TheMadAsshatter — Roleplayer Guild

8th of April, 2018.

It's been nearly a year since I came to the zone.  Man how times have changed.  If I recall correctly, the first emission that lasted over an hour happened three days after my arrival, and it was three months until the next one.  Now they seem to happen every other week.  I guess it's a good thing I'm in touch with the zone in that sense.

Things have been a bit hectic lately.  Between doing jobs and avoiding the odd surge of bandit activity in the junkyard, I haven't had much of an opportunity to pause and take stock until now.  On that note, it's never really occurred to me that I've probably run several thousand bullets through this AK.  I can't believe I haven't traded this rifle in yet; I mean I've had it since before I even got here.  Still, it works, and I suppose it almost has a sentimental value at this point, seeing as I acquired it from a friend before crossing the border.  It's good to have friends who have friends in high places.

Speaking of, Ewan is more than a month overdue for his usual check-in.  I can't help but think the worst.  Still, maybe he found something that can get me out of here, or he got made and had to cut me off, or he managed to get himself killed.  Or he just stopped caring.  Either way, I do hope Jet and I can get out of here soon.

Exile was about to continue writing his next sentence when he stopped, taking a moment to reflect upon that remark.  Did he really want to leave?  Exile had to admit, there was a certain allure to the zone.  Even though he had never intended to come here, it still managed to sink it's claws into him.  He definitely did not want to leave.  At least, not immediately.  He leaned back forward and resumed writing.

Or Jet, at least.  I'm not so sure it wants to let me go yet... nor that I want to leave.

It's funny.  A few months ago, I never would have believed that pseudo-mystical stuff that people are always saying.  But it's true.  There's definitely more to the zone than it simply being a place that defies explanation.  Something caused all this weirdness, and I'm as curious as ever as to what it is.  Seeing as I've got a bit of free time and plenty of dosh for now, I think I'll start devoting some time towards that.  Maybe hang around the scientists more often.  Whatever happens, I definitely don't want to leave yet.

Exile closed his notebook and stuffed it into his backpack before leaning against the wall.  Petrovsk was a fairly quiet place, since it wasn't a big trading post.  The only people who seemed to come through were loners turning in for the night.  It was nearly 11 AM, however, and most of those who called this place home were out and about for the day, with the exception of the Sentinels who stood guard and a handful of others.  Exile knew Jet was likely chatting it up with one of the Sentinels, or still sleeping.  Either way, Exile was planning on getting some shit done today.  Throwing his backpack on and slinging his AK over his shoulder, Exile stood up and headed towards the gate.

As he stepped out of what used to be a living room and into the courtyard, he took a look around the ramshackle base that the Sentinels had set up.  He couldn't help but be impressed at how well the Sentinels had reinforced and improved upon it.  Originally, it was no more than four small farm buildings arranged roughly in a square, but the walls that the Sentinels put up around them must have taken several weeks to fully erect and reinforce, not to mention the various catwalks spanning between the buildings and the lookout posts built on each roof.  It was a pretty plain setup, and it wasn't particularly spacious, but it was functional and well fortified.  What more could you want?

Exile strolled towards the gate, which was on the Western side of Petrovsk.  He gave a wave to the stalker manning the gate, who opened the gate in turn as Exile approached.  "Спасибо," he said as he walked through the gates and back into the wild.  It was a fairly cloudy and windy day, which kept the temperature floating at about 10 degrees Celsius.  Roughly the same as a typical autumn day in England, and the perfect temperature for Exile.

Exile took his AK off of his shoulder and into his hands, feeling it's familiar heft.  He turned his AK over, flipping the safety lever to the semi-auto position and giving the bolt a slight tug to make sure it was chambered.  Even before coming to the zone he had possessed an odd fascination and affinity towards Kalashnikov's family of rifles, finding it a beautifully simplistic and intuitive design.  One good thing about coming here was that it allowed him to get some hands on experience with the rifles, and now he knew pretty much every AK down to the last rivet, provided no clowns decided to perform some amateur-gunsmith-fuckery with one.  Satisfied with the state of his rifle, he released the bolt and carried on towards the bridge, humming the melody to La Marseillaise to help pass the time.  He had a long day of walking ahead of him.
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