Chapter Text
Flurries of snow and ash whisked over the rooftops of Moscow, carried along by a wind that sang it’s mournful song between the exposed metal skeletons of decaying buildings and brutalized cars. Although he was prepared for the biting cold that came with the ever-present nuclear winter, Artyom was beginning to feel the nip in his fingers through his dual-layered gloves, which were currently preoccupied with turning the dial of a radio receiver back and forth. When the cold began to seep its way in through the heavy layers of thick clothes and tactical gear, it was usually nature’s way of saying it was time to call it quits for the day.
Artyom flipped the switch of the receiver into the off position. He watched as the yellow light faded from behind the station needle and dejectedly sighed into his gas mask, which had acquired quite a bit of frost around the glass edges. He had been up here for over three hours now, longer than most people in the Metro would ever be willing to spend here. Not just because of the cold, or the vicious mutants that long for a warm bleeding meal, but simply because the radiation was not something to mess around with.
He wasn’t stupid. Artyom always kept his Geiger counter on whenever he was above ground, and only climbed to the rooftops that didn’t make the little box scream at him due to any unsafe levels of contamination. Either way, spending time in an irradiated city for more than a couple hours wasn’t very healthy, especially when he had been going up every other day. The people of Exhibition must have thought he was crazy, even if they didn’t say it outright to him. Artyom didn’t care, he had his own reasons for going to the surface as often as he did.
Every day spent up on freezing rooftops, scanning the radio waves for any signs of civilizations beyond Moscow, was not a day wasted to him. He had to have hope that this search wasn’t in vain—that it wasn’t pointless.
Artyom shoved the bulky receiver into his backpack when a shimmer in his peripheral caught his attention. He peered over the edge and noticed a group of—what he presumed were Stalkers—make their way through the crumbling streets of the Dead City. The only reason he assumed they were Stalkers was because there was no need for any Rangers, Reds, or Nazis to be above ground right now, given the current state of the political climate in the Metro. Unless something was brewing that he didn’t know about, but that would be a stupid move on either side, seeing as both the Reds and Rangers were both hurting after the battle of D6. For the first time in quite a long time, the politics were at a standstill inside the Metro, and things were relatively quiet amongst the factions as both the Reds rebuilt the cost of their siege, and Miller recruited new Rangers into the Order.
The group below kept relatively quiet, knowing all too well what kinds of threats lingered around them. Too much chatter would always draw attention, and not from anything good. What had originally caught Artyom’s eye were the guns they were carrying, along with even more slung over their shoulders and backs. The metal of the weapons glinted as they walked, which must have been what alerted him in the first place.
Their gear was similar to Artyom’s, providing adequate armor against any beasts or man that should happen to cross their path; except, it certainly didn’t look like Spartan gear. In fact, he couldn’t really tell from that high up, just that it was some form of serious protection. The perpetual fog and swirls of snowy ash didn’t help give much of a clear view either. Regardless, Artyom wasn’t particularly in a rush to head down anyways, especially on the off chance that they could be hostile. He wasn’t in the mood to get into the thick of it while lugging a heavy radio on his back. The last thing he needed was a busted receiver full of bullet holes.
After the group was out of sight, Artyom decided now was the time to make his descent downward and back into the tunnels of what he called home. The timer for his filter was edging closer to zero, and the constant gray, cloudy sky was beginning to darken, giving way to another deadly night in Moscow.
*
One week later, Artyom was back above ground again, turning the dial on his receiver back and forth in search of anyone—of anything. He had taken a few days off after Anna had gotten on his case about the constant surface excursions, making sure to really dig in that radiation sickness was no joke, and that he better watch himself. No one liked seeing Artyom put himself in harm’s way for something they personally didn’t believe in, but it was only Anna who started speaking up about it. Part of Artyom was grateful that she cared for his well being, but another part of him loathed that no one was on his side when it came to looking for other human life out there. The fact that Anna wasn’t on his side in this was certainly disheartening. None of his friends or associates had much faith in Artyom’s endeavor.
That didn’t stop him from climbing his way back up to the surface though.
Today was easier—not nearly as freezing as it usually was, most likely because the wind wasn’t whipping around like it had been days prior. The clouds still loomed overhead in their constant state of gloom, barely letting any rays of sun shine through onto the broken city. Artyom was able to sit patiently for upwards of five hours this time, only moving on the two and a half hour point to relocate onto another building in case he could catch a stronger signal. Still, no dice.
He was growing tired and hungry, but it was his low stock of filters that finally pushed Artyom to give up for the day and head back down into Exhibition Station.
As Artyom carefully descended the crumbling stairway, the sound of shuffling was quick to alert him. He abruptly stopped in his tracks and listened closely. There seemed to be only one pair of footsteps coming from the second landing, just one floor lower than the one Artyom hovered over. He ran through the options in his head, wondering what kind of approach to take here. Artyom thought he had been alone this whole time, but his mind wandered back to the group of people he saw just a week earlier.
Except, from the sound of it, this was not a group of people.
Who in their right mind would come up to the surface without a partner to aid them? If you were to ever run out of bullets or make a wrong move at the wrong time, death-by-mutant was certain. Artyom was no exception and he knew this, but still risked it in the name of his own personal mission. He was slick though, and knew how to evade packs of hungry creatures, as well as always keeping an ear out for his Geiger counter.
Potentially hostile people needed a much different approach than monsters. Sure, getting into a tussle with nosalises could alert even more monstrosities to your location by the sound of your gun firing, but humans? People always had guns on the surface and were definitely more equipped to take you out faster than anything else. Artyom couldn’t make a mistake here, so he sat and listened.
The footsteps moved further away from the stairwell, crunching over ice and rubbish, just barely audible. It was clear whoever the steps belonged to was trying to stay quiet, if not hidden. That prompted the question, was this person aware of Artyom? If so, for how long?
Once the sound seemingly faded, Artyom crept along the concrete, sure to keep a tight grip on his gun. He tried to stay as quiet as possible while rounding each corner of the descending stairs. He peeked around the walls, again and again, until eventually finding himself on the second floor landing. Artyom raised his Kalashnikov and finally looked down the hallway through the scope of his weapon, only to see a quick flash of something running around the corner. The action immediately gave away that this person was absolutely aware of Artyom’s presence, and perhaps even baiting him into coming out.
He decided to creep forwards anyways, checking for any other signs of life as he dipped into each dilapidated room, half expecting a hail of bullets to spray down the hall at any moment. Artyom wouldn’t make the first move by firing his own gun—not without knowing who was stalking him first.
He eventually found his way to the end of the hallway and held his breath as he dared to peek around the corner.
There was another stairwell again, but this time it was at the end of a smaller hallway, where a figure was standing—hands on the railings and waiting. When Artyom’s gaze locked with the other man’s, the figure took off down the flight of stairs and toward the ground floor level.
No way. There was no way. That…
Those eyes could not belong to anyone else.
…Could they?
Artyom, against his better judgment, sprinted after the familiar presence; not even one hundred percent sure if there were more people waiting to jump him at the bottom. He had to know, he had to make sure it wasn’t—
His boots slammed down against the concrete blocks, crunching and scraping against demolished concrete and rusted metal. Artyom followed after the figure who—to his surprise—wasn’t wearing much tactical gear at all, save for knee pads and a thick jacket, with thick straps draped across the upper body meant for ammunition and weaponry.
The man ran into one of the first rooms on the ground floor and Artyom immediately dug his heels into the floor, skidding to a stop. He raised his Kalash and looked down the sight of the barrel, while his heart hammered in his chest. Artyom made the daring decision to poke his head around the doorframe.
“Ah, ty simotri! It’s Artyom—What a chance encounter, eh?” Pavel swung on his heels, sporting a cheeky grin behind his gas mask. He raised his arms as a playful form of surrender. One of his hands held a pistol, but Pavel’s finger did not hover over the trigger, nor was the barrel pointed near Artyom.
“Say, why don’t we have a little chat for a second? I can assure you it’s safe, no need to get too riled up.”
The death grip Artyom had on his gun didn’t ease. His head swiveled from left to right as a means to scan the immediate area, trying his best to suss out a possible ambush with what limited line of sight he had. Once he confirmed that no one was behind him or to his sides, Artyom turned back to Pavel, who must have gone insane somewhere in the span of three seconds, because he had taken off his gas mask and maneuvered it out from under his hat.
Artyom was stunned by this action, even more so when Pavel decided to drop both his mask and gun on the ground. He raised his hands again in that I’m unarmed and not a threat to you gesture.
“Davai, what’s that look for? I just wanted to talk with you.”
Artyom pointed to Pavel’s gas mask with the barrel of his gun, a silent question asking if he had gone mad.
“I already said it was safe here. Is this not a well known building Stalkers regularly use?” Pavel inquired, and took in a deep breath of air to prove his point. “Obviously places like this aren’t super common, but I’m on your turf, Artyomich. You should know the air in this building isn’t that bad for breathing.”
The location of this specific building had completely slipped Artyom’s mind amidst Pavel’s surprise appearance, but he was correct. Artyom was stunned to see the man standing before him—clearly not dead—and in Ranger Exhibition territory. It was a surprise at all that Pavel had even made it over to this side of the Metro alone, without getting mauled or seized by the Spartan Order, who wandered around this area regularly.
And perhaps the most important question was why. Why here and why now? Artyom was under the impression Pavel had been a coward these past few months; laying low among the Red Line to never to see each other again, most likely hiding in shame for destroying the friendship they once had. Artyom must have assumed wrong though, since he could clearly see Pavel with his own two eyes.
Even if someone was a traitor, or sold him out in the name of ‘just following orders’, Artyom couldn’t bring himself to let someone he once cared for die. Even if it was what Pavel deserved—even if Artyom was well within his right to kill him—it was simply against his own moral standing.
Now, as the bastard stood before Artyom, he felt the anguish wash over him again. The emotional pain dug itself in sharp and twisting, like a knife in the gut. It didn’t feel nearly as painful as it had been many months ago when Pavel betrayed him, or when Artyom had to face off against him in the Red Square. No, this was a residual pain that had lingered for far too long, and had only just flared up now in the form of anger. Artyom lowered his gun, stepped forward into the desecrated room, and swung his fist into Pavel’s face.
Artyom’s knuckles landed between Pavel's nose and cheek, on the spot right underneath his eye. His hands were gloved, so there was almost no sound that came from the violent action other than the rustle of Artyom's sleeve. This was an indicator that he probably didn’t break Pavel’s nose since it didn’t audibly crack, despite the bright red that now rolled down his lips.
“Ugh, blyakha-mukha… You sure know how to land a right hook,” Pavel spoke into his hands. He was doubled over and staggering slightly, while blood dribbled between his fingers and onto the dirty floor. His voice was muffled by his hands, and his speech sounded more nasally than usual, a result of the fresh coagulation in his sinuses.
“I… Blin, I guess I deserved that one.”
Artyom lifted both of his hands in an exasperated manner—one of them busy clutching his weapon, but the sentiment was still there—as if to say, Yeah, you think?
Right as Pavel stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose in order to stop the bleeding, a familiar howl struck the air. The sound was much too close for Artyom’s liking, as it was so loud that it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Soon, two more howls joined into the mix, then three, then four, and so on. It was a haunting orchestra of watchmen songs, crescendoing louder and louder as the pack drew closer, composed just for the two of them.
Artyom shot Pavel a glare, who only shrugged in return.
“Hey-hey-hey-hey, don’t give me that look, I thought this area was uhh, relatively safe!”
There’s no safe place anywhere, Artyom thought dryly. Not even in the tunnels.
He made sure there was enough ammo loaded into his Kalashnikov before kicking Pavel’s pistol over to him, who had just finished pulling his gas mask back over his face. His nose was still bleeding—grisly red streaks now smeared across his mouth and chin, but at least it had significantly slowed down.
“Alright d’Artagnan, you watch my back and I watch yours, okay?” Pavel called over the howls and shrieks.
Although it pulled at his heart, Artyom chose to ignore the nickname Pavel used to use for him before everything went to shit. The last thing he needed was to be distracted with unnecessarily emotions while fighting off ravenous, irradiated beasts.
Due to the nature of the small room, the Watchmen couldn’t overwhelm the two of them very easily. There was a window that had already been boarded shut, and the only one way out was the door, which was now quickly being ripped apart by the strong watchmen. The duo stood back-to-back, blasting the monsters with accurate precision and unison.
“I can hear more coming, we better get out of here!” Pavel shouted over the gunshots and snapping of teeth.
Artyom knew the commotion was definitely going to draw more out, and the best thing to do would be to get the hell out of there and wait it out until the coast was clear, then eventually make it back to the tunnels. The only thing he could do was press forward and hope Pavel would follow along with it. After all, they escaped a Reich prison with each other’s help, Artyom didn’t doubt for a second that they would make it out of this too.
He just didn’t know if he was ready for Pavel to also come back to Exhibition Station with him.
A window of opportunity presented itself when the numbers of Watchmen seemed to dwindle. Artyom pointed two of his fingers toward the door and Pavel nodded. Artyom was the first to dash out of the room and down the hall, hearing Pavel run behind him as well, occasionally swearing and firing off more rounds into any Watchers that stalked after them. Once they were at the end of the hall, Artyom ushered Pavel through a relatively large hole in the building structure that led directly outside.
Once they both made it through the opening, Artyom sprinted several hundred feet before sliding behind a car that was tipped onto its side, a perfect spot for adequate coverage. Pavel was not far behind, looking over his shoulder to make sure nothing was following, before he threw himself down next to Artyom. The two of them reloaded their weapons and held their breath as they listened. The droning could still be heard from inside the building, until eventually it stopped altogether.
Eventually, what was left of the watchmen could be heard stampeding across the snow and rubble towards a destination Artyom had no interest in going. It sounded like the pack was heading south, which spelled good news for the both of them, since Artyom needed to head north in order to make it back to the Exhibition station.
Pavel and Artyom turned to look at each other at the same time. Pavel grinned and Artyom thought about how ridiculous he looked with the now drying blood on his face, painting his earnest expression into a silly one. Maybe a bit grotesque too, but a nosebleed was nothing compared to the horrors most Rangers have seen within the past twenty years.
Had things been the same before Pavel’s betrayal, Artyom might have returned the smile, and maybe share a laugh at their current situation. They made a good pair of friends and an even greater team; always on the same page and understanding each other, even though Artyom stayed mute. It felt exhilarating to fight alongside someone who understood his silent language, especially under the most dire of circumstances.
Artyom could just as easily fall back into that safe blanket of comfort and camaraderie with Pavel; except, there was no safety anymore. Any trust between them had been destroyed and there was no going back to how things were before—it wouldn’t be the same.
But the way Pavel’s goofy smile shined from under the gas mask made Artyom think twice about it. With both Korbut and Lesnitsky dead, maybe he could give Pavel a second chance. Artyom could always try to mend the ties with his old friend; one small step at a time, of course.
With this revelation, he should have felt hopeful—but instead, it only scared him more.
Artyom hastily pushed himself to his feet, before jumping over dead cars and hightailing it out of there—anywhere away from Pavel. A part of Artyom was screaming to turn back around and help him get to another station, or maybe even another metro tunnel at least; but Pavel was smart and knew his way around the surface, and he would definitely be able to tough it out on his own. He was the one who found Artyom after wading around in Ranger-Exhibition territory, which was already a long way away from the Red Line. Even though the guilt was gnawing at him, the terror of bringing Pavel into his own home station seemed far more dangerous than a more-than-equipped Major toughing it out on the surface.
Artyom dodged in and out of buildings, sprinting between broken buildings and collapsing roads in case Pavel decided to follow after. His thoughts were racing a million miles an hour—reeling with so many unanswered questions and sensitive from complicated emotions that he just wanted to run away from. Amongst the chaos of his mind, Artyom’s consciousness kept flinging one singular sentence back at him, no matter how much he tried to shove it down.
Does this make me the coward now?