Due to the late hour, I parked the car in front of a two-story tavern building built with worn stones. The dim light seeping from the upper floor windows and the thin smoke rising from the chimney indicated that there was life inside. The wooden sign on the door read "Red Cup" — the paint was peeling, but it was still legible.
When I opened the door, the warm air inside hit my face, creating a sharp contrast with the coolness outside. There were a total of nine tables inside; three along the walls, four in the middle, and the remaining two near the windows. Apparently, the lower floor was used as a restaurant, while the upper floor was used for lodging. Four of the tables were occupied; the people sitting around them were dressed in old military jackets and thick coats. They were chatting quietly, but most of the time they were just staring at the soup bowls or vodka glasses in front of them.
The atmosphere was dim—the flickering flames of the gas lamps hanging on the walls danced on the stone walls, and every shadow seemed to whisper a story. The wooden floor creaked; the echoes of the past resonated beneath my feet.
At the reception desk next to the bar counter sat a middle-aged man with gray hair and sunken cheeks. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses, he was busy writing something in a large notebook with yellowed pages. An old ink bottle stood beside him, and his pen had a metal tip—it seemed he was still living a life worth writing about.
I approached him, tapped the table lightly, and greeted him:
"Good evening, comrade. What are the nightly room rates here?"
The man looked up, his eyes scanning me for a moment. He looked carefully at my uniform, my gun holster, and the fatigue on my face. Then a soft, almost sincere expression appeared on his face. This tired face, bearing the weight of the years, was strangely reassuring.
"Hello, sir. Our prices are listed here," he said, handing me a stained but neatly folded list he had taken out of a drawer.
The list was on yellowed paper; the handwritten prices seemed to have been changed several times. At the top, written in pencil, was:
The list was as follows:
1. Single room (1 night):
1) 5 rounds of 7.62×54 ammunition or
2) 7 rounds of 5.45×39 ammunition or:
3) 15 rounds of 9mm pistol ammunition or:
4) 3 packs of cigarettes or.
2. Double room (1 night):
1) 9 rounds of 7.62×54 ammunition or
2) 15 rounds of 5.45×39 ammunition or:
3) 30 rounds of 9mm pistol ammunition or:
4) 7 packs of cigarettes or:
5) 1 bottle of red wine.
After glancing over the list, I took 45 9mm pistol bullets out of my bag, placed them on the table, and said:
"I want a simple room for three nights."
The man nodded in agreement, pulled a rusty key out of the drawer, and handed it to me.
"Room 210, second floor."
I took the key, slung my bag over my shoulder, and climbed the stairs with weary steps. The stairs creaked, and the sound of the old planks with each step seemed to whisper the building's history. The corridor was narrow and dimly lit; though the light from the few gas lamps mounted on the walls wasn't enough to illuminate the space, it was sufficient for me to find my way. I stopped in front of the door with the number on it, turned the key, and entered.
My room was simple but clean. Thick walls reinforced the silence inside. Inside was a bed—iron-framed but neatly made, covered with a blanket that smelled like it had been washed. In the corner was a small table with a candlestick and a few matchsticks on it. Next to it was a wardrobe that had once been painted red but had faded over the years. One of its doors was slightly bent, but it still functioned.
I placed my bag next to the table. I carefully removed my armor, my jacket with pockets, and my weapons, placing them on the table. My DP-5V dosimeter, my Makarov pistol, a few grenades, a gas mask filter… all of them were now resting for a short while. I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to wipe the dirt from my forehead. Then I stood up again, because it wasn't time to sleep yet. My main goal was to get to know the surroundings and gather information.
I went back downstairs. The atmosphere in the restaurant hadn't changed, but now a modest accordion melody was playing at one of the tables. Perhaps someone was trying to nourish their soul while sipping their drink. The low hum in the room was like the echo of old days told by tired people to each other.
I sat down at an empty table. The chair creaked slightly. I was by the wall, a position that was both comfortable and strategic; I could see the entrance and the bar at the same time. A waiter who looked to be in his early twenties approached my table. The linen apron he wore was well-worn but spotless. His eyes were dark circles, but his gaze was lively.
He held a faded but clean menu in his hand. The pages were thick, yellowed paper, and the contents were handwritten. Some lines had been crossed out, and new ones added later. The menu included meat, soup, a few side dishes, and a few drinks.
After examining the menu, I made my decision:
"Wild boar meat, pasta, vegetable soup, and salad."
The waiter nodded silently and walked away. As he walked toward the kitchen behind me, the floor shook slightly. When I turned my head to the right, I noticed a Soviet propaganda poster hanging on the wall with a broken frame: "Live by Your Labor, Comrade!" This slogan now carried different meanings here.
About five or six minutes later, the food arrived at my table. It was served on metal plates; the steaming soup caught my attention first. Then came the pork—nicely browned on the outside, accompanied by lightly buttered pasta and a salad of lettuce and cucumber that looked freshly cut.
The taste was indescribable… Maybe it was because I hadn't had a proper meal in days, but if this meal were served to me every day, I'd eat it without complaint. The pork was perfectly seasoned, and the salad left a surprisingly refreshing sensation on my palate. The fact that fresh vegetables were still available in this city showed how well-organized the system was.
In exchange for the meal, I gave him 14 9mm pistol bullets. The waiter carefully took the bullets, weighed them with his fingers, then put them in a small leather pouch and walked away, thanking me.
After the meal, I felt uneasy. Instead of sitting at the table with a full stomach, I wanted to explore the veins of this new city. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and stepped outside; the air was cold but not biting, and a pale moon was hidden behind the clouds in the sky.
I began walking toward the marketplace.
This was not just a trading post but a neighborhood—a living, breathing place. Wooden stalls lined both sides of the street. People were selling their goods and chatting in cracked voices. Some were exchanging their tobacco for small boxes, others were trading the meat they had hunted for old Soviet forks and spoons. Barter was still the main method here; function mattered, not money.
At every step, something else caught my attention: wooden crates displaying green apples, stacked piles of old radio parts, hand-knitted socks, cracked porcelain plates… And right next to them, military equipment: antique binoculars, gas masks, rusty drills, Molotov cocktails.
This was a clean zone. The radiation level was measured to be close to zero—so people were more relaxed. Walking around without a mask was common here, and even children could play freely.
As I made my way through the crowd, a shop caught my eye. It was written in faded letters: "EQUIPMENT & SECURITY." The windows without glass were covered with barbed wire, and the door was reinforced with an iron plate. The metallic scraping sounds coming from inside caught my attention. But this was just a weapons and equipment shop.
I went inside.
The interior of the shop resembled a small armory. AK-74 and AKS-74U rifles were lined up on hooks on the wall, along with a few old PPSH-41s and even a PKM machine gun. Pistols were scattered on the tables, undergoing repairs; one of them resembled a TT-33 with fresh oil. Shiny but still deadly.
On the back wall, ammunition boxes were arranged on a steel shelving system. Handwritten labels on them read: "9x18mm," "5.45x39mm," "7.62×54mm." Some were rusty, but most of the bullets inside were still usable.
In one corner, SVD Dragunov rifles were carefully displayed—their telescopic sights were clean, and the serial numbers engraved on the barrels were still legible. I was looking for a 2.8x magnification 1P-78 collimator sight for my AK-74. However, the shop owner was asking for an unbelievable amount for that sight:
100 rounds of 7.62×54 ammunition
1 gas mask
5 gas mask filters
The prices were unbelievable. Apparently, this bearded, bespectacled old man was the only seller in the area and had established a monopoly. It was opportunistic, but there was nothing to be done.
I approached the counter. Sitting on the stool across from me was a middle-aged man with a stern face, staring at me with a blank expression behind his glasses. The arrangement around him caught my attention—on the table was a disassembled Makarov pistol, next to it a greasy cloth, a few screws, and a rusty pair of pliers. The skill in his hands made it clear he had been doing this for a long time.
"Hello, sir," I said, careful to keep my tone both polite and serious. "I'm new to this city. Surviving here doesn't seem easy. How can I make money here? I need your guidance."
The man slowly stroked his beard, a faintly mocking expression appearing on his face. He pushed his glasses up to the tip of his nose and scanned me from head to toe once more. Then, leaning forward slightly, he began to speak. His voice was low but clear, with the calmness of someone who had seen war:
"Hello, young man. If you want to survive, you need a skill first. Tailoring, repair work, blacksmithing… these kinds of jobs are still valuable in the city. Food, shelter, trade goods—skill is the currency for all of them."
He paused briefly. Then he locked his eyes on mine and lowered his voice further:
"But… it's clear from the way you walk. Your shoulders, your eyes… you're a warrior. Or you used to be. Then the most profitable path is clear: mercenary work. Go to the barracks. Apply. If they deem you suitable, they'll add you to the roster. The risk is high, but the pay is good. If you survive, you'll earn enough to build your own life in a few months."
I nodded, listening carefully to what he said. Then I reached out my hand.
"That's a good idea. Thank you for your help."
He shook my hand. His hand was calloused and rough. We both knew there was no need for further words.
I stepped outside. My eyes immediately fell on the gray building rising in the west—the police station. Its walls were made of concrete, and its windows were surrounded by iron bars. In front of it stood a BMP-1 and two military 'URAL' trucks. Three soldiers were smoking cigarettes at the entrance, scanning the area with tired but accustomed glances.
I approached and nodded slightly in greeting. One of them looked me over but said nothing. I entered through the door. Inside, I was greeted by the smell of rust, the noise of old machines, and worn-out duty posters hanging on the walls.
The interior was dimly lit, but there was a clear sense of order. The old propaganda posters nailed to the yellowed walls were still in place: "Fight for the Motherland!", "Duty is Honor!", "The Enemy Shall Not Pass!" The ceiling lamp emitted a faint light, the bulb flickering occasionally with a crackle. The man sitting behind the desk at the entrance—in his early thirties, with short hair, a neat shave, and a faded emblem on the collar of his jacket—was busy with files. The sound of his pen scraping against the paper was the only noise in the room. He hadn't noticed me yet.
I took a step forward to break the silence, keeping my voice clear but measured:
"Hello, comrade. I want to be a mercenary. They told me I could sign up here."
The man lifted his head. His eyes were tired, but he immediately focused his attention on me. He looked me up and down; the armor I wore, the worn-out boots, the load in my backpack… Everything told a story. Without saying a word, he pulled a thick form from the drawer and handed it to me.
"Hello," he said in a brief tone. "My name is Anton Semyonov. If you really want to be a mercenary, first fill out and sign this form. Then go to the room at the end of the corridor. You'll have a one-on-one meeting with the commander."
It was a short but clear answer. His seriousness made it clear that this was no joke.
I took the form in my hand. My eyes scanned the lines written on the thick, yellowish page: name, surname, year of birth, previous assignments, military rank (if any), weapons used, special skills, mental and physical health status... Each question seemed to want to dig into my past.
I stepped aside and filled out the form carefully. Every letter I wrote carried a piece of the past I had left behind. After completing the last line, I folded the form, placed it carefully inside my jacket, and quietly made my way down the corridor.
The corridor was narrow but clean. I walked along the pipes running along the wall, the metal floor tiles, and the intermittently lit lights. When I reached the end, two people caught my attention in front of an old metal door labeled "Commander's Office."
The first was young—perhaps only 18 or 19 years old. His face was fresh, but there was an unusual spark of anger in his eyes. His fists were clenched, and there was a nervous tremor in his knees. Perhaps he had lost his family… perhaps he was seeking revenge.
The other was old. His hair and beard were gray, his eyes sunken, his lips wrinkled. His face bore the deep lines carved by time and experience. But he still stood tall, still resembling a warrior.
They were talking. They weren't trying to keep their voices down, which gave me an opportunity. I stood a few steps away from the door and began to listen without being noticed.
The old man sighed and spoke:
"Sergey's bandit camp has become increasingly violent lately. They attack caravans and kidnap civilians. Leaving the city is now equivalent to death. That's why we need mercenaries. I hope they pay properly for this mission… I need to get *Zelyonka* for my daughter. The latest test results were bad. If we can't get the medicine, her bone marrow will deteriorate and she'll die within a few months. But the price is horrendous. I have no other choice."
The young man beside him bowed his head, his voice hoarse:
"I want revenge. Those bandits killed my older brother, then threw his body by the roadside. I don't even want to think about what they did to him. I won't rest until I make them pay tenfold for what they did."
"What is this *Zelyonka* thing?"
At that moment, someone came out of the commander's office. The two men quietly stood up and went inside. I was left alone in the corridor.
When they came out about ten minutes later, both had tired but determined expressions on their faces. Realizing that it was my turn, I took a deep breath and knocked twice on the door.
A loud, authoritative voice came from inside:
"Come in!"
I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was spacious; the walls were adorned with maps, yellowed documents, and an old radio station. The man sitting behind the desk was elderly but not frail. His face was scarred, and his gaze was as sharp as that of an officer. His uniform was neatly pressed, but his eyes, as sharp as a sword, pierced through me.
"Please, sit down," the commander said, gesturing with his head toward the sturdy, iron-legged chair across from his desk.
I walked into the room, my footsteps echoing loudly on the floor, and sat down quietly. As I placed the form on the table, my eyes met his for a moment: eyes hardened by years and losses, eyes that did not soften even for a moment.
He took the form, examining it carefully for a moment. His eyes scanned each line: my name, age, previous assignments, weapons used... Then he placed the file on the edge of the desk, folding his hands in front of him.
"So your name is Aleksandr Brusilov," he said, his voice firm and measured. "I am Colonel Valeriy Sidorov. I am the military commander of this region. Things work differently here. We may look like a military unit, but this is not a front line. This is a testing ground."
Without taking his eyes off me, he continued:
"If you want to survive here, you'll have to provide your own weapons, armor, supplies, even your own medicine. We only provide two things: tasks and payment. The rest is your responsibility. But this system works for the right people. Especially someone as experienced as you."
He paused here, remaining silent for a moment. Then he pulled several files from the left drawer of his desk. They were yellowish papers with crumpled edges, bearing seals and mission codes.
"If you want, you can start right away," he said, pushing the files toward me. "Choose the one that suits you."
I examined the files carefully. Each one focused on a different threat:
Hunting mission: The population of mutant wild boars in the forest had increased. Hunters were needed for both the safety of the town and the order of the region.
Convoy escort: An escort was needed for a shipment of medicine and ammunition coming from the north. The road was under threat from bandits and radiation.
Road patrol: Monitoring and surveillance along the old highway route. Though it seemed simple, many soldiers had never returned from that road.
Reconnaissance: The coordinates of an abandoned laboratory had recently been discovered. What was inside was unknown.
Bandit Camp Preparation – Bridge Sabotage: This file was different from the others. The stamp on the cover was dark red, with the word "SECRET" clearly written on it.
I opened the file. The document inside was short and to the point:
> Mission Code: Taiga-19 / Operation "Silent Passage"
Target: Sergey's Bandits have taken control of two strategic bridges in the east. One of these passages leads to the main camp road and is critical for the passage of potential reinforcements.
Instructions: The target bridge will be sabotaged silently under cover of night. Explosives will be obtained from the outpost. If necessary, you have the right to retreat without engaging the enemy. However, a successful explosion will isolate the camp and create an advantage for the next attack.
I closed the document slowly. Sidorov's eyes were still on me, his expression unchanged. It was as if he already knew my answer.
"I accept this mission," I said, looking him in the eye.
The colonel shook his head slowly. "A brave choice. I hope it's not just about revenge or a desire for adventure. Because on this path, there's no turning back."
He took a sealed envelope from his desk and handed it to me.
"Inside are the mission details, a map, and the code to pick up the explosives. Get ready. You're leaving tonight."
I took the envelope and stood up.
"We'll see, comrade commander," I said.
The commander narrowed his eyes slightly and looked at me. His voice, which had been firm and sharp up until that moment, softened slightly but did not lose its resolve:
"Don't worry, son... You'll be rewarded for putting your life on the line. But tell me, Aleksandr... What do you really want in return?"
His words echoed in the room. The echo inside me was even deeper.
There was a brief silence. I stopped the thoughts racing through my mind and focused on a single point. Neither what I had lost in the past nor how many times I had faced death mattered anymore. No matter where this path led, I had a purpose.
I held his gaze. My voice came out with unwavering determination:
"A 1P-78 collimator sight.
6B4 type assault armor.
Five days' lodging in a good location and coverage of all my hospital expenses during that time."
Sidorov's eyes flickered slightly. His gaze shifted to the maps on the table and the radio device standing nearby. Then he turned back to me. His expression hadn't changed, but there was a subtle seriousness in his tone.
"We don't have the 6B4 right now," he said. "But I have the 6B3TM-01. It's a bit heavy, but it'll keep you alive. The rest of your requests will be fulfilled.
Additionally, you won't be alone on this mission. There's another person who will transport and install the explosives on the bridge. A technical expert. But he doesn't know how to use a weapon. Protecting him is your responsibility. This mission cannot be completed without him."
His words once again revealed the true nature of the mission. This wasn't just about striking a blow against the bandits; it also meant taking responsibility for someone's life. But that risk paled in comparison to the reward and my belief.
I nodded slightly. Without breaking eye contact:
"I accept," I said.