matters anymore, does it?"

Degtyaryov’s jaw tightened at the words, but he said nothing. He knew better than to push too hard when Strelok got like this. But the thought of seeing him like this, distant, drugged out of his mind, defeated, was tearing him up inside. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. "You’ve got me," he kept his tone gentle but firm.

Strelok finally looked up, his eyes unfocused but sharp enough to meet his gaze. "You’re here," he whispered, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I thought... I thought you'd leave me or just drop dead like everyone else."

Degtyaryov didn’t flinch. He simply held Strelok’s gaze. He wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was Strelok, not if he could help it. "Not a chance," he said quietly.

It wasn’t much, but for once, the silence wasn’t suffocating. It was just... comfortable. As Strelok continued to eat, something seemed to shift. His eyes, which had been dull and distant, began to clear up just a little, like a fog lifting from a window. He blinked a few times, chewing more deliberately now, taking in the warmth of the food in his mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to ground him, if only for a moment.

Degtyaryov watched him with quiet relief, unable to stop the soft smile tugging at his lips. He had seen this before, how food could settle Strelok’s restless mind, just enough to remind him he was still alive, still human. The sedatives were a temporary fog, but with a little patience, Strelok would find his way back. You’re actually eating," he chuckles lightly, leaning back a little in his chair. "Guess that stew’s doing its job."

Strelok finally looked up, the corners of his mouth curling into the faintest smile, and for a moment, it was like the weight of the world had lightened just a little. His eyes, those piercing, haunted eyes, were focused now, not on the food, but on him.
"Yeah," he muttered, his voice a bit stronger now. "Guess I’ve been starving myself, huh?"

Degtyaryov shook his head, trying to fight back the overwhelming urge to reach across the table and touch him. Instead, he leaned forward, keeping his voice soft and teasing. "I wouldn’t go that far. But, uh, next time, you could let me know when you’re getting low on energy."

Strelok’s lips twitched again, his expression a little more relaxed than before. "Are you my caretaker now? How convenient. I could use someone like you, I suppose."

"Convenient, right?" Degtyaryov’s grin widened. He could feel the warmth between them growing, the kind that wasn’t just from the food or the room, but something else, something real, something they had built up piece by piece. "Next time, I'll bring you something even better. Maybe a whole damn feast, if that's what it'll take to get you back to normal."

Strelok raised an eyebrow, his teasing tone returning. "You sure you can afford that?"

"Probably not," Degtyaryov answered with a shrug, though the playful glint in his eyes didn’t fade. "But for you? I’d sell my soul if I had to."

Strelok snorted at that, looking down at his food with a sigh. "You know, I always thought I’d end up dead in the Zone. Never really imagined... any of this. Not someone like you, at least."

Degtyaryov’s smile softened. He leaned forward a bit more, his voice dropping into something a little more serious, but still light, still full of that warmth. "You were always gonna end up with someone like me, Strelok," he said, his words sincere, no trace of sarcasm in them. "You just didn’t know it yet."

Strelok looked up at him again, his expression more vulnerable than it had been before. He didn’t answer at first, just seemed to contemplate those words, as if they meant more than they should. It felt like they did, though. Like this moment was something neither of them had ever really expected, but both of them were desperately in need of.

"You’re too good for me," Strelok muttered, his voice quieter now, the words a little uncertain, but not defensive. More... honest.

Degtyaryov let out a soft laugh, his heart light. "Not even close, stalker," he said, reaching across the table without thinking, his hand brushing against Strelok’s briefly. "I think you’re worth more than you know," his eyes locked on Strelok’s, his words a little breathless. "You’ve been through hell, and somehow... you’re still here. And that’s something. That’s a hell of a lot more than a lot of people can say."

Strelok swallowed, looking down at his food again, his fingers gripping the edge of his tray. For a moment, he said nothing, his face and ears turning a light shade of pink. "Maybe I just...",
“…need me around to remind you of that?” Degtyaryov finished the sentence for him, squeezing the Stalkers hand lightly. “I will, I promise.”

Strelok huffed, shaking his head, but there was the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips. His fingers twitched under Degtyaryov’s hand, like he wanted to squeeze back but was still too sluggish to fully commit. The sedatives dulled his usual sharpness, but not enough to stop him from running his mouth. "Maybe I just…" He trailed off, dragging his gaze up from his plate to meet Degtyaryov’s eyes. There was a flicker of something playful there, lazy but definitely there. "…like having a lapdog in uniform." 

Degtyaryov let out a quiet scoff, rolling his eyes, but his thumb rubbed slow circles against Strelok’s knuckles. "A lapdog, huh?" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a secret. "That’s why you keep staring at me when you think I don’t notice?" 

Strelok blinked, then, to Degtyaryov’s absolute delight, actually looked caught. 
His smirk twitched, fighting not to falter, but the pink dusting his ears deepened. "You're imagining things," he muttered, picking at his food with a bit more focus than necessary. 

"Sure, sure," Degtyaryov hummed, tilting his head, considering something for a minute. He grinned. "You’re real chatty today. Must be the meds, loosening that iron grip you’ve got on your pride." 

Strelok scoffed, but the teasing lilt in Degtyaryov’s voice earned him a quiet chuckle. "If I wasn’t pumped full of enough anti-depressants to sedate a boar, I’d have some real smartass response to that." 

"I’ll hold you to it when you’re back to full capacity," the colonel chuckled, finishing the last of his lunch. He squeezed Strelok’s hand again, just briefly, before letting go. "Come on, let’s get out of here before they dose you with another round." 

Strelok stretched, like a cat that basket in the sun for too long, before pushing himself up to his feet. "Lead the way, colonel lapdog." 

Degtyaryov rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest made him smile involuntarily.

The door clicked shut behind them. The lingering scent of cigarettes and whatever industrial-grade detergent SIRCAA used on the sheets still in the air. Strelok barely made it a few steps before turning, looking at him with something unreadable in those tired eyes.

Degtyaryov didn’t hesitate. He reached for him, hands settling at the stalker’s waist, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his hipbones. He was still too thin, still too worn down, but there was warmth there, under his touch. Something real. Their foreheads bumped together, their noses touching. Strelok smelled like soap and cheap institutional shampoo, but also like the Zone on a warm day, like something familiar and distant all at once. Seems that smell seeped into your skin and never left.
Degtyaryov leaned in, kissing him.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow and gentle. Strelok’s hands settled against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of Degtyaryov’s jacket, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull him closer or push him away. He didn’t pull away.

Degtyaryov hummed against his lips, moving one hand up to cup the back of his neck, rubbing small circles into the skin. Strelok shivered, exhaling sharply through his nose.
“Are you alright?” the colonel murmured against his lips, barely pulling back.

Strelok huffed a small laugh. “You think too much, Colonel.”

That made him smile. Just a little. “One of us has to.”

Strelok rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he pressed back in, slotting their lips together again, the tension in his shoulders easing, just a bit. Degtyaryov wasn’t sure when they had started swaying slightly, like they were slow-dancing to a song neither of them could hear, but he wasn’t about to stop. 

Strelok was the first to break the kiss, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against Degtyaryov’s. His hands had settled at the Colonel’s sides, thumbs brushing absently over the fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t pulling him closer, just holding on. 

The colonel let his fingers card through Strelok’s damp hair, still warm from the shower. He liked the way it felt, the way Strelok let himself lean into the touch despite everything. 

For a long time, neither of them spoke. 

It was Strelok who finally broke the silence, voice quiet, rough around the edges. “You’re staying the night, right?” 

Degtyaryov didn’t even hesitate. “Of course. But only if you give me my glasses back” 

Strelok made a small, pleased sound, nothing more than a soft hum, but it was enough to make Degtyaryov’s chest tighten. He wanted to keep hearing that sound. Wanted to keep seeing Strelok like this, relaxed, warm, happy. 

They moved without thinking, easing onto the bed together. No rush, no urgency, just the need to be close. Strelok curled into his side, like it was the most natural thing in the world, resting his head against Degtyaryov’s shoulder like a lazy cat. The Colonel wrapped an arm around him, fingers tracing idle patterns against the ridge of his spine. 

Their kisses were slow, unhurried, but intense, desperate in a way neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Degtyaryov could feel the tension in Strelok’s body, the way his fingers gripped at his shirt like he was afraid of being pulled away. He understood that feeling, more than he wanted to admit. Between breaths, the colonel murmured, “Listen to me.” His lips barely left Strelok’s before pressing back against them for another brief, lingering kiss. He pulled away just enough to meet his eyes. “Tomorrow morning. Meet me near the hangar before we go. Seven sharp. They changed the security shifts since the false alarm.” 

Strelok’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, he looked hesitant. “I… I don’t know if I can make it,” he admitted, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “The guards usually pick me up early. Routine checkups. Bullshit.” He exhaled sharply, frustrated. 

Degtyaryov rested his forehead against Strelok’s, thumb brushing lightly over his cheek. “Just try. If you can slip away, do it. You’re the stealthiest man I know.” 

Strelok let out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment before nodding. “I’ll try.” He pulled back slightly, gaze flicking over Degtyaryov’s face like he was memorizing every detail. “I promise.” 

Degtyaryov let himself smile, small, fleeting, but real. “Good.” 

Strelok’s fingers curled into the fabric of Degtyaryov’s shirt, gripping it tight like he was afraid to let go. His breath was warm against the colonel’s jaw as he exhaled, tension laced in every inch of his body. “What happens if I can’t?” the stalker eventually asked, voice quieter now, less sure.

Degtyaryov hesitated, his hands settling at Strelok’s waist, thumbs brushing over the jut of his hipbones. He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to make it real. But lying wouldn’t do either of them any good. “Then I won’t be able to take you with me,” he admitted, his voice steady but laced with something heavy, something that sat like lead in his chest.

Strelok stiffened slightly. His grip loosened for a split second before tightening again, fingers pressing against Degtyaryov’s back. “You’d really leave without me…?”

Degtyaryov exhaled through his nose, pressing his forehead against Strelok’s. “I don’t want to,” he murmured. “But this isn’t just me going on a walk back home, Strelok. It’s complicated. If you don’t make it, I can’t wait. I can’t risk it. If they find out …”

Strelok swallowed hard, nodding slightly, though the tension didn’t leave his shoulders. His gaze flicked over Degtyaryov’s face, searching for something, maybe a hint of hesitation, a sign that the colonel didn’t mean it. But there was none.

“Seven sharp,” he repeated. “Don’t be late. I can’t do this without you.”

Strelok licked his lips, then nodded again, slower this time. “I won’t.” But there was still doubt in his voice. Degtyaryov sighed, brushing his lips against Strelok’s temple before pulling him in closer. “Then we won’t have a problem,” he muttered, sliding his hands down, over the Stalkers hips.

The helicopter’s rotors tore through the morning air, drowning out most of the world as Degtyaryov secured the last of their gear. The crates rattled, the smell of fuel grounding him for just a moment. Supplies, rations, medical kits, ammunition, monitoring equipment. Everything they needed to last in Pripyat for as long as HQ would allow. 

Not that HQ had much say anymore. He would never leave again.

He adjusted the straps on his vest, glancing at the team gathered near the chopper. Four men, waiting on his orders, waiting for the briefing. They had no idea what was really at stake. To them, this was just another mission. To him, this was something else entirely.  They were all highly trained, two of them were Zone Veterans if he wasn’t mistaken.
He exhaled sharply, pulling his thoughts together. Focus. 

“Alright, listen up!” His voice cut through the hum of the helicopter. “This mission is simple on paper, but we all know better. We’re setting up a monitoring station in Pripyat, Palace of Culture. It’s got stable walls, clear lines of sight, and enough space to set up properly. Problem is, it also puts us dead center in one of the worst hotspots in the Zone.” 

He scanned their faces, watching the way they took in his words. No fear, not yet. Just focus. 

“Our job is to get updated readings, radiation levels, anomaly activity, biological hazards. HQ wants fresh data, and we’re the lucky ones sent in to get it. That means no risks, no heroics. We stick to protocol, and we stay in pairs at all times.” 

Degtyaryov rolled his shoulders, resisting the urge to light a cigarette. His nerves were wound tight, and it had nothing to do with the mission itself. He still wasn’t sure if this was a mistake or the best decision he’d ever made. 
He swallowed that thought and moved on. 

“We land, we set up perimeter security immediately. No surprises. First priority is getting our communications and monitoring equipment running. If HQ cuts us off, we operate alone. We’ll do a full sweep before we settle in, make sure we’re the only ones there.” 

He let the words hang for a moment, giving them time to sink in. His stomach twisted. It had been over a year since he’d last set foot in the Zone. Months of trying to move on, trying to pretend he didn’t miss it. Trying to pretend that the pull of Pripyat wasn’t something he felt in his bones. 

Now he was going back. Degtyaryov adjusted his gloves and glanced toward the helicopter. “Any questions?” 

Silence. 

“Good.” He took one last breath, steadying himself.

Doctor Kuznetsov stood off to the side, fingers laced together, watching him with that thin, polite smile that barely concealed his relief. “Colonel,” he greeted smoothly, like he hadn’t just been waiting for this moment.

Degtyaryov didn’t bite the bait. He crossed his arms, “You wanted to talk before I go?”

“I did.” Kuznetsov fidgeted with his hands, exhaling like he had finally won a battle. “I suppose congratulations are in order. Your reassignment will be processed by the end of the day. I assume you’ll be out of here in the next hour?”

Degtyaryov clenched his jaw. Reassignment. That was one way to put it. “I’ll be gone soon, yes.”

“Good,” Kuznetsov said simply, with no attempt to hide his satisfaction. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Ever since Streletsky caught wind of your departure, his behavior has, well, let’s just say it’s become more manageable.”

Degtyaryov’s fingers twitched, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeves. “Meaning?”

Kuznetsov sighed, shaking his head like he was discussing a stubborn animal. “Meaning his outbursts have decreased. The defiance, the resistance, it’s diminished significantly.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, that’s also because he’s been sedated and placed in isolation.”

A cold, quiet fury settled in Degtyaryov’s chest. “You drugged him?”

Kuznetsov didn’t flinch. “We did what was necessary. He was becoming a disruption, to both staff and himself. Frankly, Colonel, your presence here has only exacerbated his condition. He clings to you, and that’s a problem.” He tilted his head, voice growing condescending. “You’re leaving, and that is the best thing for his treatment. He needs stability, not a reason to keep resisting.”

Degtyaryov inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stay composed. Every instinct told him to reach out and wipe that smug little smirk off Kuznetsov’s face. Instead, he gave a slow, measured nod. “Right.” His voice was even, but his muscles were coiled tight, barely restrained. He turned; fists clenched so hard his nails left little crescents in the flesh of his palms. “Thanks for the update, I suppose.”

Kuznetsov just smiled. “Safe travels, Colonel.”

Degtyaryov didn’t look, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He inhaled, slow and deep, before turning back toward the open hangar doors. A few SIRCAA officials lingered in the background, watching, but none of them mattered. 

Strelok did. Apparently locked away, sedated, contained. 

His stomach twisted at the thought. This wasn’t right, he was aware of that, he should’ve done more. Should’ve fought harder, found another way, but there wasn’t time for that. He did what he could, and if it had to go down this way? So be it.   

He climbed into the helicopter, fastening the harness across his chest as the co-pilot gave him a quick nod. “We’re clear for takeoff, sir.” 

Degtyaryov exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. One thing at a time. 
“Then let’s go,” he ordered. 

The ground began to shrink beneath them as the helicopter lifted off, tilting toward the north.  Toward the Zone. Toward Pripyat, back home.

As soon as they reached a safe altitude, the city shrinking into the distance below, Degtyaryov unlatched his harness and moved to one of the supply crates. He glanced at his team, none of them seemed to care, too focused on their own tasks or staring out, lost in thought or chatting. 

He crouched down and wedged the crate lid open with the flat of his knife. A tangle of tarp and bundled gear filled the space, but buried beneath it, curled up, breathing shallowy, was Strelok.  His eyes flicked open at the sudden rush of air, pupils blown wide in the dim light. His face was pale, jaw clenched tight, but he was alive. Awake. 

Degtyaryov let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

Strelok had barely shifted so far, probably stiff as hell from being stuffed in there. But they hadn’t had much choice. 
Getting him past security had been risky as hell. The crate had been labeled as “sensitive equipment,” which meant minimal handling, only Degtyaryov and the technician had been allowed to seal it. That had been step one. Step two? A carefully timed swap. 

The night before, Degtyaryov had gotten his hands on an empty, identical crate, filled it with just enough weight to pass a visual check, and swapped it onto the final manifest. It had been risky, banking on no one giving the actual contents a second glance, but he’d counted on one thing: SIRCAA personnel were thorough, but they weren’t expecting outright betrayal.  That entire fire alarm incident had come in clutch, making them worry more about the Russian federation abusing the chaos than to keep tabs on their specimen.   

And now, here they were. 

Strelok shifted slightly, wincing as he stretched out his legs. He was wrapped in a thick jacket, but still shivering, probably both from the cold air and the sheer absurdity of what they’d just pulled off. 

Degtyaryov crouched beside the crate, gripping the edge of it as he stared down at him. "You good?" he muttered, voice low. 

Strelok blinked up at him, blinking against the light like a lizard. "Define good." 

Degtyaryov huffed, shaking his head. "Just keep quiet. We’re not out of the woods yet." 

Strelok didn’t need to be told twice. He eased himself out of the crate as carefully as he could, stretching his arms to get the blood flowing again.  The colonel sat back against the wall of the cargo hold, watching him carefully. The hard part was over. Now came the next challenge, getting Strelok back to where he belonged. The Zone was waiting.

After hours of flight, the ruined skyline of Pripyat emerged through the low-hanging clouds, a ghostly silhouette against the gray horizon. The city was just as he remembered, hollowed out, rotting, but alive in that way only the Zone could be. 

Strelok sat at the edge of the chopper’s open side door, one boot hooked against the frame, the wind whipping through his hair. Below, the streets stretched out like veins, cracked and broken, nature creeping in to reclaim what was left. Degtyaryov moved up beside him, gripping the handle overhead as he leaned forward. "See anything?" 

Strelok exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yeah. Plenty." His eyes tracked the landscape below, scanning every street, every alleyway, every shadowed corner where something could be lurking. His voice came low, serious. "Anomalies have shifted over the past year. A lot. Those fields used to be stable, but now they’re right in the landing zone. I suspect it has to do with the second super emission" He pointed to the ruined avenue near the Palace of Culture, where gravity wells twisted the air odd looking spirals. 

Degtyaryov nodded, trusting his judgment. Strelok knew the Zone better than any of them. “Ill keep that in mind.”

But Strelok wasn’t done. His grip tightened on the metal frame as he scanned further, eyes narrowing. "Wait- theres something else," he muttered.

Before Strelok could finish his sentence, the helicopter was suddenly rocked by a sharp, rattling impact. The noise was deafening, a harsh, metallic screech followed by an explosive thud as if the entire aircraft had been hit by something massive. The chopper lurched violently, sending everyone scrambling for anything to hold onto.

Degtyaryov’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes darted to the instruments. The altimeter flickered and died, the warning lights flashing on every gauge. The engine sputtered, and a high-pitched whine filled the cabin. For a moment, he thought it was an anomaly field, something that could mess with the electronics, that could throw them off course. His knuckles tightened around the seat as he fought to regain control of the chopper, but the instruments were completely fried.

“Shit!” The pilot yelled, his voice tight with panic as he struggled to keep them steady. “What the hell was that?”

Strelok, however, wasn’t panicking. He was staring out of the window, face pale, eyes still fixed on the ground, either Strelok was more suicidal then he had let on or he trusted their pilot a little too much, “It’s not an anomaly!”

Degtyaryov whipped his head around, still disoriented. “What do you mean, it’s not-”

Strelok’s gaze was still locked on the horizon. “The shot didn’t just tear into us, it’s electromagnetic. They’re setting us up to crash!”

Before Degtyaryov could process any of that the chopper jerked again, this time, a violent, drop that felt like the earth had disappeared beneath them followed. The pilot cursed, hands working furiously to regain control, but it was no use. “Hold on!” Degtyaryov barked, bracing himself against the side of the chopper, papers, gear, and bodies were tossed about like ragdolls.

Then, out of nowhere, a second shot rang out, louder, sharper than the first. The tail rotor exploded into a shower of sparks, and the whole back end of the chopper twisted in an odd angle. The sound of metal tearing apart was followed by the helicopter pitching sideways, spinning uncontrollably.

Strelok was knocked off balance, almost sent flying out of the open side door. His hand barely caught the edge of the frame, his knuckles turning white as he held on for dear life, the wind howling like a freight train. He shouted something, but the roar of the wind drowned him out.

"Shit! Get back!" Degtyaryov yelled, lunging forward without thinking, grabbing Strelok by the back of his jacket just before he could slip out, jerking him back inside with a harsh yank. They were spiraling straight down.

Another violent lurch and the whole damn thing flipped sideways again, sending everyone scrambling. The pilot was still trying to fight for control, but it was useless. The tail was shredded. They weren’t going to make it out of this.

"Monolith!" Strelok managed to shout through the mess, his voice strained. "They’re picking us off, they’re targeting the electronics! Not the airframe! Tell the pilot to-"

The helicopter slammed hard into something solid, trees, ground, metal collided against the earth. The impact sent shockwaves through their bodies; every nerve was screaming. The airframe buckled and creaked under the force, and then the tail section, or rather, what was left of it, snapped off with a loud crunch.

Chapter Text

Strelok groaned, he couldn’t feel his body one second and felt it too much the next. His head throbbed, he could taste something metallic and warm pooling in his mouth. He tried to lift himself up, but his limbs felt like lead. His fingers scraped against rough concrete, cold and gritty under his palm.

He blinked, vision blurry, struggling to focus. Blood dripped over his face, trickling down from a cut on his forehead. He had to squeeze his right eye shut because it was seeping through his lashes. The world around him was a mess, broken metal, torn fabric, and the distant sound of hissing gas.

“Shit…” he muttered, his voice rough, barely louder than a whisper. He tried to push himself up again, only for his hand to slip in something wet and sticky. More blood. Probably his own. Great.

He groaned again, this time louder. He could still feel the spin in his gut, the bitter taste coating his tongue together with his blood was a sign that he was just a few seconds away from throwing up. The crash had rattled him, and the blood wasn’t helping.

Finally, he managed to sit up, eyes darting around the wreckage. There was no sign of Degtyaryov or the rest of the team, no bodies, no movement. Just the broken remains of their helicopter and the lingering, bitter smell of burning fuel.

Strelok wiped the blood from his forehead with the back of his hand, his thoughts racing. They had to be somewhere nearby. They couldn’t be far. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up, swaying a bit as he did. He was shivering and probably losing more blood than a stabbed pig, but he still had a chance.
He forced himself to stay upright, ignoring the way his knees threatened to buckle under him. His body screamed at him to just lay back down, aching and bruised from the crash, but nothing felt broken.
Pain was secondary, it meant you were still breathing and as long as you kept that up you could fight.
He spat out the blood in his mouth, the taste too familiar, like copper and dust. His ears rang, drowning out the distant city noise, the echoes of the Pripyat that had never truly faded.

Move. The voice in his head was sharp, instinctual, the same one that had kept him alive back in Chechnya, back when the ground was always shaking and death came in the form of a crack from a distant ridgeline. He knew the sound of a sniper shot when he heard one, and he sure as hell knew when he was still in the kill zone. He dropped into a crouch immediately, ignoring the way his ribs and knees popped. His hands skimmed over his gear, sidearm, spare mag, knife still tucked against his hip. Rifle? Gone. Damn it. He’d have to work without it. That meant spotting first, engaging second. His backpack? Nowhere in sight. He’d have to work with what he had. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Think. The wreckage was scattered, the helicopter’s remains twisted and smoking. The rotor assembly was crumpled like an old beer can, the tail just gone, and the cockpit was barely recognizable. The pilot? No sign. The rest of the team? No sign.

They’re alive unless you find bodies. That was an old rule. He’d seen too many guys written off as KIA, only to crawl back three days later with half of their face missing. Until he found corpses, he was assuming they were breathing and in dire need of assistance.
The wind carried the distant groan of shifting metal, but beneath it, he caught the faintest whisper of static from a busted radio somewhere in the wreckage. Useless.
His own radio? He patted his vest, pulling it up. The thing was still there, but the screen was shattered, the casing dented.
Standard new tech, shits more fragile than the back of an infant’s skull.

Priorities. Focus. First, get out of the open. Second, locate the team. Third, figure out what the hell was still hunting them.
Gauss rifle. Monolith. Two things he’d hoped to never deal with again.

This wasn’t some lucky bastard with an old Mosin. Whoever took them down was trained, experienced. A Gauss rifle wasn’t something you just picked up on a whim. It was tech you had to know how to use. It wasn’t the kind of thing a stray fanatic just happened to stumble across.
The only Monolithians he’d seen with those were holed up with their leadership in the old Palace of Culture. Those zealots weren’t idiots, nor were they alone. So who the hell was still here?

The Monolith cult should’ve been scattered. Broken. But maybe… maybe not all of them. There’s stages to everything, even to being a zealot. Some didn’t need to be brainwashed to believe this whole Wish granter bullshit, the rest of the Zone myths were proof of that.
Strelok wiped the blood from his brow. He needed to find the sniper before he did anything else. But engaging without intel was suicide.

A sharp gust of wind ripped through the ruined streets, carrying the scent of old rain and rot. It smelled like Pripyat, like dust, metal, and that faint, sour stench of something that never really faded. The Zone had a smell. You either got used to it, or you didn’t last long enough to.

She’s been waiting for me.

He exhaled slowly. His mind ran through the familiar patterns and rules.
Sniper positioning. High ground, clear lines of sight. Elevated enough to cover the crash site but not too exposed so he could be picked off without much trouble.
He was being watched. He knew that feeling.
He’d felt it in Grozny, creeping through streets like a rat, roads lined with ruined buildings, never knowing which window would spit death. He’d felt it in the Zone as well, a promise that the next step could be the last.
The VDV and Kadyrovtsy, dogs as they are, had always played with their food. Monolith, though? They were fanatics. They didn’t toy with you. They didn’t need to. They just put a round through your head and kept moving.

Step. Pause. Scan. Move.

Snipers weren’t invincible. They were still human and had to see to shoot, which meant exposing themselves, just a little, just enough. It wasn’t the first shot that killed you; it was the moment you moved wrong.

He let his eyes roam over the upper windows of the surrounding structures, ignoring the distant flicker of firelight in the wreckage, the shifting smoke and heat distorting the air. The sniper had the advantage of elevation, but he’d need a good field of view. No use setting up somewhere the wreckage blocked half his sightlines.

Then, there.

A faint, brief glint. Almost nothing, but Strelok knew what he was looking for. Not a reflection, not glass catching the light the wrong way. The telltale flicker of a scope's objective lens.
Fourth floor, north-facing, abandoned apartment block.
He didn’t move, didn’t react. Don’t confirm you’ve spotted him. That was the mistake that got rookies killed, whipping your head toward a threat as soon as you saw it. The movement was too obvious. Monolith snipers were trained well. If they thought they’d been spotted, they’d reposition. And the next time they fired, he wouldn’t be able to track them without risking everything.

Check for environmental markers.

Snipers weren’t just their rifles. They needed stabilization. That meant something to brace against, likely a windowsill or a ledge, otherwise the recoil could mess with your aim. Depending on the rifle’s weight, they might also use a bipod. Gauss rifles were heavy bastards and hard to modify. If this one had proper training, he'd be resting it against something solid, meaning he couldn’t just shift positions easily.
Another glint. Slight. Leftward drift. He’s adjusting his angle.

Strelok suppressed the instinct to move. The sniper was watching the wreckage, expecting survivors to stumble out. He was waiting for movement, a sign of life. The moment someone popped their head up, they’d be gone.

Think. Options. Actions.

A direct sprint for cover? No good. The guy wasn’t some half-blind idiot with a rusty AK. He had a Gauss rifle, and those things atomized things with a single hit. His makarov was useless at this range. No rifle. No long-range optics. No support. Classic underdog situation.

He needed to get inside that building. He let his gaze shift naturally, taking in the terrain. Collapsed scaffolding on the west side. Fire escape, second floor.
If he could get there without being seen, he’d have a way up. Close the distance, take the sniper out before he could reposition.

He reached into the side pocket of his cargos, fingers curling around a bolt. Flakes of rust crumbled into his palm. Some habits never died. He rolled it between his fingers once, feeling the weight, the texture, then, with all the force he could muster, chucked it hard to the right.

The instant it clattered against parts of the twisted wreckage, the sniper took the bait. A sharp crack split the air, followed by a high-pitched whine. The Gauss rifle’s discharge lit up the street for a fraction of a second.

Where there had once been a jagged chunk of debris, there was now nothing. The blast atomized it on impact, sending a ripple through the dust and leaving behind only a scorched, glass-smooth crater. No armor, no bodies survived a hit like that.

Didn’t matter. Strelok was already moving.

He threw himself into a sprint, boots pounding against the cracked pavement, kicking up dust and loose rubble. Gauss rifles had weaknesses. The shot left behind a residual electrical charge, faint but trackable if you knew what to look for. That gave him a trajectory. More importantly, they were a bitch to reposition.
Heavy. Clunky. Power-hungry. And the reload? That took a solid twenty seconds, assuming the rifle wasn’t held together with zip ties and sheer faith that didn’t come from brainwashing. If the battery compartment’s rails were warped or misaligned, you could fumble the reload and lose precious seconds. Seconds he intended to exploit.
He had a time window. Not much, but enough.

Another shot screamed past him, close enough that he felt the static crawl over his skin. It punched through the pavement, vaporizing asphalt into a molten crater, sending a shockwave of dust and stone into the air.

Fast reaction. Not perfect aim. He’s adjusting.

Strelok dove behind a rusted-out car, the impact jarring his bones as he hit the ground. He gritted his teeth, sucking in a shallow breath, his pulse steady. He’d been here before. The fear was there, but it was distant, an old friend from a lifetime ago. He could almost taste the bitter dust of Grozny again, the constant crack of gunfire in the streets, the screams echoing down alleyways. That sharp, metallic scent of blood mingling with the thick smoke of burning buildings. That was a real war. This? This was just another day in a different kind of hell. 

Different battlefield. Same game.

He stole a glance over the hood, eyes narrowing just in time to catch the last flicker of the Gauss rifle’s discharge. The residual electricity hummed in the air like static on a radio. His heart didn’t race. It didn’t need to. He’d been there, too. Under fire, on a different front. Chechnya had taught him to stay cool, to know that the enemy could kill you before you even knew they were there.

The rain slashing down as he crouched in a ruined building, eyes locked on a sniper’s scope, heart pounding against the silence. The echo of a bullet ricocheting off concrete. The roar of artillery in the distance. His fingers shaking, but not from fear but from the cold and adrenaline.
He wasn’t going to die today. Never.

North-facing window. Fourth floor. Same spot. 

That told him something important, this sniper wasn’t planning to reposition. Either he was confident in his location, or he had no backup plan.

Either way, a horrible mistake.

Another shot rang out, and the air vibrated with the force of it. The Gauss rifle’s projectile hit the car’s roof, atomizing what little was left of the rusted metal. The explosion of molten shrapnel tore through the air, the car's frame groaning under the impact, but it didn’t matter. Strelok had already made his move.

He pushed off from cover, low and fast, boots slapping against the cracked pavement. His heart thudded, not in panic but in that familiar rhythm of survival. He barely registered the sound of the next shot as it sizzled through the air, missing him by inches. Too slow.

The collapsed scaffolding was more of a half-destroyed jungle gym of rusted metal and rotting wood. Strelok didn’t waste time calculating; he sprinted for it, his legs pumping faster than they should have, pushing through the burn. His bloodied hands shot out, grabbing the jagged edges of the structure, scraping his palms some more as he climbed.
The pain barely registered.
He didn’t feel the bite of the metal cutting into his skin, his focus was on the sniper, on the hunt.

No hesitating. No second-guessing.

He pulled himself up, muscles straining, chest burning with every pull. The air smelled like decay, the rust from the scaffolding mingling with the acrid scent of burning fuel still hanging in the air. Strelok didn’t stop to look back, didn’t take a second to think about the risk. He just kept moving. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to slow down, to take a breath, but he refused. He was too close now.

The moment Strelok’s boots hit the cracked linoleum of the apartment hallway, he knew this place had been abandoned for decades.
It smelled like rot and damp concrete, like dust and ghosts.
The wallpaper peeled in curling strips, revealing mold-blackened drywall.  

He kept his sidearm drawn, knife in his off-hand. This wasn’t just experience, this was muscle memory. The weight of the Makarov felt light, familiar, but he didn’t put full trust in it. He never did. Guns jammed. Rounds misfired. A knife never betrayed you. 
The dim light filtering through broken blinds gave just enough light to see the dust motes hanging in the air, undisturbed. No movement. No sounds except the faint hum of old pipes settling deep in the walls. Whoever this sniper was, he was patient. Waiting. 

Strelok ghosted forward, his breathing even, boots rolling heel-to-toe against the floor. No unnecessary noise. No wasted movements. 

The first door was open, darkness spilling through the tiny gap. He didn’t hesitate. Pressed close to the frame and nudged it open with his foot. At the same time, he angled his pistol up, clearing the corners, low, center, high.   
Nothing. 
Just an old kitchen, a table with one leg broken, plates still sitting in the sink like someone had just left and never come back. 

He moved on. 

The second door was closed. Could be nothing. Could be something.  Strelok exhaled slow and low, then moved in. Knife tight in his grip, he twisted the knob carefully, just enough to test the resistance. Locked. 
Could be barricaded. Could be trapped. Didn’t matter. 
He took a step back and drove his boot into the door just below the handle. The wood splintered with a brittle crack, the door swinging open as he swept inside, pistol leading.  
Clear. 

A bedroom with an old mattress, stripped bare. A child’s toy laid on the floor, dusty and forgotten. No Monolithian. 
He kept going. The sniper had to be close. 

The silence was pressing in now, the weight of this place settling in his chest like an old, familiar curse. Strelok had fought through dead cities, through abandoned labs filled with things that should not have existed, through the goddamn heart of the Zone itself. 
This was nothing. 
And yet, something about the apartment still itched at the back of his skull. 

There was something. Not loud. Not obvious. A breath. Barely there, but out of place. 

Fourth door. Found you. 
Strelok had killed hundreds. Some in war, some in the name of survival, some simply because there was no other choice. This would be no different. 

Strelok was a breath away from the sniper's position when he heard the sharp crack of a suppressed shot. It was clean, precise, a perfect kill. The tension in his muscles unraveled, only to tighten again as he realized he hadn't pulled the trigger.
He froze, his instincts kicking in, silently pulling back. In the split second it took him to recalibrate, his eyes caught a flicker of movement from across the room. Degtyaryov.

The Colonel was standing in the doorway of what used to be a closet, a smoke trail curling from the barrel of his suppressed sidearm. The sniper, slumped against the far wall, had no more life in him, the neat, clean shot through his head had left him dead before he had hit the ground. The man's rifle was already on the floor, discarded like a broken tool.

Strelok’s pulse surged, half relief, half frustration, as he stepped into the room. He barely needed a glance to assess the situation. The Colonel had done what he was best at: eliminating a threat before it had a chance to make a move.

Degtyaryov turned his head, his usual calm expression not betraying even a hint of shaken excitement, just that quiet unease that always seemed to cling to him. He gave a brief nod, the faintest hint of a nervous frown tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You weren’t exactly quiet about it,” Strelok said, the words coming out gruff and harsh. A mix of relief and irritation, the kind that came when you had to rely on someone else.

Degtyaryov shrugged, wiping the gun clean with his torn sleeve. “I wasn’t going to wait around for you to finish playing tag with him.”

Strelok let out a low chuckle, but it was strained, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He still felt the hunt in his bones, that drive to end it on his terms. But he knew better. The Colonel was better at this, hell, better than most, and he had handled things before Strelok even had a chance to blink. But he didn’t give these bastards what they deserved. He was too kind to them.
“Always have to be the one who steals the show, don’t you?” he muttered, but there was no venom behind it, just weariness.

Degtyaryov, as usual, didn’t take offense. He took a step forward, wiping his hands on his pants. “You’d be dead if it weren’t for me,” he said matter-of-factly. “So, unless you want to give me another lesson in how to clear a building, I suggest you keep your eyes on the bigger picture.”

Strelok glanced at the dead sniper again, his eyes lingering on the lifeless body, taking in the reality of it. He’d been too close. Again. Too many times in his life, he’d been close to the edge. But the Colonel, Degtyaryov, kept him from falling.

There was no time to waste on a grudge. They had a job to finish. Strelok wiped the blood from his face. He nodded toward the ruined sniper rifle. “We need to keep moving. If there are more of them... we can’t afford to waste any more time.”

Degtyaryov gave him a sharp nod in return. No questions. No more bullshit. They both knew this wasn’t over yet. “Let’s go then,” the colonel was already moving toward the door. He paused, looking over his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

For a moment, Strelok said nothing, his gaze drifting to the window, the faded skyline of Pripyat looming in the distance. The ghosts of his past whispered through the dust and decay. But then, with a slow exhale, he stood straight and followed Degtyaryov out the door.
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice flat but with a quiet edge to it. “I’m good.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, he actually meant it.

The building loomed ahead, a relic of Soviet grandeur now left to rot. Its once-proud facade was cracked and crumbling, its hollowed-out insides a graveyard of forgotten history. Faded banners hung limp from the ceiling, ghosts of long-dead performances and gatherings. Now, the only audience was dust, decay, and whatever poor bastard's corpse had been left behind to melt into the ruins. 
Strelok’s boots crunched against shattered glass, broken plaster, and the occasional spent casing. He swallowed hard. Nothing had changed.
Two years, and the place was still a tomb. The same bullet casings littered the floor, some of them his own. Half-rotten corpses slumped against the walls, long past recognition. The remains of

Monolith’s last stand remained in the main performance hall, remnants of their barricades and shrine still stood tall and proud. The air stank of mold, old blood, and something sickly sweet.

Up on the second floor, the rest of the team had busied themselves with clearing the side wings. It was a good position.
Strong sightlines. Multiple exits. Thick walls to keep out anomalies and stray bullets. No windows, which meant emissions wouldn’t cook them in their sleep. 

They had made it inside before them. Degtyaryov had sent them ahead the moment he realized the chopper was compromised. It was the only move that made sense.
The city was still crawling with Monolith, and the fewer people caught in the open, the better. Now, the priority was getting comms back online and figuring out how the hell they were supposed to recover their gear without getting turned into dummies for Monolithian target practice. They always came in groups.

Strelok stood in the entryway, taking it all in. His hands trembled, just slightly, but he clenched them into fists to steady himself. 
Two years. 
And it still felt like stepping into a grave he hadn’t quite finished digging. It just felt too familiar. The dust, the bodies, the bullet holes, like the Zone had been holding its breath, waiting for him to come back. 

Footsteps echoed behind him. Not rushed. Not hostile.
"You good?" The colonel’s voice was low, careful. He wasn’t looking for a real answer, and they both knew it. 

Strelok let out a shaky breath, forcing the lump in his throat down. "Could be worse." 

Degtyaryov huffed a quiet laugh, stepping up beside him. Close. A little too close, maybe, but neither of them did anything about it.  For a second, they just stood there. Side by side. Looking at the ruins. 
“This place is a damn crypt,” the colonel muttered. 

Strelok glanced at him, catching the way his brow furrowed, the way his fingers twitched slightly. He wasn’t immune to this place either.
“You get used to it.”  

Degtyaryov shot him a look, dry and unimpressed. “That’s not a good thing.” 

Strelok shrugged. He wasn’t about to argue. They stood there a little longer than they probably should have. The Zone was always cold, always just on the edge of unbearable, but for once, Strelok didn’t mind the warmth of another person beside him. 

“Didn’t think I’d see this again,” Degtyaryov admitted, voice quieter now. 

Strelok let his head tip slightly toward him, not quite leaning in, but close enough.
“Pripyat or me?” he kept his voice low.

Degtyaryov didn’t answer right away. Then, just barely above a whisper,
“Both.” 

Strelok exhaled through his nose. “You’re an idiot,” he murmured, letting the colonel tilt his head back. 

Degtyaryov just smirked. “So are you.” 

For a second, Strelok almost, almost, closed the distance. But stopped himself.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

For a moment, Strelok didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring ahead, his jaw tight. Mad? The word rolled around in his head like it didn’t even belong.
He took a slow step back, leaning against Degtyaryov’s chest, the contact barely more than a shift in weight. The height difference between them meant that Strelok could to tilt his head back, just enough to look up at him, the back of his head resting against the colonel’s shoulder. The angle was almost absurdly comfortable, too easy to fall into.

“Mad at you?” Strelok repeated, his voice way too calm. It didn’t sound right, even to him. “Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it.” 

He didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t need one. His eyes never left the colonel’s face. “You think I’m mad at you for something?” He let out a short laugh, but it wasn’t funny. It was just a sound, too sharp to be real humor. “I’ve killed hundreds of people here,” he said, almost too quietly, like it was nothing. “I never bothered to count, didn’t want to waste my time on them.” 

Degtyaryov was clearly trying to process what he just said, but Strelok wasn’t going to soften it. He wasn’t here to coddle anyone. 
He didn’t blink. Not once. 
“You’re worried about me being mad at you about a single kill?” His voice was even lower now, a dangerous calm. His eyes narrowed just a little, but that was enough. He could feel the tension building. “Maybe you should be worried about a few other things, Colonel.” 

Strelok let out a slow breath, like he was trying to get back to something, some control, some distance. “I’m not mad,” he muttered, the words almost lost in the quiet. “Not at you. Not at anything. I just… am that.” 

There was no relief. Nothing shifted. Strelok liked to think that he was good at reading people, but he could tell Degtyaryov wasn’t getting any comfort from him. And that was the point. 

Still. He couldn’t help it, his gaze kept drifting to the colonel's face, like he was trying to make sense of everything in the silence between them. For just a moment, everything else faded. It was just them.

And before Strelok even realized what was happening, Degtyaryov closed the gap, pulling him in with a surprising force. Their lips met, and it was… different. Soft. Not rushed, not like the chaos Strelok was used to. Just… there.
He froze for a second, feeling the warmth of it, the unexpectedness. But then, just as quickly, it was over. He pulled back, blinking, his breath a little heavier than usual, his mind scrambling to catch up. He didn’t say anything, just looked at Degtyaryov like he was trying to figure out what just happened.

Degtyaryov looked at him, breathing a little heavier, eyes steady but with something else behind them. “Not what you were expecting?”

Strelok didn’t have an answer for that, not right away. Instead, he just gave a small nod, not sure how to put everything into words. What he felt, what had just happened, hell, what it even meant.
But he didn’t need to say anything. He knew.

"Strelok…" Degtyaryov’s voice was softer than usual. Almost hesitant.

The Stalker blinked, not used to hearing him like that. He turned to face him fully, raising an eyebrow.
The colonel exhaled, a shaky breath. "You don’t need to carry this alone." His eyes held a sincerity that Strelok wasn’t used to, and for a moment, the stalker didn’t know how to respond. The light caught Degtyaryov’s eyes, making them gleam like liquid gold, warm and sharp all at once.
He felt something stir in his chest, an ache that he wasn’t ready to acknowledge, but damn if it didn’t make him want to just stand there and stare into those eyes for hours, trying to make sense of the idiotic, selflessly kind man they belonged to.
“Doesn't matter," Strelok muttered, shaking his head like that would push it all away. But Degtyaryov just stepped closer.

“I’m serious, Strelok,” Degtyaryov continued, his voice rough. “You don’t have to keep all this inside. I think…no, I know how it feels. But you don’t have to shut everyone out. Not me.”

Strelok’s stomach tightened, and it was like all those walls he’d built up, all those years of distance, suddenly started to crack. There was something comforting about Degtyaryov’s presence, the way he was there, the way he didn’t push too hard but also didn’t back off.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Degtyaryov said, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach out but was waiting for permission. “I swear. Whatever happens, I’ll be here. For you.”

Strelok felt his heart thud in his chest, the words landing heavier than anything he could’ve imagined. His breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t just some bullshit they fed him at SIRCAA, not some hollow promise. The way Degtyaryov looked at him, eyes steady, firm, made it feel real, like maybe, just maybe, someone could actually be there for him.
Maybe he still was worthy of love.

“I know you’ll be here,” Strelok whispered, a hint of something like vulnerability creeping into his voice against his will. “I’m just… not used to it.”

Degtyaryov nodded, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I get it. But I’m not going anywhere, Strelok. Ever.”

Before Strelok could think better of it, he reached out, his hand brushing Degtyaryov’s. A small touch, but enough. Their fingers brushed, then interlocked, holding each other just for a moment, like neither one of them was ready to let go.

It wasn’t a big gesture. But it was enough.

And for the first time since he'd sat in the back of that old, rusty convoy, heading back home after his soul had been gutted in the Caucasus, Strelok felt something that wasn’t buried under guilt.

It was peace.

Maybe not much, but it was enough to make him feel like he didn’t have to keep running anymore.

Chapter Text

Skif groaned, blinking hard against the pounding in his skull. Everything felt off, like he’d been ripped out of sleep too fast, body lagging behind his mind. His hands fumbled up to his temples, rubbing slow circles against the ache. 

“Hey, hey, easy,” a voice cut through the haze, firm but familiar. Richter. 

Before Skif could even think about responding, Richter was already there, crouched beside him, a hand on his shoulder, scanning him like he was expecting the worst. 

“You with me?” Richter asked, searching his face. 

Skif exhaled, shifting slightly, trying to get his bearings. “Barely,” he muttered. His throat was dry as hell. Felt like he’d swallowed dust. “What the fuck happened?” 

“Richter, lay off,” Strelok’s voice cut through, sharp as ever but not unkind. “He doesn’t need you hassling him right now.” 

Richter frowned but backed off, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m just making sure he’s not about to drop dead.” 

“He won’t,” Strelok gave Skif a once-over. “Not yet, at least.” 

Skif groaned and rubbed his head, still feeling like he’d been slammed into concrete face first. “Great. I appreciate the confidence.” 
They weren’t in the field anymore. The rough concrete walls, the hum of old generators, the smell of gun oil and damp fabric. Was this the base of the so-called “Border Corps”? Skif had heard of them before, they had made their claim in Pripyat and Yaniv, a ragtag mix of ex-military, veteran stalkers, and a few poor bastards who got stuck in the Zone long enough to stop trying to leave. 
It had been a few years since things really changed. Since the Zone shifted, since the world outside started looking at it as something more than a forgotten wasteland. But even with all the structure, the outposts, the so-called protection, it was still the Zone. It still chewed people up and spat them out. 
And right now, Skif felt like he’d just been through its teeth.

He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog in his head. His body felt like it had been wrung out, every nerve fried. He shifted, wincing, and barely managed to sit up before Richter steadied him with a firm grip. 
“Easy,” Richter muttered. 

Skif let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, no shit.” 
It took him a second to register the other two in the room. He knew who they were, every stalker did, but knowing their names didn’t mean knowing them. 

Colonel Degtyaryov stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching everything with that sharp, unreadable look, like he’d already run through every possible scenario and was just waiting to see if Skif would screw up. There was something about him that was hard to place. Too steady, too sure, like nothing ever truly surprised him. 

And then there was Strelok.
Skif had met the guy before, but that didn’t make him any easier to be around. There was something about him that just felt... wrong. Not in a crazy way, not even in an aggressive way. Just, off. Too still, too controlled, like he wasn’t quite human anymore.
And those eyes, dark and hollow, never stopping, never missing anything. Like two black holes sucking the light out of everything.

Skif had met his fair share of dangerous men in the Zone. Most of them were unpredictable, reckless, desperate.
Strelok wasn’t.
He had the kind of presence that made your survival instincts scream. Not because he was threatening, no, that would’ve been easier. But because if he decided you weren’t worth keeping around, he’d do something about it. And he wouldn’t even flinch.
Skif swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that this man was watching him. 

“You don’t need to hover,” Strelok said, looking at Richter now. His voice was low, flat. Not unkind, just... cold. “Give him some space.” 

Richter hesitated, then pulled back slightly, though he still looked like he was ready to catch him if he keeled over again. 
Skif forced himself to breathe, shifting his gaze between the two men he barely knew. Yeah, this was gonna be fun.
He rubbed at his temples, still trying to shake off the last bit of dizziness. “Alright… what now?” he asked, glancing between them. 

Richter crossed his arms, shifting his weight onto one leg. “We need more information before we just start running around. If we don’t have a plan, we’re gonna get blindsided again.” 

Strelok barely looked up. “Red Forest.” 

Skif blinked. “Huh? What?” 

Strelok finally turned those sharp, unreadable eyes on him. “You’re heading to the Red Forest. Have a little talk with Kaimanov while you’re at it.” 

Skif had heard that name before. A former doctor, one of those guys that slipped between the lines, always managing to stay one step ahead of the worst of it. And if Strelok was saying they needed to talk to him, it probably wasn’t gonna be a friendly chat over tea. 
 “And what, we just waltz in there? No plan? No intel?” 

The veteran stalker gave him a look, something between boredom and mild irritation. “We don’t need a plan.” 

Skif opened his mouth to argue, but before he could even get a word out, Degtyaryov spoke up.
“It’s decided,” the colonels voice cut through the conversation like a blade. Just like that, the discussion was over. 

Instead of just clamping his mouth shut like some fucking mutt Skif frowned, crossing his arms. “Why don’t you deal with Kaimanov yourself then, if it’s so important?” 

Strelok didn’t even look at him. He just waved a hand, dismissing the question like it wasn’t worth answering. “Go get ready. You’re wasting your and my time.” 

That was it. No explanation. No argument. Just brushed off like Skif had asked something stupid. Richter nudged him. “C’mon, man. Let it go.” 

Skif clenched his jaw but didn’t push it. He shot one last glance at Degtyaryov, who just stood there, arms crossed, watching them like some silent observer. If he had an opinion, he wasn’t sharing it. 
Fine. Whatever. They’d do it Strelok’s way. 
With a frustrated sigh, Skif turned on his heel, heading for the door with Richter right behind him.

As they made their way toward the Red Forest, the eerie silence, Skif finally spoke up. 
“So… what’s the deal with those two?” He kept his voice low, but there was no need, there was no one else around. 

Richter glanced at him, raising an eyebrow as he pulled one of his headphone cuffs off. “Who?” 

Skif shot him an unimpressed look. “Who dou think I mean? Strelok and the colonel. They’re weird.” 

Richter snorted, shaking his head. “Understatement of the year.” He adjusted the strap of his rifle, eyes scanning the treeline. “Degtyaryov’s alright, though. Bit stiff, but he actually gives a shit. You don’t see that often from people in his position.”  

Skif hummed. He wasn’t convinced yet. “And Strelok?” 

Richter sighed, as if he was already tired of the conversation. “Strelok’s… different.” 

“That’s one way to put it.” 

“Look, man.” Richter stopped walking for a second, turning to face him properly. “Strelok’s been through more shit than anyone should. He’s done things no one else has, survived things no one should. People treat him like a legend, but I think he hates that. Like he just wants to be left alone, but he can’t be, y’know?” 

Skif thought about that. He’d seen plenty of stalkers who’d been in the Zone too long, guys who lost pieces of themselves along the way. But there was something else about Strelok, something that didn’t sit right.
“Doesn’t explain why he creeps me the hell out,” Skif muttered. 

Richter just chuckled. “Yeah, well… you’ll get used to it.” 

Skif wasn’t so sure about that. He kicked a loose rock as they walked, mulling things over before speaking again. “What about them, though? Like… their relationship.” 

Richter didn’t answer right away. He just kept walking, eyes on the treeline, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, “It’s complicated.” 

Skif frowned. “Thanks for the elaborate answer, mind to share some more?” 

Richter huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, well, there isn’t a simple one.” 

He waited, but Richter didn’t elaborate. 

“That’s it?” Skif pressed. “Come on, man, you’ve been around them longer than I have. You have to know something.” 

Richter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, they’re… close. Way closer than most people in the Zone get. But Strelok, he’s not the kind of guy who lets people in easy. And the colonel’s got his own shit to deal with. Whatever’s between them, it’s their business.” 

Skif narrowed his eyes. “So you do know something.” 

Richter just smirked and kept walking. “Like I said. Complicated.”
Skif just smirked, quickening his pace to walk alongside the guide. “Complicated, huh? Sounds like you’ve got some experience with that.”

Richter shot him a side glance, unimpressed. “What are you getting at?”

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, grinning like a Cheshire. “Just that you seem awfully knowledgeable about their business. Maybe you’re the kind of guy who likes complicated things.”

Richter let out a dry chuckle. “And what, you’re offering something simple?”

Skif shrugged, playfully. “Depends. You in the market?”

Richter snorted, shaking his head, but Skif caught the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Youre almost as weird as those two…”

“I take that as a compliment.” Skif couldn’t help but chuckle.