05-07-2025, 09:59 PM
Nazariy saw the man carry Pushka away.
He didn’t move at first. Didn’t breathe. Just watched from the tree line, one hand braced against the cold bark of a birch that had grown sideways out of the cracked soil. Its trunk was black-streaked and wet to the touch, like it wept sap that never dried.
The man in the suit walked carefully, slowly, as if afraid the ground might bite. He was headed away from the pump station now, skirting the desolate flatland where the river had chewed its banks raw. Collection bag swinging. Boots making thick, wet sounds in the mud.
And in his pouch: Pushka.
Nazariy tilted his head slightly, as if listening for something far away. He didn't feel anger, not exactly. It was subtler than that. A pressure behind the eyes, the way blood hums when it remembers something it isn’t supposed to. Pushka had been a gift. Or maybe just a way to mark a moment in time. But now the man had it. Touched it. Took it.
That changed things.
Nazariy followed.
He moved like the mist. Silent. Careful. Slipping through the weeping reeds and around long-dead trunks. He stayed downwind. He didn’t need to get close. Not yet.
He watched the man flinch at the web, watched him mutter to himself, shake, almost fall.
The mask helped. They always wore masks. Like they were afraid of the wrong things. Nazariy smiled faintly at the irony.
The deeper into the marsh the man went, the more the Zone seemed to lean in around him. This part of Pripyat was different: wetter, darker, hungrier. Even the air changed. Less oxygen. More nightmares.
Nazariy knew this place well. He knew where the ground liked to give way. Where things sank without a splash. Where whispers bled out from cracked drainage pipes that hadn’t carried water in decades.
He stepped where the man stepped, a dozen paces behind, boots never quite making a sound.
Pushka, he thought. You shouldn't have gone with him.
His fingers brushed the inside of his coat. Twelve rocks. Eleven now.
It made him feel uneven.
Nazariy crouched when the man stopped at the pool. Watched him collect his specimen with shaking hands, watched the darting of his eyes when something moved, too big, too slow, in the reeds nearby.
Nazariy didn’t know what it was. But he felt it too.
A dragging presence. Like someone dreaming from far below the water. Not awake, not asleep. Something older than the Zone, or maybe part of it, so deeply bound into the concrete and rot that it had stopped needing a name.
The dog had left. Wise creature.
But the man remained.
Nazariy could see the logic in that: people like him always thought they were alone. Even when their necks prickled and their breath came sharp and shallow, they called it paranoia, not instinct. They thought knowledge protected them. Suits and masks and permits.
But the Zone didn’t care about permits.
Nazariy took a slow step closer. He made a note of the man’s gait, the way his fingers flexed even when he wasn’t using them. A person used to instruments. Not tools.
Then Nazariy did something strange, even for himself.
He reached into his coat, and from a separate pocket, he withdrew a second rock. Not one of the twelve. This one was rougher, less adorned. A tiny face painted in pale blue and soft black—small eyes, a closed mouth, an air of sleep. He’d never named this one.
He placed it gently on the edge of the moss-choked path. Just far enough ahead that the man might see it. Might stop.
And then he backed away.
Not far. Just enough.
Let the man wonder.
Let him look.
Nazariy didn’t want to hurt him. But he didn’t not want to, either.
He didn’t move at first. Didn’t breathe. Just watched from the tree line, one hand braced against the cold bark of a birch that had grown sideways out of the cracked soil. Its trunk was black-streaked and wet to the touch, like it wept sap that never dried.
The man in the suit walked carefully, slowly, as if afraid the ground might bite. He was headed away from the pump station now, skirting the desolate flatland where the river had chewed its banks raw. Collection bag swinging. Boots making thick, wet sounds in the mud.
And in his pouch: Pushka.
Nazariy tilted his head slightly, as if listening for something far away. He didn't feel anger, not exactly. It was subtler than that. A pressure behind the eyes, the way blood hums when it remembers something it isn’t supposed to. Pushka had been a gift. Or maybe just a way to mark a moment in time. But now the man had it. Touched it. Took it.
That changed things.
Nazariy followed.
He moved like the mist. Silent. Careful. Slipping through the weeping reeds and around long-dead trunks. He stayed downwind. He didn’t need to get close. Not yet.
He watched the man flinch at the web, watched him mutter to himself, shake, almost fall.
The mask helped. They always wore masks. Like they were afraid of the wrong things. Nazariy smiled faintly at the irony.
The deeper into the marsh the man went, the more the Zone seemed to lean in around him. This part of Pripyat was different: wetter, darker, hungrier. Even the air changed. Less oxygen. More nightmares.
Nazariy knew this place well. He knew where the ground liked to give way. Where things sank without a splash. Where whispers bled out from cracked drainage pipes that hadn’t carried water in decades.
He stepped where the man stepped, a dozen paces behind, boots never quite making a sound.
Pushka, he thought. You shouldn't have gone with him.
His fingers brushed the inside of his coat. Twelve rocks. Eleven now.
It made him feel uneven.
Nazariy crouched when the man stopped at the pool. Watched him collect his specimen with shaking hands, watched the darting of his eyes when something moved, too big, too slow, in the reeds nearby.
Nazariy didn’t know what it was. But he felt it too.
A dragging presence. Like someone dreaming from far below the water. Not awake, not asleep. Something older than the Zone, or maybe part of it, so deeply bound into the concrete and rot that it had stopped needing a name.
The dog had left. Wise creature.
But the man remained.
Nazariy could see the logic in that: people like him always thought they were alone. Even when their necks prickled and their breath came sharp and shallow, they called it paranoia, not instinct. They thought knowledge protected them. Suits and masks and permits.
But the Zone didn’t care about permits.
Nazariy took a slow step closer. He made a note of the man’s gait, the way his fingers flexed even when he wasn’t using them. A person used to instruments. Not tools.
Then Nazariy did something strange, even for himself.
He reached into his coat, and from a separate pocket, he withdrew a second rock. Not one of the twelve. This one was rougher, less adorned. A tiny face painted in pale blue and soft black—small eyes, a closed mouth, an air of sleep. He’d never named this one.
He placed it gently on the edge of the moss-choked path. Just far enough ahead that the man might see it. Might stop.
And then he backed away.
Not far. Just enough.
Let the man wonder.
Let him look.
Nazariy didn’t want to hurt him. But he didn’t not want to, either.