Character: Krasnyy
Lewd: NoCharacter
The rickety military truck bumped along the uneven road, its headlights cutting through the thick fog that hung over the entrance of the Volgograd Tract. Inside the vehicle, a group of weary faces, some clad in worn military gear, while others sported scavenged civilian attire, exchanged anxious glances. They were the newcomers, the fresh blood about to step into the unforgiving heart of the Tract. Guided in by one of the locals, known as "Trackers", these ones would not go further into The Tract; these were just here to get them through the Border Guards of the 99th Tract Containment Force.
As the truck grumbled to a stop, the driver, a grizzled veteran with a gas mask hanging loosely from his belt, signalled for the passengers to disembark. The air was thick with an unsettling mix of tension and excitement. The newcomers stepped out onto the gravel, greeted by the looming shadow of the rusted gates of Outpost.
The village itself appeared as a ramshackle haven, surrounded by a haphazard assortment of makeshift barricades. The few buildings that still stood were worn and battered, bearing the scars of Aether anomalies and weathering. In the dim glow of flickering campfires, figures in scavenged Armor and tattered clothing moved about, sharing stories and huddled over crude maps.
A gruff voice echoed from a nearby tent as a seasoned stalker approached the newcomers. "Fresh faces, huh? Welcome to Outpost. Name's Guide, and around here, names matter less than survival instincts. Keep your head down, watch your back, and you might just live to tell a tale or two. Pay your Tracker well and he or she might not leave you to die at the first sign of danger."
The clinking of metal, distant howls of mutant creatures, and the distant hum of anomalies set the ominous backdrop for the newcomers. As they exchanged glances with the inhabitants of Outpost, people avoided looking their way. A strange feeling had come upon them as they entered the village, as if their teeth were rattling in their gums.
"That's the Field." Guide said, motioning to a pole sticking out of the ground about a hundred meters away, they seemed to surround the village at hundred meter intervals. "They keep this place relatively safe from Aetherial energy, but don't get caught out in a Pink-Out. They keep some of it away but not all of it." He warned, then clambered back up into the truck, slamming the door closed.
"Your lives are your own now, my debt is paid." He tapped his chest with a bullet and then tapped his nose with it, as if it was some sort of ritual, before slapping the back of the truck and it began to head back to the border.
Now they were alone. The remnants of the Volgograd Aetherial Energy Plant towering miles away in the distance, the ever pinkish-purple glow in the distance of the reactor still alive. A monster in the depths of the Tract.
A dozen people were about, but none seemed to want to interact unless approached. They all seemed to scowl for a moment as someone walked into the village, walking through the new arrivals as if they were not even there, bumping into one of them enough to knock them on the ground; but the figure just kept walking; a gas mask pulled on their face and hooded, armed with a Rostislavovich 1966 on their shoulder by a leather strap; the figure was dragging a large bundle of backpacks; all covered in blood to a bunker at the far end, an old neon sign flashing "SCRAP!"