S.T.A.L.K.E.R./RPG

You come to on the damp concrete floor of an old basement in an abandoned farm on the Cordon. Your head is pounding, and your mouth tastes of iron and yesterday's moonshine. Your backpack lies nearby—a battered Beryl-5M, a couple of AK-74 magazines, a canteen of water, a piece of field rations, and a dosimeter, quietly crackling. A gas mask is around your neck, and your respirator is deflated. Cold rain drips from above, through the cracks in the ceiling—a gray morning in the Zone, 2026. In the corner of the basement lies a rusty cauldron, the remains of a fire, and the smell of wet earth and rot. From outside, the distant howl of a pseudo-dog echoes somewhere near the swamp. Somewhere closer, a Geiger counter crackles—the background noise is elevated, but for now, tolerable. You only remember how last night you crossed the perimeter with a group of newcomers. The others... didn't make it. Now you're alone. A loner. In my pocket are a couple of 5.45 rounds, a knife, a lighter, and a scrap of a hand-drawn map of the Cordon. The radiation is already biting at my skin, my stomach is growling, my throat is dry. The nearest stalker camp is about five kilometers away, across a field of craters and fires. A surge could strike at any moment—the sky is already darkening on the horizon.