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Here’s the corrected English translation of "Chapter 3 – Flyer" with dialogues starting with "-" instead of quotation marks, as per your request:
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Chapter 3 – Flyer
Maxim sat in the cramped hideout of the Fort, checking his gear before heading to the Citadel. Shotgun—six shells in the barrel, ten more in his jacket pocket. Knife—sharp, though worn by time. Backpack—water flask, a can of stew, rope. After the bloody massacre in Bilshovyk, he took only essentials, but this time his stomach clenched with foreboding: it wasn’t enough. No details, just an order. Maxim grimaced—he hated being thrown into the dark like a rat in the metro. After the slaughter at the mall, the feeling only grew: something rotten was brewing in the Wasteland.
He pulled a yellowed photo from his pocket—his mother, smiling, an amulet around her neck. Her warm eyes gazed from a past long gone. A cold pang of regret gripped his chest, but he clenched his teeth—guilt for that day, the explosion, her hand under the slab, wouldn’t let go. He tucked the photo into a battered journal and tossed it onto the shelf. Notes could wait—he had no intention of losing anyone else.
The door creaked, and Arsen stepped in, his boots thudding against the concrete. Maxim didn’t look up, still checking the shotgun’s bolt.
— Ready? — Arsen asked, leaning against the frame. His cheek twitched slightly—an old habit before a run.
— As always, — Maxim snorted, clicking the bolt shut.
Arsen stepped closer, eyeing the scattered gear.
— They say something weird’s up at the Citadel, — he began, lowering his voice. — Urgent call, but no word on why. You don’t like that, do you?
Maxim shook his head, lips tightening.
— I hate blind runs. After Bilshovyk, I don’t trust anyone. Too many bodies for one day, and the evening’s still ahead.
— Especially when they throw us in like meat, — Arsen added, restrained anger seeping into his tone. — How many times has the Citadel promised an ‘easy job’? Remember Old Town? ‘Raiders,’ they said. We barely got out of that mutant pit.
— Yeah, — Maxim nodded, his eyes narrowing at the memory. — If this is another trap, I’ll cut their throats. But something tells me after Bilshovyk, they’re not kidding. That wasn’t just a massacre. There was tech. Someone big.
Arsen sighed, his face hardening.
— Let’s hope it’s lighter this time. But I’m not repeating old mistakes. Keep your eyes open.
— It won’t be light, — Maxim cut in. — Mutants in Old Town were nothing compared to what hit the mall. We’re knee-deep in shit, Arsen.
The door creaked again, and Herman burst in, dropping his backpack from his shoulder. His jacket was dusty, his eyes blazing with resolve.
— I’m ready, — he said, glancing at them. — You?
Maxim and Arsen exchanged looks. Maxim nodded.
— Almost. What do you know about the call? — he asked, standing.
Herman shrugged, but tension laced his voice.
— Not much. Dmytro said they need us because of Bilshovyk. Something happened there, and we’re the only ones who saw that meat grinder. But specifics? Zero.
— Something happened? — Arsen frowned. — If the Citadel’s calling us after that, it’s not just trouble. It’s a disaster.
— What disaster! — Maxim snapped, his voice sharp as a blade. — We’re the ones who stepped in it! Bilshovyk, blood, Oleh… — He faltered, glancing at Herman, then quieted. — You get it. And now the Citadel wants us to clean up their mess? Forget peace, Herman. There’s none in the Wasteland.
Herman clenched his fists, his eyes flaring. He stepped closer, voice trembling with suppressed rage.
— Watch it, Maxim. Don’t toss my brother around like some spent shell. And drop that tough-guy mask—there’s no one here to impress.
Maxim exhaled through gritted teeth, looking away. The cold in his chest tightened, but he just nodded.
— Fine, no masks. But the point stands—we’re screwed, and the Citadel won’t save us.
Herman held his gaze, then relaxed his shoulders.
— Maybe. But guessing’s pointless. Hurry up before dark, — he said, turning to the door.
Maxim exhaled, a cold certainty rising in his chest. Whatever awaited at the Citadel, they’d handle it. Together. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and followed.
Outside, in the Fort’s courtyard, the pickup’s engine growled—the same Black Mark that pulled them from Bilshovyk. Rust ate its sides like a plague, its windows long replaced with dull plastic. Nearby hulked the Core’s armored beast—a clumsy rig welded from BTR scraps, its rooftop machine gun sagging under dust. The escort crew—six men in tattered gear—chewed rations, chatting with locals. Two others fussed with the vehicles: a skinny bald guy tinkered with the pickup’s engine, while a burly one with a neck tattoo cursed at the armored rig, wrestling with a half-dead battery’s cables.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Maxim approached the pickup, slamming his palm on the hood. The metal clanged dully, kicking up a puff of dust.
— Ready, — he said, drawing their attention.
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The skinny fighter straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag that reeked of kerosene and rot.
— Seems good enough, — he grumbled, grimacing. — But the fuel’s total crap. Some tar, not gasoline. Clogs the filter, engine’s coughing. We’ll reach the Citadel, but if we push it, we’ll stall halfway.
Maxim leaned toward the tank, inhaling the sharp stench—a mix of diesel and manure. "Good if it doesn’t blow up," he thought, but aloud he only snorted.
— Main thing is it moves. We’ll figure it out from there.
Herman was already by Dima, discussing something quietly. The burly fighter near the armored rig tossed the cables to the ground and spat.
— Battery’s dead, — he shouted to Dima. — Holds a charge on a prayer. We’ll start it, but if it dies, we’re pushing. Or praying it lasts.
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Dima glanced at the sky, where gray clouds thickened like a festering wound.
— We need to hurry, — he muttered, eyeing the sky. — Clouds are darkening, Acid’s close.
— Agreed, — Herman nodded, looking up. — If we make it by dark, we’ve got a shot. — He turned to Maxim. — What do you say?
— Acid, — Maxim growled, spitting into the dust. — Hate this weather. But standing here waiting to melt isn’t an option. Let’s move while these wrecks still breathe.
He jumped into the pickup, tossing his backpack onto the back seat. The engine roared, coughing hoarsely like an old smoker. The skinny fighter—Sashko, maybe—slid behind the wheel, muttering about "last time I fixed this junk." The armored rig hummed to life next, the burly guy—probably Grysha—climbing in and slamming the door so hard rust sprinkled to the ground. The rest of the crew—four in the pickup, two in the rig—loaded up, their rough voices bouncing around. A young redhead gave Maxim a curious glance, clutching his rifle with shaky hands. "Won’t last long," Maxim thought. The Wasteland ate those types fast.
Acid—acid rain—was one of the Wasteland’s gifts, a reminder that no one was safe. Hissing drops that burned through skin didn’t come often, but always at the worst time. Even Flyers, with their thick hides, hid from it. For Stalkers, it meant one thing: run or burn alive. Maxim eyed the pickup—rusted, barely holding together, but it was all they had. Eight years after the Blast left no room for new parts. Everything that moved in the Wasteland ran on spit and Stalker stubbornness.
Some Stalkers didn’t make it to cover in time. Their screams—sharp, inhuman—echoed long in the survivors’ minds. Drops ate skin, burned eyes to bone, left nothing but a wet stain and rags. Maxim had seen it once—a kid from the Core, green as Artem, curled under a plank, howling until his voice broke. Not even an enemy deserved that end.
He’d nearly burned under Acid himself. First run, still a kid—Acid caught him on an open street. He’d barely crawled under a rusted car, listening to drops hiss on metal as the stench of scorched paint choked him. Back then, he’d trembled, face in the dirt, thinking it was over. Now, Maxim was different—hardened, cold, with scars that reminded him: in the Wasteland, you survive, not live.
— Alright, let’s go, — he said, glancing at Dima, and headed to the pickup.
The pickup growled, coughing harshly as Sashko turned the key. Tires scraped the broken asphalt, weaving past car wrecks and scrap barricades. The Core’s armored rig trailed behind—its engine rumbled unevenly but held. The pickup creaked and jolted—the engine misfired, choking on the tar they called fuel. Sashko gripped the wheel, muttering curses as the rig lurched again and again.
— What a piece of shit, — he grumbled, glancing at Maxim. — Filter’s clogging, you can hear it. We’ll make it, but don’t push.
— Won’t push, — Maxim snapped, resting the shotgun on his knees. — Just don’t die mid-road.
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A grim landscape slid past the window: crumbling high-rises sinking into the earth, piles of rubble and rust where streets once buzzed. The stench of soot and dust seeped through the cabin’s cracks, mingling with the chill from the broken glass. In the pickup’s bed, four fighters huddled together. Redheaded Ihor nervously jerked his rifle’s bolt, eyes darting from the road to the sky. In the armored rig, there were two: Grysha at the wheel and another with a machine gun poking from the hatch. Maxim glanced aside—the rig kept pace, though Grysha said its battery was on its last breath.
"We destroyed ourselves," the thought flickered. Humanity invented weapons, wars, then buckled under its own madness. Now this remained—ruins and a fight for each day, where hope flickered out like a flame in the wind.
Dark clouds gathered overhead, heralding Acid. Silence reigned in the pickup’s cabin, broken only by the engine’s cough and the wheels’ scrape on stone. Sashko pounded the wheel whenever the misfires worsened.
— We’re a plague, — Maxim muttered quietly, staring out the window.
— What? — Herman turned, frowning.
— People, — Maxim clarified, eyes fixed on the landscape. — Burned it all down ourselves. Made weapons, conditions, and now we’re stuck in this shit.
Arsen snorted from the back seat, his smile crooked.
— Look at you, getting deep, — he tossed out. — Since when are you a philosopher?
— Always thought it, — Maxim snapped, glancing at him. — Just don’t yap about it to everyone.
— Well, damn, — Arsen nudged his shoulder lightly, irony mixing with warmth in his voice. — Steel Stalker with a human underneath. Who’d have guessed?
— One more word, and you’ll catch a fist, — Maxim grinned, shoving him back. Their rough, brief jokes had held them together through years of survival.
But behind the words lay something heavy. Lately, thoughts of the world—its collapse, its cruelty—clawed at Maxim harder. Maybe Bilshovyk stirred something inside. Maybe Oleh, bleeding out on the mall floor. He shook his head, chasing off the memories.
The pickup jolted hard, the engine growling and nearly stalling. Sashko cursed, slamming the gas.
— What the hell! — he barked. — This tar’s gonna kill us!
— Easy, — Herman said, scanning the sky. The clouds darkened, the wind carrying the scent of acid. — Acid’s close. We need to move before it hits.
The armored rig stayed behind, its gunner shouting something to Grysha. Maxim eyed the crew: six plus their four. Ten souls against the Wasteland. Something told him not all would reach the Citadel.
The pickup rolled on, engine rumbling low as Sashko kept it at a crawl to spare the filter from the tank’s tar. Tires scraped faintly over rubble; the Core’s rig trailed, its hum blending with the wind. They’d gone a couple kilometers, passing wrecks and debris, when Herman raised a hand sharply.
— Stop, — he said quietly, leaning out the window.
Sashko eased to a halt, the pickup settling with a soft creak of springs. The rig stopped beside them, Grysha cutting the engine to kill the noise. Maxim pressed against the cracked plastic window, but all he saw was a gray stretch of road.
— What’s there? — he grunted, gripping his shotgun.
— Flyers, — Dima replied, peering from his side. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. — Three. Eating something right on the path.
Maxim leaned out of the cabin, glancing ahead. Three massive hulks hunched over a pile of meat—bones crunched in their jaws, wings twitching as they tore at flesh. One, the biggest, with a jagged scar on its snout, gnawed greedily. A rustle came from afar—two more Flyers, smaller but with long claws, crept toward the feast, circling the debris. A whistle cut the sky—a dark shadow flashed over the pickup and rig, making Ihor duck in the bed. A sixth Flyer, lean and battered, landed twenty meters off, folding its wings and sniffing the air.
— A whole damn brood, — Sashko muttered, clutching the wheel until his knuckles whitened.