Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The First Month
The first pieces of equipment issued to Izuku by Spore, the Clear Sky quartermaster, were eight pairs of underwear, some wool socks, and a groin guard.
“It’s xenotech, specially made underwear with a lead and artifact based microweave lining meant to shield your goods from radiation. Same goes for the groin guard, but that little guy has some kevlar protection too, just in case.” Spore rapped a knuckle against the cup lying atop the pile of underwear.
“The guard I understand, but.. why do I need special underwear?” Izuku asked, reaching to examine the material of the undergarments. Spore leaned back in his chair, his heavy black boots coming to rest on top of the counter of his shop. Taking a rag and a PM pistol from the shelf next to him he began to speak with a careful and measured tone, his hands busy wiping the surface of the handgun.
“Well for one, the ambient radiation is already worrying, enough to make you sterile if you’re lucky, but it's what the Zone can do to you that is really worrying. It hasn’t exactly been long enough to see the long term effects, but rumors have come back from the Mainland that stalkers who manage to return to the Mainland and have reproduced tend to have… cursed children. Children with special abilities, different appearances, and disabilities that outweigh any beneficial mutations. I heard of a stalker who tried to give up life as a guide into the Zone, returned to the Mainland, got married and had a daughter who couldn’t walk or talk, but she could move objects with her mind and communicate with psychic images. She died of a sudden stroke one morning at the kitchen table, moving a glass of water. Her father walked into the Poppy Field the week after they buried her. I hope he dreams of her forever.” Spore leaned forward, sitting up right in his wooden chair.
“Once you enter the Zone, you’ve already been claimed by it, best to try to at least lessen the impact. You’re young, and when you finally get home, I only hope that these measures we take will be enough for the Zone to show you mercy and save the lives of future innocent children from its influence. It's our mess to deal with–not theirs’.” Spore slammed the handgun on the counter beside the stack of underwear. “I suggest you use this Makarov over that USP you got there. I don’t have any .45 cal rounds to supply you, but we do have plenty of 9x18mm Makarov, so you’ll just have to stash that fine piece of German engineering until we manage to get a hold of enough ammo for you.” Spore reached under the counter and came back with two thin PM magazines and two boxes of 9x18mm ammunition, before pulling an empty backpack off a hook and placing it beside the rest of the items. “That’s all I got for you for now. If you ever need anything else in terms of equipment, just let me know and I’ll be happy to help, within reason of course. We unfortunately don’t have much currently, but I’ll always put a fetch request in with Diver to see if he can try and find what we need on his weekly excursions out of the Swamps. In the meantime, go talk with the rest of the folks, get familiar with the faces around here and see what you can learn. Catch you later Kid.”
And so Izuku was left on his first day in the Fishing Hamlet that was the current Clear Sky base, a backpack full of new undergarments, ammunition, and a handgun he had no idea how to use. But the days that followed were among the most productive he had ever experienced. Speaking to the men tending the campfires around the base allowed for Izuku to learn basic stalker knowledge, from the importance of having extra bolts and empty shell casings for navigating anomalies, to how to start a fire, to even understanding how stalkers don’t so much as travel to specific parts of the Zone as the Zone allows stalkers to travel where it wishes.
That particular piece of knowledge had Izuku in amazement for days, knowing that attempting to take the same path he travelled with Diver once more on his own could very well simply have him going in circles or walking right into the middle of some random distant part of the Zone. Apparently there were safe paths, ones that were stable of any anomalous displacement only to the select few, those favored by the Zone supposedly. And that was why travel between areas of the Zone required special guides, just as they were required to even get into and out of the Zone in the first place. The Zone was alive. Something the Clear Sky scientists were even reluctant to delve into.
But speaking of the faction’s scientific minds, Izuku had never before felt such a distinct thirst for knowledge than what he felt when conversing with them. Izuku was naturally brilliant, his mind and talents sharpened and exercised by the many games and exercises his dad taught him as a child, having cultivated the curiosity and intelligence within. However, when discussing the scientific discoveries of the Zone, the known mechanics of universal travel, and the effects of psi-radiation on such a wide scale, Izuku had become obsessed with knowing more, learning more, and discovering more. So to learn that the Zone had such an effect on people as to create mutations, that the children of stalkers seemed to be born with half formed quirks, Izuku was more than willing to allow the scientists to run tests on him, as he was the closest thing to baseline human that his own world had. Or so he thought.
Turned out that his body was naturally more resilient than the normal human in this world; his skin, bones, and muscles were denser, his eyes and ears sharper, his somatosensory system much more finely tuned, his brain was highly developed and seemed to be incredibly active, and, interestingly, his lungs appeared to possess some mutation alongside the alveoli of his lungs. Further invasive and uncomfortable tests performed on his alveoli revealed these extra little sacs were able to filter out smoke. The scientists and soldiers joked that he’d still have to wear a gas mask just like them around the chemical anomalies, but he’d be able to out chainsmoke even the best of them now without any ill effects. Izuku simply sat in awe, knowing he had inherited a portion of his dad’s quirk, the one mutation that kept his dad from dying to his own quirk. He cried tears of joy that night knowing that he had his dad with him in some way this far from home, that even in death his dad was looking out for him.
Not to say the least of how Novikov, the local gunsmith, and Diver, when the man wasn’t on one of his supply or research excursions, were teaching Izuku how to handle a gun and fight. Novikov took a shine to how Izuku excelled with machinery and taught the boy the ins and outs of gun maintenance and operation. Diver did his part and would take the time to set up a shooting range with empty glass bottles and sheet metal for Izuku to practice against. Turned out he was a startlingly good shot, by no means a sharpshooter, but his groupings were tight and almost always right on where he was aiming. By week three, Diver and the rest of the men in camp believed Izuku to be proficient enough with a gun that he could handle learning how to fight in melee. Diver and some of the older men who served during the Soviet Union’s continuity began teaching Izuku the basics of Sambo, as well as basic CQC maneuvers. In this, Izuku struggled–he couldn’t seem to stop defaulting to the basic boxing techniques of All Might, consistently turning disarming jabs into limp smashes, his kicks equivalent to the force of a puppy sneezing. Izuku simply seemed to presently lack the strength and muscle memory necessary to even win a spar with a geriatric hare on psychedelic mushrooms with a Do Not Resuscitate order. In fact, the hare would tear Izuku limb from limb. Regardless, all he needed was some more work, more time building his strength and knowledge.
In the meantime, to help Izuku adjust to life in the Zone and learn about the faction’s affairs, Cold has had Izuku run errands between the main base and the church, mostly moving scientific specimens and food. Izuku enjoyed these little ventures, mostly because he got to talk to Father. He looked forward to these talks with the clergyman.
Every time Izuku arrived to the church, a wheelbarrow of supplies in hand, Father would welcome him at the gate with a hearty laugh, blessings, and guide Izuku to the picnic table where some tea and crackers (made from the harvested rye Clear Sky cultivated in a garden over the church’s bunker) sat prepared. And there they’d talk for hours, from sharing anecdotes of life to comparing their respective worlds’ differing histories. Sometimes, when the weight of his reality was too heavy to bear, Izuku would confide in Father, trusting the old priest to hold him up. Izuku was not a believer of the faith, hard to be when religion was the main cause of the Great Collapse in his world, but Father’s own unwavering faith and reassurances soothed something in Izuku. When Izuku asked Diver about this, the man smiled. “There are no atheists in foxholes. The Zone is a big ass hole.”
Izuku was on his way back to the Fishing Hamlet from his last run to the church for the month, the wheelbarrow full of textiles Father and the men posted at the church had managed to salvage from some old ruined uniforms. The path back to the base was flanked by tall grass that towered even over the tallest of men, the wild growth thick enough to hide creatures of any size. As such, with the encroaching darkness and swamp fog rolling in, Izuku failed to notice the men in black leather cloaks hidden in the grass. Failed to notice the greed in their eyes.
Izuku failed to notice the butt of the shotgun striking him in the back of the head. Unconscious, the boy fell into the muck and men descended upon the young man and his precious cargo. Izuku never made it back to the base that night.