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whisperofzone · 30 days ago

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S.T.A.L.K.E.R:

The Heart of Chernobyl

Quest: Amber Archer

Part 1: A stalker girl

📍Location: ‘Yantar’ (Amber) Railway Station

🕗 Time: 8:16 p.m.

Skif was tired. He arrived at ‘Yantar’ Station in the late afternoon. The sun was slowly setting, bathing the landscape in gold. The young man lifted his head, gazing at the horizon. The Zone — as terrifying as it was beautiful. He adjusted his radiation mask and headed toward the building.

This area used to be rich in amber deposits. It was mined here and shipped by train to Rivne, to a company called “Potential Polissya Ltd.”

Back then, the place was bustling with life. Now — decay, radiation, psy-emissions, and a shelter for worn-out stalkers looking to catch their breath or trade bullets and weapons.

Skif felt a small sense of relief as he stepped into the large building that had once served as a rest station for conductors and workers at ‘Yantar’.

He entered the main hall. Inside, the air smelled of hot metal, roasted meat, and dust — the typical scent of a bar where stalkers from all over the region gathered. Behind the bar stood a man in his forties — buzz-cut hair, a thin beard, and a scar across his forehead. He wore a faded camo jacket with an old patch on the shoulder that maybe used to mean something.

“Got any free beds?” Skif asked shortly, taking his backpack off.

The bartender looked him over.

“Yeah. Second floor, room six. Pay up front.”

Skif silently pulled out a few bills. It was enough.

“What about food?” he asked, tightening his backpack strap.

“Buckwheat with canned meat. And tea. If it hasn’t gone bad.”

“Sounds like a delicacy,” Skif muttered, taking a seat at one of the wooden tables, a bit away from the others.

He was served a metal bowl with warm porridge and chunks of canned meat — surprisingly, it looked like actual meat. A cloudy glass of tea was set beside it. He ate slowly and in silence. The fatigue was washing over him — not just physical, but mental. Every day in the Zone could be your last. Every moment of peace — a gift.

After eating, Skif went up to the room — creaky stairs, peeling walls, stale air. One bed, a sagging mattress — but after all he’d been through, it felt like luxury.

He lay down without removing all his gear. Just took off the Kevlar vest and unzipped his jacket. For fifteen minutes he just lay there, staring at the cracks on the ceiling. Thinking. Thoughts in the Zone were a dangerous thing. But today, he allowed himself a bit of peace.

When he came back downstairs, the bar was half empty. Some were sleeping, others playing cards. Skif moved toward a lit-up corner where a trader sat behind a makeshift table — gray-haired, with cyber-veins running along his neck, dressed in an old military uniform. This was the Professor — or just “the Old Man,” as locals called him.

The young stalker was hoping to pick up a mission, earn some money. He didn't need to fix nothing no gun, no overalls, he had been to Rostok a few days ago and took care of everything there. Skif approached quietly, watching the back of a stalker already talking to the Old Man.

The figure leaned over the table which was a kind of trading post. Behind the trader hung guns, ammunition, first aid kits and many other things that were necessary for stalkers. The camo outfit was loosely fitted, and at first glance, Skif figured it was just another skinny stalker. But the longer he looked, the more defined the shape seemed.

He looked the person up and down — and it became more and more obvious: this was a woman.

“Hey, buddy, are you in line or what?” he asked, not bothering to be polite.

The girl turned around. Her gaze — cold like a spring rain. Light blue eyes, dirty blonde hair tied in a rough ponytail. Pretty, if you judged by her eyes — most of her face was hidden behind a mask — but there was clear distrust burning in her eyes.

“Do I look like your ‘buddy’?” she shot back dryly.

Skif raised an eyebrow, smirked.

“Sorry. Didn’t notice…”

She turned back to the trader and muttered:

“I need a job. Anything. As long as it pays well.”

The old man nodded, reached for a notebook.

“There’s something. Serious stuff. We think there’s something lurking in the tunnels under ‘Yantar’ again. Stalkers have gone missing — maybe bloodsuckers, maybe damned snorks. We already sent two guys — they never came back. Bring back their PDAs, and you’ll get five thousand. But you’ll need nerves of steel.”

Skif was about to walk away — but stopped at the mention of “five thousand.” He turned back, weighing the risk. Was she really going alone? Could she handle a bloodsucker? He looked at her again. Holstered pistol on her belt, a quiver on her back — about 30 titanium arrows.

She really ran around the Zone with a bow? And that sad little pistol was her only backup? If she took this job… she was in trouble. Thirty arrows wouldn’t kill a bloodsucker — those things were twice as fast as an arrow. Or a snork — you’d need to land all thirty shots just to bring one down. And what if there was more than one?

Five thousand was good money. Maybe he should just take the job? But something about stealing it from her felt… wrong.

“I’ll take it,” the girl said.

Crazy.

Skif stepped up to the table and stopped in front of the Old Man. The trader gave him a curious look. The girl glanced sideways.

This is the Zone. There’s no place for honor here. Only the strong survive. The ones with better gear. And that’s not her, he thought.

“I can handle it better,” Skif said plainly, looking at the trader.

“Are you out of your mind?! That was MY mission!” the girl snapped, stepping forward, her heartbeat rising.

“You heard him — it’s dangerous. I’ll handle it better. And honestly, your arrows aren’t exactly the best weapon against a bloodsucker or a snork,” he said. His voice wasn’t angry — more like casually indifferent, which somehow irritated her even more.

The trader chuckled.

“You’ll go together. If both of you come back — three grand each. If only one survives — the full six goes to the one who does.”

A short silence. She looked at Skif with disdain. He smirked faintly. He was used to those looks — but coming from her, it was oddly amusing.

“Either we go together and come back alive — or we go separately and I get six grand,” Skif said flatly.

She looked angrier. But finally, she sighed and straightened up, stepping away from the table.

“Name’s Amber Archer. And don’t mistake me for a target, got it?”

He gave a half-smile.

“Skif. And if you shoot well — you won’t be.”

They left the base without looking back.

The sky had already turned ashen — a grayness like the aftermath of a fire yet to be announced, its ashes slowly drifting down.

Ahead — tunnels. Behind — lingering scents of the bar, smoke, and human presence. Silence hung in the air, sharpened by the echo of their steps on the cracked asphalt.

At first, no one spoke. Skif walked slightly ahead, scanning the surroundings, occasionally pausing to listen.

The Archer followed a little behind — focused, her face carved from stone. She moved like a shadow: light-footed, but with calculated, precise steps.

The kind made by someone who already knows the price of one wrong move. Half an hour passed. The silence between them began to hum — like a signal cut mid-transmission.

Skif broke it.

“Listen,” he said, without turning around. “I just gotta ask — is that all you’ve got? That… bow, a quiver, and that pistol that looks like it belongs in a museum?”

She let out a soft snort but didn’t stop walking.

“Yeah. Also a knife. And a personality sharper than your Kalash.”

Skif chuckled.

“A knife, huh… With that loadout, I wouldn’t even head to a village, let alone the tunnels. You do realize even half a quiver won’t be enough to stop one damn snork?”

“And you think your rifle will save you if you don’t know where to shoot?” she replied calmly, not changing her pace. “An arrow is silent. It won’t alert mutants two kilometers away. And I’ve been using it since the days you were probably still sucking tips off stalker forums.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. Watched her longer than he should have.

She walked past him. Now he stared at the back of her head.

“So you’re seriously doing the bow thing? It’s not a gimmick?”

“I leave gimmicks to those who carry guns to cover up their fear.”

Skif chuckled again, now walking behind her, eyeing the quiver.

“How many arrows do you even have?”

“Thirty. Titanium-tipped.”

Her tone was flat, but there was a hint of challenge in it, as if she was waiting for him to laugh. He didn’t laugh. But he was satisfied — he had guessed right.

“If we run into a group of snorks, or a bloodsucker… that might not be enough.”

She stopped and looked at him. Skif caught up and stood beside her, looking down from his height.

“You’ve got a unique way of offering encouragement. Wanna just go ahead and tell me I’ll die in the first wave?”

“I just want to know who I can count on,” he shrugged. “Because if someone’s ass needs saving, I’d like to know whose it’ll be.”

The Amber Archer took a step closer to him.

“My ass, like my life, is my own business. If things go south, don’t trouble yourself. I’m not the type to scream ‘save me, strong man’.”

“Alright. But if it comes to that — don’t be shy to scream. Pride doesn’t do much for the dead.”

A barely-there smile curved her lips.

“You’ve got a decent sense of dark humor, Skif.”

“In the Zone, it’s like a gas mask without a filter — you don’t last long without it.”

He stared at her for a moment, then moved on.

“Let’s go. Time’s not exactly elastic.”

They walked for a long time. Ten kilometers still to the tunnels, and their legs already ached. Skif glanced at his wristwatch: 22:16.

Time for a break — a little rest, a bite to eat.

He took off his backpack and pulled out a can of non-stop. Opened it with a click and took a few swigs. The Archer stopped nearby, watching him drink.

Skif felt awkward — but didn’t show it. If there was one thing he was good at, it was hiding emotions.

“Want some?” he asked shortly, handing her the can.

He expected her to decline. Her gaze lingered on the can, as if weighing whether to accept. Then her fingers closed around it, and she raised it to her lips.

Skif watched her throat move as she swallowed. The way her lips touched the metal made him wonder, just for a second, how soft they might feel. She pulled the can away, and the young stalker quickly turned away, pretending to scan the surroundings.

“We’ll stop here. Need to rest,” he said.

Thunder rumbled overhead, wind picking up.

“It’s going to rain. We need shelter,” she said.

Skif glanced at her but said nothing — then went to collect firewood.

Skif crouched, tossing dry twigs into the fire. A few steps away, like a shadow, she stood — mask finally off for the first time that day.

Her grey-blue eyes, like an autumn sky before rain, followed his every movement. Strands of ash-blond hair had fallen messily across her cheeks. Skif stared a moment too long.

“Huh… and here I thought there’d be a beard under that mask,” flashed through his mind.

“What? Surprised?” she asked, still watching him.

“Nah. Just not used to stalkers having such… a pleasant face,” he grinned, tossing a twig into the fire. “Though I guess joking with you might be dangerous. One shot from that bow and it’s goodnight, Skif…”

She sat across from him, dragging her backpack closer, pulling out a knife and starting to clean it.

“Keep those kinds of comments up and I might shoot without thinking,” she muttered, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Skif glanced at the half-empty clearing, then looked back at her.

“Seriously though — what’s a delicate girl like you doing in this hellhole? You don’t look like someone who’s spent half her life in the Zone.”

She raised an eyebrow as she slowly put the knife away.

“Delicate, huh?”

“Didn’t mean anything by it. Just… this isn’t exactly the best place for, you know, graceful curves and long lashes,” he smirked, clearly enjoying her reaction.

“If you want, I can show you just how ‘not delicate’ I am,” she said, voice calm — but fire blazed in her eyes. “But honestly? If I’m in the Zone and still alive, that should tell you enough.”

Skif nodded seriously.

“Now that’s more like it,” he said, reaching for his flask. “So? You gonna tell me why you’re here?”

She was quiet for a moment, staring into the flames. The fire reflected in her eyes like the light of a broken world.

“They don’t just call me the Amber Archer. I was once just Marta. My brother entered the Zone three years ago. Said it was ‘the only way out of the sh*t we called a life’. We grew up in a place where even the sun looked tired. He was chasing a chance. I came looking for him. But all I found was the shattered remains of his PDA… and an artifact nearby. After that… I couldn’t leave. Now the Zone’s a part of me. Just like the pain.”

Skif didn’t interrupt.

For the first time that day, his eyes darkened. He slowly nodded, tossing another branch into the flames.

“I get you,” he said softly.

“Each of us has a reason to stay. We just don’t always talk about it.”

She studied him more closely.

“And yours?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday. If we survive this goddamn mission.”

He offered a small, shadowed smile.

The wind carried the stench of radiation, burnt plastic, and damp earth. But here, by this small campfire, a silence had settled between them — tense, cozy, a little surreal.

Skif sat down beside the fire, tossed in another dry branch, and pulled a can from his backpack. The flames flickered across his face. Somewhere in the distance, the howling of dogs could be heard — hollow, drawn out, like someone else’s mourning.

He examined the can, shrugged, and tossed it to Marta.

“Eat while it’s warm. Tastes like dog food, but hey — this ain’t a restaurant.”

She caught the can, looked at it thoughtfully.

“Wouldn’t go to a restaurant with someone like you anyway.” She narrowed her eyes mischievously.

Skif smirked.

“So the problem’s not the restaurant, but me?”

“Not a problem. You just have terrible manners,” she replied calmly, slicing the can open with a knife.

“Manners don’t survive in the Zone. Out here it’s either teeth… or a rifle.”

“Or a bow,” she added, staring him straight in the eye.

“Or a bow,” he echoed with a smile. “Though I still don’t get how I could mistake you for a guy. Your hands… they’re small. And your eyes…”

“One more word, and you’ll get an arrow in your back, Skif.” She smiled, but her eyes gleamed with danger. “And speaking of eyes — you’re looking at me like you haven’t seen a woman in a year.”

Skif chuckled.

“I haven’t. Though… maybe that’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me in the Zone.”

She finally laughed — quietly, but genuinely. Her laughter felt unexpectedly warm to him. Like tea after a long, cold march. He tossed a few more twigs into the fire.

“Ever wonder what your life would’ve been like… if not for the Zone?”

She went silent. Then answered:

“I’ve wondered. A lot. I used to dream of painting. I even had a sketchbook… But the Zone doesn’t leave room for dreams. Here you’re either the hunter or the prey.”

“But you’re not just a hunter. You’ve got style. And an artist’s eyes.”

“Really? How many artists do you know with a knife in their boot and an artifact in their pocket?” she muttered, though not with hostility.

“None. But there’s one sitting across from me. And I think… she’s starting to tolerate me.”

She stared at him for a long time. Then, softly — but with a challenge — said:

“Don’t push it. We’re only together for the mission. I’m not making friends with everyone who throws me a can of meat.”

“Wasn’t asking you to. It’s just good to know you can still laugh.”

Silence. Only the crackling of the fire… and distant dog howls. The wind whispered through dry leaves.

Then she whispered:

“I haven’t laughed in a long time. I think… not since before the Zone. And to be honest, that scares me more than any mutant.”

Suddenly, they both froze. From somewhere much closer — no longer distant — a new howl echoed. Deep. Low. Almost human.

Then another.

And another.