A steep wager

[FactualDonkey]

Spoiler: Music

A wager. Pyotr could remember the exchange last night clearly despite the drunken merriment that often accompanied any evening at The Lodge. Bands of Zone inhabitants regardless of affiliation enjoying the finest imported booze and food amidst a shared love of the hunt. To boast of their triumph's over the Zone's wildlife; the Lodge's signature patch displaying a rack of antlers proudly displayed under their main allegiances. Duty, Freedom, Ecologists, Loners. All were equals there. Brothers banding against the beasts that preyed upon them as man did all those ages ago before topping the food chain. In the midst of music and revelry the voice of The Stag broke through the cacophony. His peculiar accent muddled with audibly-imperfect Ukrainian catching the attention of all. "Attention! A-" The man cleared his throat. "Attention! Can I have your attention ya' gentlemen?!" The Stag stood in the center of The Lodge. In his hand he lugged a Pelican case. He held it high for all to see. "After convening with some of my 'contacts', we have managed to obtain a ~very~ fine piece from the West..." The Stag opened the case, revealing polished wood and engraved silver under the light of The Lodge's chandelier. Members gathered around, fixated on a hunting rifle far too pristine and luxurious compared to the tattered and worn surplus gear found in the Zone. It looks as if it was taken from the manufacturer right from the factory. The Stag continued: "Arr Ninety-Three. Blaser. Bolt action, three-three-eight Lapua. Tested to ensure functionality but otherwise pristine. A fine rifle for any true huntsman here. Likely one of the finest you will ever find out here." The Stag rose his voice. "Gentlemen! As you are all well aware, it has been quite some time since we have initiated a Grand Hunt. Our last winner, Grigori, took home twenty-five thousand Rubles! How was that prize money eh, Grigori?" Grigori stood up from his seat at one of The Lodge's long tables. He grinned and held up a hand to the hollering and cheering of other members, his prize directly contributing to the SEVA suit on his body. "Once again, we have a great prize ready and waiting for anyone who wants in on the wager. Any lucky Stalker taking part in this Great Hunt could very well take this rifle home!" The Stag closed the case, looking amongst the fellows at The Lodge. "Any takers..?" The others murmured amongst themselves. Pyotr, potentially emboldened by the ample Cossack's Vodka in his system, spoke up. "You're on, brat! I'm in!" Pyotr's challenge was met with a pat on the back from another member along with drunken cheers and hollers. The Stag smiled, shouting to the others. "And we have our first contestant, gentlemen! Fellow Pyotr, rest for tonight, comrade!" "We shall begin the hunt tomorrow morning! Seven o'clock!" Pyotr wiled away the night enjoying The Lodge's amenities, confident in tomorrow's performance.

The pain through Pyotr's leg was immediate as he collapsed onto the leaf-littered soil within the wooded Hunting Grounds. He was doing well around five kilometers out from The Lodge starting point, but even out here the terrain was trapped. Pyotr yelped in pain as he looked back to find the rusted teeth of a bear trap around his shin, snapping bone like it was a toothpick. He toppled it over with the speed at which he was running, allowing him to get some purchase on the metallic maw. He grit his teeth as he attempted to helplessly pry the jaws apart, but without putting the base on the ground there was nothing to brace the trap against. Adrenaline coursed through his system as he was not only seriously wounded, but he was making noise. Noise that drew them in. Rustling through the brush Pyotr looked up at the Hunting Party: three fellow Lodge members tasked with pursuing him. One of which was The Stag. "Agh! F- fuck! Alright, bratya!" Pyotr panted. He took his hands away from the bear trap and held them up. "Fine, I lose! Help me..!" The Stag looked silently between the other members of the party before turning his gaze back to Pyotr. Over-under shotgun in hand, he rose the barrels up to the wounded Stalker. "Woah- woah- What the fuck! What are you doing?!" Pyotr stammered, holding his hands in front of his face as he shouted at the man. "I said I lose! Just free me and take your fucking rifle and go!" The Stag lowered the shotgun with a sigh. A slight shake of his head. "Pyotr, you agreed to this..." He replied calmly, as a parent would lightly-scolding a child "I didn't agree for you to try and fucking kill me! Fucking freak!" Pyotr exclaimed, pain coursing through his trapped limb. The Stag took a knee next to the man, looking at him in the eye despite the GP-4 mask between the two of them. "You wagered for the rifle. There was no money put forward or other item." He shook his head. "You know how it works. You wager yourself." Pyotr sputtered. "Bu- that doesn't mean you have to kill me!" He cursed in pain. "Just- fucking let me go! Get me out of the trap, kick me out The Lodge, keep the fucking rifle! You'd forget about me, anyways!" The searing pain caused the man to well tears his his eyes as his voice quivered. He continued pleading. "You don't have to do this, brat!" The Stag gave a sigh of audible disappointment, standing back up. "You know... I have hunted many beasts in my time. In Africa, I hunted Lions." The Stag's gaze looked down at the Over-Under in his arms. "Sometimes, one shot wouldn't kill them. Sometimes, I would only injure them, so I'd have to track them." He calmly reminisced, gingerly breaking open the shotgun to glance at the shells within. "At the end of the line, I would find them collapsed. Wounded, but alive. I would see them eye-to-eye, gun in hand. Even then..." He closed the breach. "I saw the fire in them. They did not cry. They did not plead. They met their end honorably." "Honor?! Capping a man in the woods is honorable?!" Pyotr spat, shouting: "I'm not an animal you sick fucks!" "You consented to this." The Stag tilted his head. "In Rostok, to the North, Stalkers are pitted against each other in the arena, bludgeoning themselves to death like barbarians for a mere pittance of what we offered you." He rose his shotgun back up to his wounded prey as the other members of the Hunting Party looked on. "You had your chance to back out, but a deal is a deal, comrade." Pyotr devolved into a mess of sniveling and tears, incoherently pleas falling on deaf ears as his life in the Zone was unceremoniously ended at gunpoint. The shot reverberated across the grounds, driving birds from the tree line for Stalkers around to see. The Stag knelt down beside Pyotr's body, gazing at the man with pity. He briefly glanced over to one of his fellows who were in the process of confirming the kill. Knife in hand, they cut the Lodge membership patch from Pyotr's sleeve, handing it off to The Stag. The man turned the patch over, pulling an old marker from his sleeve. He wrote Pyotr's name and date of death on the reverse side of the patch, destined to be displayed on a board within The Lodge: joining the hunters who became the hunted.

 

[slavyori]

tldr????