Couple hours after I left the Devourer campfire, I gave up searching for the Ecologist outpost in the darkness. There was an old Ikarus bus by the road that I had passed by earlier during my wanderings. It was covered in rust and had lost most of the seats, but it would shelter me for the night. Thankfully the door could be opened, and I crawled inside, hiding on the aisle's furthest point from the door. I set up my machine gun pointing towards the door, made sure the gun was off safe and slowly tried to calm down. Not an easy task, considering there might be a pack of weird cannibals after me, but I needed some rest.

I fell into uncomfortable, far too light sleep, and woke up many times during the night as mutants or simply wind passed by the bus. Each time it took me dozen or so minutes to steady myself to the point of returning to my sleep. I greeted the first rays of day with adulation that would make Sinners or Flame worshippers look like Sunday schoolers. Getting out of the bus, all my muscles tangled up and aching after the night on its floor, I took a first look at my surroundings. Not much to tell. There were some marshlands around the road, with pines and spruces growing from the wet soil. Rocks and puddles dotted the landscape, and by the riverside a lone carcass of a dog sat, rotting in the water.

Taking in the scenery, I realized that I was none the wiser of where the hell I was. I was not even sure where I had come from, as in the dark I could've walked in circles for hours. Abandoning all plans of reaching the ecologist outpost, I decided to trudge on, down the road into what I presumed to be west. If nothing else, finding the river would lead me back to Seriy's Guard outpost. The day was beautiful, especially by Zone standards, and my rucksack felt lighter thanks to it. I passed humming gravitational anomalies, stopping only momentarily to check the area for artifacts. None were forthcoming, so my journey continued. After roughly an hour of walking, I came to a burned hamlet. To the south of it, the Torfprom factory stood alone. I had missed the Ecologist outpost, damn it.

I couldn't dwell on this for long, however, as a bullet whizzed past my head and struck a tree not far from the road. Instinctively, I lunged to cover, preparing to sell my life dearly. My Type 73 was once more filled with deadly bullets, but it was not to dispense it that day. A shout came from the village ahead to lower my gun as it had been a mere warning shot.

"Identify yourself before I follow that order. Far too many bandits in these parts to be that naive, bratan!", I shouted back.

"We're from Final Frontier, lad! Fellow stalkers like you. Listen, stay there, I'll come closer.", the man shouted.

I saw a stalker emerge from a ruins of a farmhouse, holding a rifle that to me looked a lot like Mauser 98k. The optic on it was a bit different though. The man's trenchcoat was deep red, sort of burgundy colour. He came closer with no threat in his body language, and I holstered my machine gun. Still, as this was the Zone, my hand hovered over the pistol on my belt just in case. As he got closer, I could see the patch on his jacket, depicting three bullets side by side. The man saw my Radiation patch, and lowered his weapon.

"Sorry lad, we've had trouble with the Punishers and the camp is quite anxious. Anyway, you have any business here or are you just passing by? I'm Noah Blacklung, by the way.", the man introduced himself.

"Chronicler, and no hard feelings, things are rough these days. I'm passing by, I was meaning to reach the ecologist camp but ran into Devourers in the night. I'm writing a book on Zone's factions, is your faction welcoming enough to allow me to write another entry on it?", I asked.

"Chronicler, eh? One of the Guard fellows passing by mentioned you, told us that you might come pester us with some smartass shit. And Devourers? Boy, those are a tall-tale, that's all. Either way, our bossman, One-Eye, is in that large ruin over there. Go ask him questions, he fucking hates it.", Blacklung said with a grin under his black beard.

I was a bit hesitant to bug the leader of unknown faction's unit, and slightly offended by Blacklung's dismissive tone regarding the Devourers, but I'm not one to miss a chapter on my book. As such, I wandered into the large ruined farmstead. The tallest surviving walls were at my shoulder-height, and the rest were at knee to chest height. Not much of a fortress, but not the worst defensive position either. There were crates on pallets, bunkbeds and a dugout in the largest room, where all the ammunition seemed to have been piled into. The place had roughly a squad worth of Frontiersmen, most in trenchcoats with various military helmets, gasmasks and even ammunition belts crossed on their chests and backs. Some had modified Hunter suits, painted in that very same burgundy colour but seemingly even more stripped of armour than the base Hunter suit.

The Frontiersmen eyed me as I passed by, but most of them seemed merely curious. They were a ragged bunch, clearly men who had led hard lives. Not necessarily men of criminal past, however, as they seemed more adventurers and daredevils, the types you see when looking at photos of cowboys, Cossacks and Tuareg peoples of Sahara. I asked one of them for directions to One-Eye, and he grunted something while pointing his thumb towards one of the "rooms". A guard in deep red colour exoskeleton let me in after I stated my business, and I squeezed past him and his massive RT-20 antimaterial rifle. Old-Eye was sitting on an old chair, an old man with grey hair, beard and only one eye with the second socket completely empty. He raised his eyebrow at me in a form of silent question, and I hastily introduced myself.

"A chronicler? I remember Kostya mentioning you as he passed by. You helped Seriy with the Pirate problem? Good. I'm One-Eye, name for obvious reasons, and I lead this detachment of Final Frontier. If you have any questions, which I presume to be the case by your chosen title, ask away, we are not shy", One-Eye said and took a bottle of vodka out of the drawer behind him.

I began my usual barrage of questions. First, I asked about the faction's name, as I associate Final Frontier personally as space. One-Eye replied that the name reflects their entire philosophy. Final Frontier believes that the Zone is truly the last frontier region of the world, a place where the hardy, cunning and strong survive and the weak wither away. The faction wishes to explore this location properly, to truly relive the glory days of Wild West or the Cossack lifestyle. In essence, they were all hard-working adventurers according to One-Eye. Always racing ahead of the curve, exploring lands no other stalkers had yet expanded to.

"Interesting, so you're essentially a faction of pathfinders then?", I asked, and One-Eye nodded, taking a shot of vodka.

Apparently the legendary Guide had been an inspiration for the faction's creator and primary Hetman of the Final Frontier, Khmelnytsky. They had since the creation of the faction always pushed boundaries, fought barriers for stalker activity like large mutant herds, Monolith or Sin forces or military units. One-Eye recounted one particularly nasty conflict over a closed city similar to Limansk, named Pripetyarsk-4. During the battle, Khmelnytsky had died alongside many of his men as they had fought alongside Patrol, Braveheart, Duty and Diver forces to attack the city's emitter during cooldown before Monolith could use it again. Mission was a failure, and the next Hetman, Razumovski, heavily influenced the faction's future.

"How so? Has your organization heavily changed? New alliances or something?", I asked.

"Yes. That mad dash to stop the emitter failed, and Razu realized that we are not fighters as much as we are explorers. He made some deals with bandit splinter factions, notably with the Contrabandists to get us some gear and with other minor ones like Scum, Raiders and Marauders to leave us alone until we could regroup. It wasn't easy, and many in our ranks disagreed with him. Some left, most stayed, and we rebuilt slowly.", One-Eye continued, somber tone in his voice.

"And today? You are still pushing for the boundaries of known Zone?"

"To an extent. The veterans who survived Pripetyarsk-4 are out there in the north, working with pathfinders from Clear Sky, Redemption and Bravehearts. But rest of us, many new recruits, are preparing for the return of our faction in full strength. We're gathering artifacts, escorting or guiding stalkers, hunting mutants. Simple things. Sometimes a lab or colony raid, sometimes an attempt to discover new routes.", One-Eye sighed.

I nodded, and asked a few more questions. First, about the weapons they used, which One-Eye answered to be mostly Yugoslav surplus gear acquired from the Contrabandists, with some Zastava or Croat guns thrown into the mix. Second, I asked him about their command structure, which was simple. Hetman was the main leader of the faction, while Osavuls like One-Eye led squads or platoons of 10-20 men. Sotnyks were their patrol or squad leaders. However, the faction was highly decentralized, and discipline was not similar to Duty's or Order's hierarchical command structure. One-Eye remarked that the men were far too rowdy for such, and absolute command was only granted to those who could prove worthy of it. This put Final Frontier's faction relations in a tight spot too, as the faction's men despised factions with strict command structures and authoritarian conduct.

"We're at war with the Order after one of our co-operation missions ended with Osavul Brimstone hitting an Order captain in the face, as the captain had tried to give him orders. Vendetta, Storm and Union are also our enemies for similar reasons. And we're better for it, this is the Zone, not some army garrison, anyone larping the military here can go and do army drills in a Burner pit for all I care!", One-Eye noted and let out a bellowing laugh.

I chuckled at the mental image and thanked the commander for this information. Knowing that nothing was free in the Zone, I queried about what I could do in return for the Frontiersmen. One-Eye looked at me with cunning in his surviving grey eye, and grinned. He noted that I clearly knew how things work here, and offered me a job. Apparently a bandit splinter faction called Punishers was nearby, guarding a river outpost, and for some reason, they would not let Final Frontier pass onto the other side of the river. Normally, One-Eye would have stormed the place, but the renegade bandits had three Dushkas set up and those would rip Frontier's force to shreds.

"So let me get this straight. You want me to waltz into a Punisher outpost, ask them why they don't let you pass, and then waltz back here to report that? With three heavy machine guns staring me down? Are you perhaps off your medication?", I questioned.

"Thing is, you're a loner. A free stalker. We are not, we are close but have our own relations. Punishers are neutral to loners, but clearly not to us. I want to find out why this is, we've seen Diggers and free stalkers pass through there many times. Go talk to their leader, Oleg Warmonger, under the guise of getting information for your book, and ask him what's the matter.", One-Eye ordered.

"All this for some information on your faction?"

"You'll get a reward alright, don't worry. I have a Mica artifact with me that you can get once the job is done, a writer needs something to remove toxicity after all.", One-Eye replied with a grin.

I sighed and took his offer. It's not every day that you get to interview bandits, and if this faction, Punishers, truly was neutral to us loners, it would be an unique chance. I holstered my Type 73, prepared my Walther and set on the road towards the river outpost. There were pairs of Frontiersmen in multiple crumpled houses along the way, keeping an eye on the bandits through the scopes of their M76 rifles. I saw heavy trenchcoats on them, helmets far more advanced than those of regular loners. These guys were no joke, which made it far less appealing to trudge towards the outpost. If they feared it, what chance did I have? When it came to view finally, after ten minute walk on the dirt road running through overgrown fields, I gulped.

A rusted hulk of a bus was the main part of the checkpoint. On it, floodlights had been mounted on the roof, and a Soviet heavy machine gun pointed its black eye towards me. A flag with a big red stain, a crudely drawn skull in the middle of the painted part, flowed on top of the outpost. For better or for worse, I would soon learn who the Punishers were. Would I survive? Only they knew.