I took a hesitant step towards the Punisher outpost. Then, another. The man using the Duskha machine gun on top of the bus looked at me with a sneer, but showed no ill will with his big iron. I took this as encouragement and walked closer, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. The Dushka gunner whistled and on the ground both sides of the road, two Punishers in dark blue trenchcoats and red sweaters rose up from small foxholes. Their M4 carbines swung towards me, and I saw life flash before my eyes. I raised my hands up to signal no ill-will, and one of them nodded to the other.

"Okay, fraer, identify yourself. This is Punisher territory, and we don't tolerate little shits sneaking up on it.", the left one commanded in the usual bandit swagger tone.

"I'm Chronicler, brat, not a little shit. I wanted to interview your boss, Warmonger, since I hear you gentlemen do not attack loners.", I replied, trying to sound as confident as possible.

"Interview? What are you, a nerd or a snitch? Or worst of all, a musor?", the right one asked, scratching his head.

"Trash? No I'm not, what the hell, man? I'm a chronicler, so I write chroniclers. Simple!", I answered.

"What's a chronicle?", the left one questioned.

"It's a book on historical events, usually. I'm writing of Zone's factions, and I want to learn more of the Punishers. Like a reporter of sorts."

"Huh? Eh, sounds like some dumb nerd shit, go on ahead, bet Warmonger is super pleased about you asking stupid questions.", the right one said, sneering before the pair disappeared back into their foxholes.

I sighed, biting back a more scathing reply at the two knuckleheads. At least I was alive and bit closer to my objective. I continued down the sandy roadside, keeping the Dushka man in my sight. The encampment was hardly a large one, the broken and burned bus served as a sleeping quarters, as did a nearby half-collapsed shed. There were barbed wire fences in the water, and two large sandbag-reinforced defense positions. A T-64 tank had broken down near the bus too, and a Punisher in reinforced trenchcoat sat on the commader position. Next to the tank, behind the sandbags, a presumably rookie Punisher with a sawn-off Ranger shotgun was scanning the grounds. He looked at me suspiciously, but waved for me to get closer.

"Ocelot already notified me that you're coming. Warmonger is inside the bus, you can talk to him there. But don't piss the boss off, last time it was such a hassle to clean the bloodstains.", the rookie Punisher ordered.

I nodded to him and stepped inside the copper-brown husk of a bus. Most of the seats had been ripped off to make way for beds. Army-style foldable beds had been placed inside, and on them were scattered laptops, Cossacks bottles, magazines for weapons, ammo packs, foodstuffs and presumably loot. There was another rookie sleeping in one of the beds, and in the end of the bus, on a more expensive-looking bed, another man sat. He had a blue and red exoskeleton, the blue far lighter in tone than that of his underlings' trenchcoats. He had no exohelmet, instead wearing a blue ski-mask of sorts and a headset. I presumed this to be Warmonger, and he nodded in recognition, only shifting his gaze at me momentarily. He was maintaining a SR-25 sniper rifle, a truly rare piece inside the Zone. The eyes on the man had none of the humour of bandits, and none of the swagger. I'm not the biggest people person, but to me he seemed more like the cold and calculating merc than a bandit.

"So, a historian in the Zone? Tell me, why the hell would you do such an useless thing here?", he asked.

"Well, let me put it like this. One day, we all die. One day, you and me are both just dirt on the ground. Who remembers us then? Our friends? Family? Yes, but for how long? One day they die too. Then, you're only a branch in a family tree, a name on a screen or paper. Unless someone writes your story down, publishes it and tells the tale of those that came before. Eventually, every story disappears, but my job is to keep the one of Zone's folk around a little longer.", I replied, having thought of the matter a lot given all the puzzlement of the people I interviewed.

"Hm. I guess that makes sense. I don't care to be remembered, but I have no qualms with my faction having some recognition. What do you wish to know then?"

"First of all, let's both play our cards. I want information, but you probably want something in return for giving that?", I began.

Warmonger simply grunted and replied that he was mostly doing this to avoid boredom, not for rewards. Reassured that unlike One-Eye, Warmonger would not send me on a suicide mission, at least right away, I began my interview by asking about the general mission of Punishers. Warmonger explained that when the bandits broke up as unified faction, a situation unforeseen by the various gang leaders emerged. How could they control their men and avoid further breakups and splintering? How could they stop desertion or collaboration with various anti-bandit factions by the lower-ranked bandits? The Punishers, one of the least impressive bandit factions, had only just emerged as a group. Led by their boss Killjoy. He pledged to the other bandit leaders that the Punishers would hunt down traitors and turncoats with extreme prejudice.

"Early days were rough. We were weak, had terrible gear and lacked manpower. But Killjoy is a cunning guy, and he made choice alliances with various new factions to hunt down our first big targets. Turns out, loners especially had no beef with a faction of bandits killing other bandits. So slowly, one gig at a time, we got stronger.", Warmonger reminisced, a faint grin on his face.

Warmonger continued his tale, mentioning that despite their alliances, Punishers were still men of violence and subjugation as all bandits. But unlike the chaotic Raiders, impulsive Marauders, sadistic Clowns and desperate Black Slugs, for Punishers, killing was a cold and calculated game. They were swift, brutal and thorough, all targets killed in a single strike if possible and survivors either turned into their original faction, executed on spot, or if they showed great promise, recruited into Punishers.

"Does that not create issues of loyalty and reliability though?", I questioned in-between scratching my pen on the notebook, and Warmonger looked at me with a small grin before laughing dryly.

"Loyalty? Reliability? Did you just forget for a minute that we are bandits still? We may not be the most aggressive towards other factions, but make no mistake, all the inherent backstabbing, shadiness and thuggery is still there. All that matters is individual strength, cunning and balls."

I nodded, as the explanation made sense. Bandits had hierarchy, but it was a kraterocracy in very literal sense. Those who were strongest, ruled over all others. Be that physical or mental, in most cases a mix of both. Might makes right among bandits, and it doesn't matter which type of might. I gestured for Warmonger to continue, and he shrugged, saying that there was little else to mention on their ideology or history. I kept going, asking him to specify what their alliance situation was. Again, a shrug.

"We're on good terms with most majority-loner factions. Except for the more rabid anti-bandit ones like Patrol and Guard. Duty especially hates us, but who is surprised. We're one of the few bandit splinters to be allied to Freedom, only Contrabandists can claim the same. Most mercs hate us since we are doing their job essentially, and we also kinda got our M4 carbines, our preferred weapon, by raiding a merc warehouse. Swamp blueberries hate us, no surprise. As for the eggheads, well, surprisingly enough we have a deal with them and their less boring cousins in the Applied Science Division. We don't bother them, and they don't bother us. We have some other allies but if I told you about them, I'd have to kill you.", Warmonger explained.

"As much as I am intrigued, I prefer staying alive. But what about Final Frontier? Your camps are quite close, after all.", I asked as nonchalantly as I could, but I could see Warmonger's eyes flare up.

"That is also a question with similar results to my final comment. Why the hell do you ask? Are you working for them?", the Punisher leader practically shouted.

"No! I just-", I managed to reply but Warmonger had already drawn his shotgun.

"Answer me truthfully, drug, or your journey ends here.", he said, now calm.

"Fuck... I-", I stammered, when a shot rang out.

Warmonger's head exploded in a shower of gore. Consequences of not wearing a helmet. Three heavy machine gun bursts could be heard from outside as I dived down to the bus floor, the Dushkas around the outpost opening up. But then, another heavy gun joined the fight. It was far stronger in volume to the Punisher guns, and I could hear screams as explosive projectiles peppered the ground around me. I'm fairly certain I screamed too.

"Peacekeepers! Suka blyat, jarheads are here!", one of the Punishers screamed outside, only to be followed by a screech as a bullet struck him.

I struggled to a crouching position as more lead rained on the outpost. Peeking out, I saw smoke, dead bodies of Punishers, twisted wrecks of the Dshk emplacements and broken guns. And in the distance, a Rosomak infantry fighting vehicle. Men in army camouflage rushed towards the outpost, firing what appeared to be Grots, Beryls and PM-98s. Fuck, I thought to myself, looked like I came here at the worst possible time.