“Chill out, brother! What do you think we have Mr. Fix-It for? Yar will only need to replace the trigger and the loading mechanism and maybe straighten the barrel but you’ll get yourself a discount, don’t worry.”
I could throw my Emerald into the deal, but it’s not just any artifact… it’s a useful artifact.
Seeing the rare, silenced automatic rifle that performs equally well as a sniper weapon and at close quarters, Tarasov tries to fight the temptation — but fails.
“Keep that long scope. What about 45000 rubles for the Vintorez with three magazines and three more boxes of ammo?”
“You wanna ruin me? Even an airsoft version costs 700 dollars or 21000 rubles, and we’re talking about the real stuff here! Sixty thousand rubles.”
“What if I don’t make a big fuss about you watering down your vodka, and you give it to me for forty thousand? Come on, don’t make such a face. I’ll throw my scoped AKM into the deal.”
“You’re really a pushy one, you know that? Now take it before me heart breaks!”
Tarasov puts the money and his assault rifle on the table and happily takes the Vintorez, hoping that he won’t regret the deal.
“Anyway — how did you end up here, Ashot? The last time I heard about you, you and Yar were with Freedom back in the Dark Valley.”
“Oh yes, the Zone… the good old days, as Yar would say.” Ashot leans closer and gives Tarasov a shrewd wink. “The Dark Valley got a little too dark for me. You know, being on the competition’s black list is not good for business. So when the news came of this comfortable place in the south, I moved me business. And so did Mr. Fix-It. The old Zone was too wet and cold for his old joints. Talking about joints…”
“No, thanks. What happened to Ganja? Did you take over his barkeeping business?”
Ashot’s face darkens. “He was killed by Duty in a skirmish, when everyone and their aunt were rushing to the CNPP… But how do you know so much about Freedom, anyway?”
“I’ve been to your base several times, disguised as a Loner Stalker.”
“Have you? You’re worse than that SBU badass who stirred up trouble at the Jupiter plant. Commander Loki never forgave him, recruiting those rogue Monolithians for Duty. Phew!” The trader spits onto the ground, obviously in lower spirits now after failing to rip Tarasov off by as much as he’d wanted.
“I’ll take that as a compliment”, Tarasov smiles. “Now, where is Uncle Yar’s workshop?”
“In an old Chinook chopper close to Bone’s headquarters. You know, he always wants to compete but his place is much smaller and shorter than mine.”
“I’ll go and check him out. This rifle badly needs an overhaul.”
“There’s an itsy-witsy little problem,” Ashot replies scratching his head. “Yar is… out of mood nowadays. His pet is missing.”
“His — pet?”
“A young Stalker named Mac, actually. He used to run errands for Yar. Since he left, Yar is more useless than ever.”
“I’ll ask him about that. Don’t let my boys get too wasted, all right?”
“Ne bespokoysa, me dear! But maybe you want another drink?”
“Not now. And Ashot… you forgot to give me the ammunition.”
Ashot was right… Yar’s hovel looks barely more than an ordinary wreck.
Tarasov bangs on the wooden plate covering the wreck’s hatch with his fist but no one answers. He walks around the chopper and knocks again. Still no reply. Eventually, he starts kicking the wreck with his boots. At last a drunk voice comes from inside.
“Da?”
“Uncle Yar! A customer is here!”
“Leave me alone! Life is bad enough.”
“I just need you for a minute!”
“I don’t care what you broke this time. Go away.”
“I didn’t break anything. But I need to talk to you.”
“Damned rookies. You can’t leave an old man alone…”
The wooden plate covering the helicopter’s hatch swings open and a graying head appears. The wrinkled eyes look tired.
“Oh, it’s you… sorry. I thought it’s just another lad wanting an upgrade for his shotgun… come inside.”
“Good to see you, Mr. Fix-It,” Tarasov says, stepping inside.
Empty vodka bottles litter the chopper’s interior where a single petroleum lamp provides the only light. All kinds of tools and weapon parts lie around the floor. A work bench occupies the place where the cockpit once was although, judging by the dust on it, the technician hasn’t done any work at it for a long time. “How’s life, Uncle Yar?”
“Don’t even ask. How should it be in this fly-infested bydlostan? Now tell me what you want.”
“I have a Vintorez to upgrade.”
Yar rolls his eyes in frustration. “I knew it… sorry, but I’m not doing any weapon upgrades right now.”
“How come? I heard you’re missing your apprentice but a Vintorez is not something you couldn’t deal with on your own.”
Yar sits down on his mattress and picks up a vodka bottle from the metal floor. Seeing it empty, he angrily throws it down again. “It all started back in the Dark Valley… I always worked alone. Then, one day, a young Stalker comes. Says he wants to learn the trade. I tell him, business is slow and I have no money to pay him. No problem, he says, pay me by upgrading my FN-2000.”
“That’s a pretty hardcore weapon for a rookie.”
“Yes, but I didn’t ask him where he got it from. It’s none of my business. But you know how it goes… I had a look at it and first changed the scope. Then I disassembled the trigger mechanism just to admire its precision. It was such a pleasure after all the busted AKs that the Stalkers keep bringing to me. I installed a titanium trigger, a synthetic bolt seal and another return spring to reduce the recoil. Then I adjusted the spring trajectory to lower the sway and duplicated the guiding rods… anyway, one thing led to the other and in the morning I had an already great weapon turned into something awesome.”
“Let me guess… then the Stalker got hold of your masterpiece and disappeared.”
“Well, not exactly… we arrived here together. Mac was a good kid, helping me out with things like test firing the weapons… my eyes are not as good as they used to be, you know? All went fine until one morning he said he’d grown bored of Bagram and wanted adventure. Then he disappeared into the wilderness to hunt artifacts and didn’t return.”
“That’s tragic and all, but what about this Vintorez?”
Yar doesn’t even look at the weapon. “That outdated scope could use thermal imaging and adding a roll back moderator with a stop drive could make it even more precise… but you know what? I’m done with weapons and all that shit. I even sold my own Dragunov to a Stalker. You know what? I have a little money saved up and will use it to go home.”
“But…”
“No ‘but’ and no pneumatic compensator on your rifle’s butt. Even if I was willing, it would cost you a fortune.”
“You’d let your business be ruined just because your apprentice ran away?”
Uncle Yar buries his face in his hands.
“You don’t get it, do you? For a decade I repaired and upgraded weapons here and in the old Zone. And as soon as all the rookies got improved rifles in their hands they thought themselves capable of storming your base, Major — the damned CNPP too, come to that — and usually died in the attempt. It was like selling drugs. This time, here was this kid and I told myself, ‘I’ll teach him the trade to keep him away from all that faction war, artifact hunting, mutant-shooting nonsense’. I failed. Damn it, he was so young, he couldn’t have purchased vodka at Ashot’s if he got asked for his ID card!”