All was quiet on this side of the Zone, in an isolated and [url=http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OSHhjPMaZ1w/UklGqbvTc4I/AAAAAAAABBw/YChk-9ljv1E/s1600/487503_349690635125756_1274392686_n.jpg]long-abandoned apartment complex[/url]. Long creepers and vines had begun to snake their way up the mossy walls and covered most of it. Electricity and ventilation was long gone, ensuring that the building was bathed in a ghostly chill from the elements, and ash and dust constantly hung around the area. Shrubbery had burst through the collapsing floors, making it seemed as if the structure had almost been reclaimed by nature. Almost all the windows were gone, having been shattered by the blastwaves from the bombs that had been dropped years ago, and the exterior walls were still fairly charred, and no amount of heavy rain could wash it away. It was peaceful, dew still dropping off the sharp blade-like leaves, insects buzzing around the area in search of food. A pack of wild dogs rested in the open down below. All in all, it held no signs of human habitation.

Except if one were to look closely, of course. It was barely noticeable, but in an empty window at the top floor in the unit third from the right, there was the merest metal tip of a Dragunov sniper rifle poking out. It was hard to see as the unit it was in was heavily shadowed by abandoned furniture and ripped curtains. Then the wind blew through the area causing the cloth to flutter and sun to shine through, illuminating the rifle's wielder. At first glance, it would appear that the rifle was sticking out of a bush, but upon closer inspection, it would be revealed that it was, in fact, a man wearing a cloak with vegetation stuck to it such that he seamlessly blended in with the plants around him. He lay motionless, and it was hard to tell if he was even breathing.

Kiril Kuznetsov, or 'Tracker' to the other Stalkers in the Zone, peered through the PSO-1 scope of his Dragunov sniper rifle, watching for any potential threats, animal, or unlucky bandit that happened to stray too close to his camp. His camp, which was more or less the entire top floor of the building, had been cleaned and made livable to some degree. Kiril had since grown to call it his home as he had lived here for all his four years in the Zone. One of the units had been made into his base of operations, with furniture that held devices such as a working radio, torchlights, batteries, and a small gas stove, all scattered around the area. A medium-sized map of the area hung on the wall with notes and pictures pinned to it, showing the places he had explored. An empty metal barrel stood in the middle of the room, filled with ashes and broken branches. He lit it during cold nights. A scavenged mattress and sleeping bag lay tucked in a corner. There were other weapons and ammo shoved into degraded wooden cabinets and drawers, though most were tools for maintenance.

For now, Kiril was spying on a couple bandits milling around the old abandoned ammo factory around two kilometres away. He had managed to infiltrate the place a year ago, succeeding in bringing back a few dozen rounds of 7.62×54mmR rounds for his rifle, but there were just so many bandits camping out there that even he had a hard time sneaking around, but he was successful thanks to his actual military training and legendary stealth skills. Sure, that place had untold amounts of riches that someone could sell for a fortune, but it wasn't worth the risk. Besides, he had enough ammo for his weapons for several months at least, at the rate at which he spent them. He only fired around a dozen rounds per day. 

[color=808080]"Oh? What is this?"[/color] He asked in native Russian, his voice deep and rough. From his vantage point, he spied what appeared to be the bandit leader leading a distinctive non-bandit woman into the building, likely in search of supplies. He sighed. She was likely one of those fresh-faced and naïve Stalkers who came to the zone, seeking riches and fortune. The Zone was far more brutal than that. If Kiril was right, then she was probably going to get stabbed in the back after a deal was made, perhaps literally. Kiril had been scammed before, though the scammer made the mistake of bringing along four other of his buddies. It was hardly fair. To them, of course. Kiril effortlessly dispatched every last one, suffering a minor graze from tripping on the floor. He made sure the scammer died last, cutting open his belly with his machete, then proceeding to tear his guts out. It was messy, but at least the dogs got to eat something.