"You excited to finally be somewhere else?" Zhenya asks, as the hand cart departs the Exhibition. Perhaps saying that the handcart is departing is too passive. It is, in fact, being propelled along by Artyom and Zhenya, leaning heavily on the handles to force it towards its destination. The commander sits across from them, on alert like the rest of them--but at least he doesn't have to push a lever the whole way there.

For Artyom, it's a chance to think. He's been given a mission, like it or not. And by setting off towards Rizhskaya, he may as well have accepted it. Sure, there's always the option of going straight back home into safety, of saying fuck it to Hunter's mission, to reaching Polis.

It doesn't feel at all like a real option, though. More like a divergent path that he's long since rushed past. If he hadn't intended to see it through, he wouldn't have accepted Hunter's token at all, would he? He wouldn't have asked to join the caravan, either. Some part of him knew the moment Hunter handed him his tag that he would never be returning, and it would be Artyom's duty to carry out his last request.

And it's not just for Hunter. It's for Exhibition, too. It's for the whole metro.

Besides that, he's a young man. Barely twenty four, kept under his stepfather's watchful eye for a few years too long, now. His last big act of rebellion had been taking the stolen shotgun up through the hermetic door to the Botanical Gardens, with Zhenya and Vitali, and while he'd earned himself a good thrashing at the time, wandering around with a stolen weapon, past the patrols--the one time he can remember Sukhoi taking his belt off, and for God's sake, the man hadn't even known what he'd truly done--he's itching for a new adventure. His blood feels hot, flowing and pooling like leylines in his body, and he's bored from being kept at home for all these years. It's normal that a young person should go out into the world, no matter how small that world may be, and find something to cut and carve their own destiny out of.

"Giving me the cold shoulder?" Zhenya asks, and Artyom realizes too late that he's been ignoring his friend. He can't very well tell him what he's been thinking about; that he's not going to go home, that he's on a mission to reach Polis instead. Zhenya would try to talk him out of it, and he might be successful. Artyom shakes his head, sweat dripping off him from the exertion of working the handle, and makes up an excuse.

"Thinking... about a story I heard."

The commander, seated facing forward and looking past them with his lamp, shows an interest.

"What kind of story, Artyom?"

"Yeah, go ahead and tell us," Zhenya says. He's almost as winded as Artyom, but he's done this route before. Still, his face is sweaty from the effort.

Now Artyom has their attention, and nothing to keep it with. Embarrassed, he tries to flip through his mental catalog of rumors and stories to find something worth their while. He settles on an old memory, something buried, something that might have been a dream.

"Well--actually, on patrol the other night..."

Zhenya arches an eyebrow. "Some of the men were talking," Artyom says, "about the rats."

"What about them," the commander asks.

"Don't stop pushing your side just because you're telling a story," Zhenya warns, and Artyom scowls slightly, resumes pumping his arms against the lever.

"No, I'm not..."

"Go ahead then."

"Well, one of the guys was saying that--that twenty years ago, a station--my old home station--had become overrun with rats, so much so that they became huge, like dogs. They swarmed through the tunnels and started eating people, alive." This isn't true; he didn't hear it on patrol. If they ask him who told him this story, he'll have no response.

"That's not true," Zhenya says, and Artyom flushes darkly, embarrassed, but the commander shakes his head.

"No, it is. I remember that." And now he has both of the younger men's attention, and they both stop pushing so suddenly, the handcart slows and halts. "Hey, don't be lazy. We're almost to the halfway point."

"My arms are about to fall off," Zhenya complains, and Artyom doesn't voice it, but he feels the same way.

"You whiners," the commander scolds them.

They get the cart moving again, and the commander tells them a story, of how the tunnels had filled with the screams of people being eaten by the rats, and the guards at Exhibition had put up a flamethrower, made from scrap but just as effective as any other, and set the tunnel ablaze, not stopping until they were out of fuel. "And even then, the rats kept squirming and screaming, seeking something to bite onto," the commander says. Artyom shivers, uncomfortable. He doesn't remember that very well.

"Alex used to get so mad," the commander continues. "He didn't know what to do about you, and he'd complain every day, "Artyom pissed the bed again last night, I can't keep up with the laundry!" You were just so scared of the rats after that."

Zhenya laughs loudly in disbelief and Artyom looks down at the lever, face burning in embarrassment.

"Slow down!" a guard calls to them, and they slow the cart as they near. He speaks with the commander briefly to inform the group that the tunnel ahead to Alexeyevskaya is blocked, and that they can go around through the bypass tunnel.

"I hate that fucking tunnel," the commander sighs, "go ahead and open it up."

"Why, what's wrong with it?" Zhenya asks. The commander purses his lips, considers, and shakes his head.

"It's a normal tunnel. Maybe not so well lit, but it's fine."

The rear guard catches up with the handcart to speak with the commander, and Zhenya and Artyom have a moment to whisper to each other. "I don't like the sounds of this tunnel," Zhenya admits.

"He said it was normal," Artyom says quietly. The story about the rats lingers in his mind.

"Then why the first statement, huh? It seems like the kind of thing you only say if there's something dangerous inside."

"Aren't all tunnels dangerous?" Artyom asks, as the commander returns his attention to them to tell them to stop slacking.

They're about 200 meters into the tunnel when the handcart begins to slow. The commander clutches at his head, murmuring something, but he doesn't bark at them to keep going. Artyom's head throbs from the effort of pushing, and he tries to glance at Zhenya and finds he's too dizzy to do so. Zhenya sits down heavily, head sagging against his chest.

"Zhenya," he says, but his tongue feels heavy and thick and twisted in his mouth, and it comes out as nothing. Why are they stopping? Artyom reaches for his friend to shove at his shoulder, and the effort does him in; his vision goes black, and he feels himself hit his seat and collapse against the side of the cart. There's a noise all around him, one that he'd thought was nothing, written off as a headache-- but it's so loud now, pressing in and out, from both sides of his skull, threatening to tear him apart from either end.

When Artyom awakes, it's dark. They're still in the tunnel, the three of them. He sits up slowly, clutching his head, and leans over to shake Zhenya. The rear guard is gone. How far back was he, before they'd all fallen asleep like that?

A horrible noise crawls up through the tunnel, a scratching and a snuffling, and Artyom shakes Zhenya with fervor to wake him.

"What, what's happening--"

"Nosalises."

Artyom has encountered them before, on watch. But that's always been from the relative safety of a campfire, with one or two other men around to watch his back, and never so far from home.

He's scared, he realizes, as Zhenya hisses for the commander to wake up, reaches for his bastard, then thinks better of it and grabs the handle instead.

"Zhenya."

"You're a better shot than me," Zhenya hisses, shuffling the responsibility off onto Artyom. Artyom nods slowly, turns on his flashlight and raises his bastard. The tunnel stretches silent and still ahead of them for a long moment, as Zhenya starts to push to move the handcart again.

"The rear guard," Artyom whispers, and Zhenya shakes his head without looking away from the tunnel or stopping.

"He's dead, for sure."

At the end of Artyom's flashlight beam, a gnarled, ugly rodent-like face comes into view, followed by the rest of the creature. Zhenya pumps the handle faster, moving them down the track, but the nosalis has spotted them and taken up chase.

"Oh, no no no," Zhenya groans, then shouts. "Boris, wake up!"

The commander groans, coming to, as more nosalises come crawling down the tracks after them. "What--oh, my head..."

"Shoot them, Artyom!" Zhenya pleads, as the first nosalis catches up with them. Artyom levels his bastard at the beast and fires, a short, loud burst. The nosalis screams and falls off on the side of the tracks, dead, as three more rush in to take its place.

"What the fuck!" the commander yelps, and ducks his head from a nosalis' swiping claws.

"Shoot them!" Zhenya begs again, and Artyom fires over the commander at the nosalis trying to snatch him off the cart. "Artyom!"

"I'm shooting!" Artyom protests. The bastard has crap accuracy beyond a few meters, it's a waste to try to shoot the nosalises down the tunnel. Another of the snouts leaps onto the handcart as Zhenya yells wordlessly, and Artyom grabs his friend's duplet off the seat to fire a shell into the beast's head.

"Conserve the ammo, Artyom, conserve the ammo," Zhenya begs him, but Artyom ignores him in favor of firing into the nosalis on the other edge of the cart. He's reloading, cautiously optimistic, when one of the beasts grabs him and slings him off the cart, over the side of the tracks to roll under an overhang. Zhenya yells after him as the handcart disappears down the track, followed by a horde of nosalises. There's a lot of gunfire, as Artyom lays stunned, too scared and winded to get back to his feet and run after it. And for what? To run headlong into a nosalis and be eaten?

But his fear of the dark tunnel, and of dying alone, outweighs that anxiety. Artyom gets up with a groan and forces himself to run, stumbling over the tracks. The tunnel ahead of him is on fire, flames licking up the walls and eating away at nosalis corpses as the snouts run straight into the flamethrower.

"Artyom!" Zhenya calls out to him, and the men with the flamethrower stop it for long enough to let him climb back onto the handcart, where Zhenya grabs him and holds onto him. The flamethrower roars back to life, gobbling up the next few nosalises that approach, leaving them all with the unmistakable smell of charred hair and burned flesh.Artyom is reminded of the story Boris had told them of his home station. He'd been the one to bring it up, but it really is scary to think about, being eaten alive by a huge rat.

He doesn't like rats. He doesn't like nosalises, either.

"You okay?" Zhenya asks him, and Artyom realizes they're both shaking, like kids caught up in some trouble. It's not funny, but it does remind him of that time on the surface, when he and Zhenya and Vitali had gone up to see what was there, and had cowered together like this. It's not funny, but he laughs loudly, to keep himself from panicking.

"Artyom!"

"I'm fine, I'm okay." Tears stream down his cheeks, mostly from the nerves. "I'm alright."

Zhenya wipes his tears with his thumbs, laughing too, and the commander shakes his head and turns to discuss something with the men on watch. The two young men get up to stumble into the station.

"You're an idiot!" Zhenya scolds him as they're heading into Riga. The place stinks, and Artyom has to cover his nose. "I told you to shoot them. You could have gotten killed."

"I'm fine, really."

"We should be celebrating," the commander says, catching up with the two of them. "Come on. Drinks are on me."

Artyom is starting to come down from his survivorship high as they reach the bar. It's dim, candlelight flickering against the faces of the patrons. There's an untouched piano in the corner. The commander goes to order them a bottle of shroom vodka and talk to the bartender, and Artyom sits down heavily, grateful that the chair is there to catch him. He feels shaky, suddenly. Cold and sweaty.

"That shit really doesn't affect you?" Zhenya asks, as they sit and wait for the commander to come back.

"What shit?"

"Tunnel madness. The hallucinations." The commander approaches with a bottle of moonshine and three cups, and starts pouring for them. "The rest of us were out like lights." Boris winks at him, passing him a cup.

He's not immune. Artyom knows that right away. He's not immune to anything; he just got lucky and woke up. Sometimes, that's all you can survive by in the metro. Luck. He doesn't voice that. He takes his drink from the commander and drains it, shaking his head at the strong taste. A shiver runs down his spine. "Hey, Artyom," Zhenya says, and he looks up and holds his cup out for Zhenya to fill it again.

"You really saved our asses back there," the commander says, and they toast to him. Artyom nods his head and sways a bit, knocking back drinks as quickly as Zhenya can pour them. His stepdad, Alex--well, he won't let him drink much at home. He has an iron grip on Artyom's leash; a tight rein that doesn't allow him to wander too far, or get in too much trouble. This could be the reason that Artyom rebels; Uncle Sasha tries so hard to keep him safe and close, and he wants so badly to roam free as a result. And here he is in Riga, about to burst away from the collar entirely, to run wild and blind down the dark tracks.

"Ah, the moonshine knocks everyone on their asses," the commander says, agreeing with something Zhenya said. Artyom nods his head, unable to stop. He thinks there's a man looking at him from the bar, but he can't focus to look at him head-on. The man stands and walks past their table, and Artyom thinks he might be sizing him up--then the man is gone, and the commander is telling their neighbors at another table about how Artyom had saved them from the tunnel shit, the hallucinations, and Zhenya is clapping him on the shoulder and laughing in his ear.

Artyom stands awkwardly, unsure of his footing, and Zhenya grabs his arm. "Where are you headed?"

"I need to pee."

"Don't go far," the commander says, and Zhenya waves him off. Artyom keeps nodding his head, staggers down the stairs, and looks around at the station. It's dark here, too. The lights are dim to simulate evening. Say what you want about Riga, but at least their people adhere to the clock hands, like the people at Exhibition do.

Shame the place stinks of shit, though.

"Are you Artyom?" a boy in a hat asks, and Artyom stops in his staggering and nods. "There's a man at the Black Street looking for you."

This fails to raise any alarms in Artyom's mind, and in fact, he thinks it's very nice of this young boy to tell him so. "I'll take you there for one bullet," the kid says, and he thinks it over, hands over a cartridge, and follows him through the maze of tiny, crowded homes. It dawns on him for just a minute that he's not going to be able to find his way back if he gets lost, and tries to remember to ask the kid to lead him back--but the kid stops, points out a man, and runs off with his bullet.

"Are you Artyom? Sit down," the man calls, and Artyom hesitates for a moment, standing over him and watching him smoke. "Sit," the man says again, "I want to talk to you."

Artyom sits down sheepishly, waiting for the man to finish smoking, or maybe offer him a joint. Instead the man stubs it out, tucks the other half if it away. "I've got a job for you," the man says. Then he clarifies: "Not for your caravan, just you."

"What do you want from me?" Artyom asks, and the man curls his lip a bit, almost unnoticeably. He can't help but slur his speech a bit; Zhenya had gotten him too drunk.

"I'm in need of a traveling companion," Bourbon says. Artyom feels his nose wrinkle a bit. Why him? He's not experienced, or particularly strong, or skilled...

"Why do you want me, sir?"

"Look, I'm not that much older than you, so there's no need to be formal. Everyone calls me Bourbon. I need to get to Dry Station--but this shit hole's on lockdown, and there's no going in or out... I know the back way, but it's not as safe as the main route. Well, everyone's afraid to go that way, because of the effects of the tunnel. You get it, right?"

Artyom bobs his head in a nod. "But you're immune to the hallucinations, aren't you? You don't go mad in the dark?"

He doesn't say anything, but he must have responded, because Bourbon smiles and continues.

"Good, good... So, Artyom, what do you say? I can pay you thirty cartridges, and I'll give you my AK when we're done."

At this point Artyom, who is fairly drunk, realizes he has completely missed what Bourbon is asking him to do. He nods again, slowly, too sheepish and scared of making Bourbon angry if he asks for clarification.

"Good. So it's settled?"

A nod. Fuck. He hopes he's not going to be in any trouble for this... Hopefully wherever they're going is on the path to Polis.

"Where are you staying tonight? Your caravan."

Artyom stops nodding, because that's not a yes or no question, and tries to remember where Zhenya said they were sleeping tonight. "I can come and get you around midnight," Bourbon clarifies, and Artyom nods, trying really hard to figure out where it was that Zhenya had told him...

"Come on," Bourbon says, standing. "I'll walk you back." Artyom stands too, grateful for the shift in conversation, as well as the guidance to return to the bar. "Can you write?" Bourbon asks him. "Good. Leave a note tonight, so they don't send a search party."

"Artyom!" Zhenya calls, as they're nearing the station boss's office. "There you are, you lightweight." Artyom drifts from Bourbon's side back to Zhenya, and Bourbon lets him go, lingering in the shadows. "Are you tired? We can't leave the station until the lockdown ends, but the commander paid for us to stay in the guest tents."

Artyom glances over his shoulder, pleased to be able to tell Bourbon where he's going to be sleeping tonight, and finds he's vanished. Maybe the deal is off.

"What's wrong?" Zhenya asks, and Artyom shakes his head, shifting uncomfortably. He still needs to pee. "You got lost, didn't you? Come on, I'll take you to the toilets, then we'll go find our tent."

Zhenya helps him locate a latrine, and Artyom plants a hand on the wall and leans into it while he pisses. Everything feels like a dream... Hunter, and the nosalises, and the man at the Black Street... even the Dark Ones. Is any of it even real? Maybe he drank a little too much...

"Whoops!" Zhenya calls, catching him as he starts to topple over. "Alright, zip up, it's bedtime."

He lets Zhenya lead him to the tent and lay him down on a bedroll, grateful for his friend. He's always looked out for Artyom, ever since they were kids. "Get some rest, sleep it off," Zhenya says, patting his shoulder. "Don't piss the bed."

"Shut up, I won't..." He ducks his face into the pillow as Zhenya laughs.

Zhenya sits down beside him, checking his gear quietly as Artyom buries his face in his limp pillow. He can feel himself drifting off, out of the weirdness of reality, away from giant inhuman radiation monsters and rats the size of men... He dreams that he's on the surface, like he's dreamed so many times before, but instead of the usual story of ducks at the pond, ice cream, and his mother's blurry face, there's a man there.

The man from the Black Street, what was his name? Something strange, something that didn't sound like a name at all, maybe a foreign moniker...

The man doesn't say anything to him, doesn't even look at him. Artyom approaches, glances back over his shoulder nervously. The world is empty, aside from them. They're not anywhere familiar, either, not in the sunny Botanical Gardens, but the snowy borders of a city. Moscow?

Artyom reaches him, and the man still doesn't react. He takes the chance to study his face. He's not as old as he'd looked at first glance; dark buzzed hair, warm brown eyes, and a nose that's been broken too many times before. 

Something shifts behind Artyom, and he looks back again, skin tingling. A shadow looms over him, taller than a man, gangly, pitch black, inhuman. A Dark One. Bourbon doesn't move, doesn't seem to notice it at all, even as the Dark One reaches towards both of them. Arryom panics; he grabs Bourbon's arm, trying to pull him away, but he won't budge. The Dark One's hand brushes against his stubbly cheek.

"I'm here for that one," Bourbon says, not looking at him.

"...What do you want with Artyom?" Zhenya? "Artyom. Tyoma... there's a strange guy here for you." A short pause. "A drifter."

"Who," Artyom hears himself murmur. Zhenya's voice responds.

"He says his name is Bourbon."

The Dark One stops and withdraws very quickly, vanishing back into the city. Artyom jolts awake and lifts his head off his damp pillow. Zhenya is leaning over him, shaking his shoulder while trying to block him from view. In the mouth of the tent, Bourbon ducks, peering on at them.

He needs to go with him. He knows it very suddenly, an intuitive feeling. If he doesn't...

"I need to go talk with him," he tells Zhenya, scrambling out of bed to grab his boots and pack.

"Why? Where are you going with your stuff?" Zhenya grabs his arm, trying to stop him.

"We're just going to talk." It's a quick lie. It comes easily. Zhenya knows it, too; he's heard Artyom tell enough stories and fibs to know.

"Then leave your bag and rifle here!"

"Look," Bourbon cuts in, "we'll be right back. Believe me, we aren't going far."

But Artyom will be. All the way to Polis.

"Are you in some kind of trouble Tyoma? Already?" Zhenya asks, and Artyom shakes his head. His friend lowers his voice. "Then what?"

Shit. He can't keep secrets. Least of all from his best friend. That feels too shitty; he feels like crying just from the thought... What if this is the last time they see each other?

"...I have to go. I can tell you when I come back," Artyom says, and Zhenya hesitates, then sighs and lets him go. The feeling of his warm hand lingers on his arm. "I won't be long," Artyom promises, stuffing his feet into his boots and standing up again.

"Knowing you... Well, I'm sure to get my head chewed off by Sukhoi," Zhenya sighs. "Go on then. I'll cover for you. Just make sure you come back."

"Thanks, Zhenya," Artyom says, and Zhenya grabs him in a hug and whispers to him, breath tickling his ear.

"Come back safe. Don't get killed out there, okay? Be good."

Artyom pulls away, feeling more homesick by the second, and waves as he and Bourbon head off down the platform. Zhenya watches them go from the tent, looking melancholy, as if he thinks it really is the last time they'll see each other.

By the time Artyom gets home, it'll be true.