The most logical place to start is at the beginning. It makes the most sense. Start there, when the bombs struck, and talk through it to the now, to 2034. It wouldn't be hard. Sure, it's been twenty one years, but he has a good memory.

But Bourbon would prefer not to start there, or at any point before he met Artyom. All the shit from before him sucked. Life is better now. So why not start here, in the present? Start first thing this morning. But he can't do that either. Because that would mean unpacking what Artyom said when he woke up, and he won't be doing that, not yet. Preferably, not ever.

It was said while he was half asleep--he's giving himself that kind of excuse, that maybe he had misheard. Or maybe Artyom had been half asleep too, and hadn't meant it. And maybe things are all just fine. And maybe they have nothing to talk about, come to think of it.

"You look like hell," Ulman informs him, pulling a chair around to sit down at the table across from him.

"Don't talk to me," Bourbon snaps, and Ulman hesitates before settling into the seat anyway, straddling the chair backwards.

"Well, what's your problem," Ulman asks, and there's a sparkle of amusement in his eye, a lilt in his voice that says he thinks this is funny. Bourbon, sulking over a cup of shitty coffee in the mess hall. Sure, yuk it up, Ulman. It's probably hilarious. He's probably hunkered down, looking like he's just received the news that his dearest beloved has died. Funny as hell, no doubt.

Ulman looks him over for a minute as Bourbon glowers into his coffee, and finally starts off by dodging the topic of "what's wrong" altogether. "Khan showed up today," he says, and Bourbon grunts kind of noncommittally. He's never liked that guy. He has his reasons. He doesn't really care if Khan walked into D6 and caused some shit, as he's known to do.

"Yeah, I found him in Artyom's room--"

"What?!" Bourbon lifts his head so fast, he'll probably have whiplash.

"--talking about the Dark Ones," Ulman finishes, eyebrow raised. Bourbon takes a drink of horrible coffee to shut himself up, and gestures for him to go on. "You good? Yeah, from what I heard from Miller later, Khan saw a survivor of those beasts out there, and wanted Artyom to go apologize to it, ha. Seriously, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

And maybe Bourbon has. Maybe he's seeing Artyom as he was a year ago, splintered and broken in every direction, bawling his eyes out, then calm and quiet as he talked about wanting to kill himself. It's the ghost of his lover that he's tried to keep at bay, to keep Artyom from returning to that state. And it's been a year, and he's been doing so well, but if Khan is putting ideas into his head about the Dark Ones--

"What did Miller say?"

"Well, he kicked Khan out. He loves doing that, you know. Probably better than sex for the colonel." Ulman glances at him to see if his joke landed. Bourbon's preoccupied with other worries. "He sent Artyom with Anna to kill the damn thing."

"Fuck." Bourbon buries his head in his hands, swipes his palms down his face. "Okay. Fuck."

"He'll be fine," Ulman says, not quite catching onto what Bourbon's worried about. "Artyom can handle himself. And if he can't, Anna's there too."

Sure, great,Anya's up there to shoot the Dark One and shatter Artyom all over again. Awesome! "When did they leave," Bourbon asks.

"Around nine, probably. Yeah, right about--afterwards Miller chewedmy head off for Khan being here. Like I let him in. He's a crafty old bastard-- gets his way more often than not."

"I know," Bourbon mutters. He can remember the first time he met Khan well. The wolf hasn't changed at all since then.

"They should be back soon," Ulman continues. "If they're not already. I don't know how long it takes them to kill one monster--but knowing Anna, she's probably chewing Tyomychka out for something on the way back."

Bourbon stands. "I'm going to go see if they're back," he announces, hands splayed on the table top. He might fall over if he doesn't hold onto it; it's the only thing grounding him right now. He's honestly not sure about walking at the moment, but sitting and making small talk like Artyom's not out there isn't an option either.

"You mind if I come with you?"

"Sure."

They head for the lift, and Bourbon leans on the railing as they head down a level. A year ago, he's been told, this place was a nightmare come to life. The biomass in the lowest level has been taken care of, though, as have the amoebas. Now it's just another underground pit, another series of tunnels. Another hole for humanity to hide in.

"You're pretty worried about Artyom," Ulman says pointedly as the lift moves, and Bourbon shrugs, eyes on a fixed spot in the distance. He's not in the mood to have another fucking conversation about their relationship, whatever it is. Not right now. "He can handle himself," Ulman says, and Bourbon sighs. "Seriously. Up on Ostankino, he was alone for most of it. We couldn't even reach him on the radio."

That does nothing to make Bourbon feel better. "He's stronger than you think," Ulman says, and Bourbon bites his tongue. Ulman stops the lift at the next floor down, and they walk off it into Sector A.

"Hey, Ulman!" Duke calls, tearing himself away from his neglected work to join up with them. Bourbon refrains from curling his lip; Duke's not a bad guy. Eager to prove something, a little too chummy with Artyom sometimes, a little mean when Anna's around... but not a bad guy.

"Aren't you supposed to be guarding something?" Ulman quips, as they head into the command center.

"No, I'm supposed to be fixing something. Are you and Bourbon going to see if they're back yet? I'll come with." And just like that, he invites himself along.

"And what will we do when D6 falls to pieces because you didn't do your job?" Ulman laughs, but doesn't otherwise protest. Bourbon remains silent. He has to prepare himself for the unknown. If Artyom and Anna found the Dark One, if they killed it, if it got away, if Artyom spared it, if Anna didn't, if Artyom is wounded by the creature, if anything went wrong in their mission, or if it went right...

It's like that bastard Khan said back in Sparta base. No matter what, he needs to be there for Artyom, to help him pick up the pieces. And there'll be so many. There are always so many.

Colonel Miller isn't in his office. Ulman wants to set up some prank, and Duke's down for it, but Bourbon isn't in the mood. There's no time to be wasted on bullshit jokes right now. He hangs back at the door, watching Ulman hide the colonel's pens in increasingly stupid locations.

"What are you doing," Miller asks from behind him, and Bourbon straightens up, steps out of the way. "Get out of my office, all of you."

"Oh, Colonel," Ulman says, as Duke looks over guiltily, like a puppy caught stealing scraps. "We were just looking for you." He doesn't stop messing with the colonel's desk as he speaks.

"I'm sure."

"Are they back yet," Bourbon asks.

"No news is good news, privyet," Ulman calls, handing over the last pen when Miller corners him. "Fine, take it."

"They're not back," Miller says, and smacks Ulman as he slips the pen into his commanding officer's breast pocket. "It shouldn't be much longer, though. They'll be coming back through A4 when they do."

He doesn't seem worried, but that provides Bourbon no relief. It's not physical danger he has to be worried about with Artyom and this mission. It's the emotional toll it will leverage against him. "Don't all three of you have something you could be doing?" Miller asks, and Duke looks, again, like a kicked puppy. "Igor."

"Well, I could probably find something, colonel..." Miller waves him off and Duke excuses himself, slipping past Bourbon to get back to his task.

"Edward?" Miller says, and Ulman grins.

"Oh, I've got nothing to do, Colonel, I'm free for the day."

"Wrong answer. Go find something. Scrub a latrine."

"C'mon, we could have a picnic while we wait," Ulman says. "It's a beautiful day out, barely any radiation--"

"Enough of your jokes. Find something to do or I'll find something for you."

"Sure, sure. You'll miss my jokes when I'm gone, Melnik!" Miller waves him off too, and Ulman leaves, whistling some tune to himself. Miller turns and leans against the desk, arms crossed.

"Boguslav."

"I'll find something to do."

"Wait." And Bourbon waits, as Miller taps his bearded chin, thinking. "Did Ulman tell you? Khan was here."

"He did," Bourbon says, and Miller waves him closer.

"Shut the door. Sit down." He stands up off the desk and moves around to sit behind it. Bourbon settles into one of the chairs on the other side, unsure of how he's supposed to be feeling. Like a kid called into the principal's office? Or like a patient getting bad news from the doctor?

"Khan seems to think we should spare the last Dark One," Miller says, and Bourbon nods. They watch each other for a moment, sizing one another up. "So? What do you think."

"Me? I don't know."

"You don't have an opinion."

"I can tell you that bombing them tore Artyom apart," Bourbon says. "That's all I know."

"You care about him," Miller says, pulling a tin of cigarettes out to light one. "I can appreciate that. Your presence here brought him back from the brink. I owe you for that."

Bourbon tries to keep the grimace off his face. He doesn't want to think that his being here has in any way helped Miller out. He'd prefer to be a hindrance to the colonel.

Miller lights up, offers a smoke to Bourbon, lights it for him. Bourbon inhales and leans back in his seat a bit. "Tell me something," Miller requests. "Why did wiping out the Dark Ones have such an effect on Artyom?"

Bourbon considers his cigarette, mulling the question over. He knows the answer. He just doesn't want to tell Miller. "He came back different," Miller presses. "We all noticed it. I know you did too."

"And you're mad that your personal bootboy didn't come back singingInvincible and Legendary?" Bourbon taps some ash onto Miller's desk.

"Hey."

"It broke him. He felt he'd caused a genocide. If you even care."

"He was pretty hellbent on wiping those monsters out when I first met him," Miller points out.

"They spoke to him," Bourbon says.

"And that's what they did," Miller argues wearily. "They were pretty skilled at manipulating the minds of men, if you don't recall."

"He doesn't see it like that. He thinks they were our brethren." And Bourbon's uncomfortable divulging this, Artyom's secret mental instability to their commanding officer. But now that someone's talking to him about it, seriously talking, he feels the need to defend what Artyom believes. "They showed him his mother's face in the end... they forgave him." Another tap of ash to the top of Miller's desk. Miller makes a displeased sound and scoots the ashtray towards him.

"So his mind's been manipulated by their abilities. That's not surprising."

"You sent him up there to do it. He came back suicidal."

"It sounds like mental illness to me, Bourbon." His voice is no softer, but Miller's using his nickname, a show of goodwill. He's listening, at least.

"And it only became prevalent after you let him up there." Bourbon's in the mood to point fingers. Truth be told, he's been pissed about it for a year, that Miller sent Artyom up to the library, left him there, then took him to Ostankino to make him set the guidance system. Like he didn't have some hundred other men to pick from who could have done the same thing. And then Artyom had returned to him, splintered...

"I know you see this as a personal attack," Miller says, and Bourbon doesn't bother to keep the scowl off his face. "But Artyom isn't the only person in the world who's having a hard time, Bourbon."

"He's suffering. Because you keep sending him to fight your wars."

"He signed up for that. Maybe you didn't notice, but he's spent the past year begging to go back up."

"Because he's fucking suicidal, Melnik, he wants to get killed up there!"

Miller sighs. "I know he is. I know he's having a hard time--why do you think I let you into the Order? To ground him. He needed something here to live for. But he's not the only person in the metro. The world can't revolve around him. I can't make it so."

"I'm not asking for that," Bourbon says, and Miller observes him for a moment, leans over to tap some ash into the tin ashtray. "I just... why would you sendhimafter the last Dark One?"

"He has a gift. He's immune to their influence in a way no one else is. You can't expect me not to use that."

"I just want him to have a good life. To be safe."

"What is he to you?" Miller asks, and Bourbon is caught off guard, too much so to guard his reaction.

"He's--I-I really care-- what does that matter, this isn't about me. Mind your business."

"What you do in D6is my business."

"Why don't you fuck off." Bourbon lowers his head and takes a drag off his cigarette, face warm. He doesn't want to get back into that conversation with anyone, but least of all Melnikov.

Miller thinks it over for a minute, the two of them smoking in silence. He opens his mouth to speak, and the phone on his desk rings. "That'll be them," Miller says, picking the handset up off the cradle. "They're back?" he barks into the phone. "Good. I'll go meet them."

The two men stand, put out their cigarettes, and head for the platform. The train is just pulling in when they reach it. It halts, the gates open, the doors slide aside, and Anna steps out onto the platform. Just her, and Bourbon is reminded of a time when her father had come back in the same way: without Artyom.

"They were captured," Anna says immediately, stepping off the train. "Artyom and the Dark One. The Fourth Reich showed up."

"Helet himself be captured?" Miller asks, and Bourbon turns to snap at him, but Anna's faster.

"He fainted, confronting that thing. As soon as he got close." She rounds on Bourbon. "He was too weak to face it. Maybe if someone wasn't always coddling him, he could man up and do his job."

Bourbon's eye twitches. She has the audacity to come back alone, with this news, and then get afterhim for a non-issue. He opens his mouth to snap at her too, but Miller's quicker on the draw this time.

"Enough. We need to discuss this fully. If the Reich has him..."

Then he's gone, Bourbon realizes. There's no escaping from a Nazi camp, no matter who you are. Brave, strong, clever... You'll die in that camp all the same. It hits him all at once, that wave of cold: Artyom is gone, and Miller's not going to send anyone after him this time. He staggers back a step, sits down hard on the platform, legs too shaky to stand on anymore. Anna curls her lip at him. Miller ignores him for a moment.

"We need to figure out a plan," Miller says. "The Dark One must be collected."

And that's that, isn't it? No one cares that Artyom is gone. No one will collect him, not even his corpse. Bourbon hangs his head, trying to breathe.

"Come on," Miller calls, heading for the elevator. Anna hangs back for a minute, looking at Bourbon.

"He's probably fine," Anna says, and Bourbon knows she's attempting to be pleasant. He shakes his head and drags himself to his feet, heading after Miller.

The mood in the war room is grim.Even Ulman is quiet, without any jokes to spare. Miller sends for Khan to be brought back for the discussion, and the other four of them--him, Anna, Ulman, and Bourbon--sit and wait in the meantime.

"So you've seen the error in your ways," Khan starts up, the minute he walks back through the door.

"Artyom and the Dark One have been captured," Miller says coolly in response. Khan shuts his mouth for a beat.

"By whom."

"The nazis," Miller says, and Anna speaks up to tear into Khan.

"He fainted the minute he touched the Dark One. I couldn't get to him in time to get him out before the Reich carted him off. Seemssomeone put ideas into his head about reconciling with the creatures."

"And that someone would be me," Khan says, unaffected by her glare.

"Well, great reconciliation all around. Now the nazis have them both."

"We need a plan," Miller says, interrupting whatever Khan is about to say. "Any ideas, people? Bear in mind that direct confrontation is not going to win us any favors here."

"If it's the Reich, then..." Ulman trails off, shooting an apologetic glance at Bourbon. No, he gets it. Artyom is already dead.

"They might still have the Dark One," Miller says, and Bourbon lifts his head slowly, blood burning. Is that it? He cares because the last of the creatures is still out there, and someone else has it? That's the issue, huh? Ulman glances at him again and subtly leans over to press his arm against Bourbon's shaking frame.

"They'll have moved the Dark One," Khan says, and Miller murmurs in agreement. "Chekhovskaya is closest to the Garden."

"Yes, but I can't very well send men in there to collect it... Any direct attack would be disastrous."

"Excuse me," Bourbon grits out, and stands to leave. He makes it almost to the lift before he has to stop, fingers clenching and uncurling, breathing ragged.

"Hey," Ulman calls, catching up with him. "It's okay, Bourbon."

"What part of it? That he's dead in some torture camp somewhere?" Just saying it burns him. He tastes bile.

"Artyom is resilient, I'm sure he's fine." Bourbon almost turns around and hits him for that. "Look, the Colonel is worried you're going to take off and do something stupid, like go after him..."

"I am." Bourbon takes a breath and wipes his face.

"Come on. Be serious."

"I can't leave him out there alone. Not again." He turns in time to see Anna approaching them, rifle on her shoulder.

"Let's go. We're to head to the Church."

"What for?" Ulman asks.

"Not you. Boguslav, let's go."

"Oh, I'm just small potatoes," Ulman says, as Anna stalks past them, headed for the lift. "Look, Bourbon, he'll be fine. It isn't the first time he's been caught by nazis. Probably won't even be the last. Just have some faith in him."

"Yeah," says Bourbon, who feels like throwing up. "Okay."

"Go with Anya, get to the Church."

"Yeah," Bourbon says again, lightheaded. "Sure, I'm going."

"Good luck to you guys!" Ulman calls, as Khan joins them in the lift. The ride down to the platform is silent. Bourbon isn't present enough to feel stupid about walking out, not yet. He feels like he's not in his body. Like he's watching the elevator move from a distance.

They board the train, still silent. Or maybe Bourbon just isn't aware of the other two talking. It's possible.

Then again, it's Khan and Anna. The two aren't known for chatting each other up. Anna doesn't respect the old wolf and has made it clear time after time, and Khan is just kind of an asshole anyway.

Idiot's voice comes on over the intercom as they're riding. "I'm getting you as close to the Church as I can, but it's still going to be a bit of a walk. Mind the shrimps."

Anna chuffs out a little laugh, subtle but undeniable. Bourbon wonders what part of this she finds funny.

The Metro 2 train stops and the doors open for them to step off near Polis. Bourbon's not a fan of the place. Seems everyone always wants to go there, and then bad things happen inside. He's seen Artyom's spirit crushed there a couple times too many.

"Are you going to be this sullen the whole time?" Khan asks as they walk through the tunnel, and when no one responds, he prods. "Bourbon."

"What. No. Fuck off."

Anna shakes her head. "We're going through Borovitskaya and Polyanka," she announces, and Bourbon grimaces despite himself. "Don't talk to the people there, obviously."

"Obviously," Khan says, watching Bourbon.

"Fuck off, Khan."

They flash their passports at the Borovitskaya guards to head through. "That tunnel leads to a ghost station," one of the guards warns them. "Don't talk to the people there."

"Obviously!" Bourbon calls back.

It's a quick trek. They don't stop in Polyanka, just press on up to the surface and slip their gas masks on. That is one of the nice things about having access to Metro 2. A trip that should have taken days can be reduced to a couple of hours.

Of course, before the war, it probably would have been thirty minutes or so.

The sun is out when they step onto the surface. It's spring, and the ice is melted everywhere, which means the shrimps are out in full force. Bourbon can't stand the creatures. They're creepy to look at, and persistent as hell. He holds onto his shambler as Anna leads them in the direction of the ferry, which is an especially elevated term for a raft with a motor on it.

The three of them stand around waiting as the motor runs to pull the raft over. "Knowing the nazis, they'll have sold the creature already, unless they killed it," Anna says. She clearly considers this to be small talk. "I won't be surprised if it turns up in Venice or something. Alive or dead."

"That's not far from here," Khan says, clearly turning over something in his head.

"Go look for it if you want. We have our orders."

Yeah,Bourbon thinks. Go on, Khan. But wait a second. If the Dark One is heading in that direction... knowing Artyom, if he's alive, he'll be right behind it.

"Excuse me," Bourbon says, stepping away.

"And where do you think you're going?" Anna snaps, grabbing at his arm.

"I'm off to piss," Bourbon tells her cheerfully, shaking her hand off. Anna gives him a narrow-eyed look of revulsion.

"You're going to get irradiated," Khan calls after him as Bourbon heads off. He doesn't get far before Khan comes after him, but it's a good attempt.

"Come on, Bourbon."

"I'm going to look for him."

"Go with Anna. I'll look for Artyom. What, you don't trust me?"

"Why would I ever?" Bourbon snaps. Gunshots ring out from the direction of the ferry, then stop.

"You have a duty to the Order, Bourbon."

"I don't care."

"Of course you do." More gunshots. Khan glances back in that direction just as they stop and Bourbon's radio crackles with Anna's voice.

"Catch up when you're done. I can't wait here all day."

"Copy," Bourbon responds, and shrugs Khan's hand off his shoulder. "Don't wait on my account." Off in the distance, he can hear the ferry motor running again.

He starts in the direction of Venice, Khan right behind him. Not the ideal traveling companion, but at least someone is watching his back. And if a shrimp comes after them, Bourbon can probably outrun the old fart.

They walk in silence, punctuated by the occasional gunshot whenever a shrimp comes too near. Khan takes the lead when Bourbon's natural sense of direction starts to fail him, and locates the entrance to the half flooded station. "This place is no Exhibition," Khan warns him as they start down into it. "It's run by gangsters and bandits. Don't look at anyone for too long, if you want to keep both eyes."

"I know," Bourbon snaps. "I'm not a tourist. Get off my case."

"I'm only looking out for you."

"Fuck you. Shut up and look for Artyom."

They make a careful sweep through the station, across narrow boardwalks and winding platforms, across the rivers of irradiated water and mutated fishes. No sign of Artyom, no word of the Dark One. Bourbon's starting to feel stupid, having come running over to Venice at the first suggestion that either could end up here.

"Stop trying to start a fight with that gangster," Khan hisses.

"I'm not."

"You're glaring at him."

"I'm just thinking!" The gangster curls his lip and Bourbon looks away, a sign of surrender that he hopes the stupid brute can understand. "This is a waste of time."

"We just need to be patient. There was a bar back there-- we can sit for a while. You have money, don't you?"

Bourbon scowls at him, but follows Khan back to the bar to buy them both a drink. They're both silent for the first twenty minutes, drinking and thinking separately.

"Artyom was pretty upset this morning," Khan says suddenly, and Bourbon shrugs uncomfortably. "I wonder why that was."

"Probably he woke up with some creep in his room."

"He was having a nightmare."

"Yeah, well..." Artyom has a lot of those, ever since the Botanical Gardens. Bourbon's used to holding him while he sleeps, knows the signs of a bad dream well enough to wake himself whenever one comes on. Artyom's quiet, half-asleep murmurs, the way his heart starts to pound and his breath catches, the way he jerks as if to run from something, ortowards something--Bourbon knows all the symptoms backwards and forwards. This is nothing new.

"And no one was there to comfort him." Bourbon shifts again, on edge. He doesn't like wherever Khan is taking this. The old man continues. "You should be there for him--"

"I don't wanna hear this shit from you." Not from anyone! But least of all from Khan.

"He loves you, Bourbon." Khan doesn't seem to miss the way he cringes at that. "And? The feeling isn't mutual?"

"It's--not... It's not simple like that. It's..." It's complex. Convoluted. It's a lot to unpack and put away, and he doesn't want to, anyway.

Khan narrows his eyes. "He told you, didn't he? That he loves you." He's too on the nose, and he knows it. Bourbon sips his drink to try to get out if answering, but Khan just waits.

"Can you mind your fucking business?" He snaps after a minute.

"And did you say it back?" Khan asks, as if there'd been no pause in the conversation.

"No!" He recoils as if burned, and Khan chuffs in a way that carries his disregard for Bourbon.

"So you don't love him. How kind of you."

"You don't know half of the situation--don't try to talk to me about love. Asshole. Of course I..." He can't say it. Not to Artyom's face, not to anyone else, either.

"I wonder why he was alone, then. Having nightmares."

"I don't want to have this conversation withyou."

"Why didn't you say it back? Too cowardly?" A sneer.

Bourbon takes a breath, shuts his mouth and shakes his head.Yes, that's why. "No. No, and you wouldn't get it."

"Why don't you try me?"

"I... no. I'm not talking to you about my love life."

"Would you talk about it with someone else? Here, have another drink." The bartender fills two more glasses for them, and Khan pushes one to him.

Bourbon slams back the next drink, trying to clear his head. It has the opposite effect. "You could never..."

"What? Go ahead."

Bourbon groans. He's about to have a discussion with Khan that's probably about ten years overdue. Maybe he should just shoot himself now. Khan elbows him.

"Look. You know. Don't act like you don't. Please." Bourbon begs and lifts his head, eyes on the space behind the bar.

"I don't know why you can't just tell him how you feel."

"Khan." He tastes bile again.

"It's hurting him. You're tearing him up, for what? To protect your pride?"

"Look, after the war, I... all I ever had after that was debts and people who hurt me. Youknow that. I can'tdeal with this... Vulnerability. It's too much."

Khan regards him coolly for a moment. Bourbon tries not to look at him out of the corner of his eye, stays focused on the shelves of bottles behind the bar. "I suppose you see me as just another person who hurt you."

"You are! You know you did." The bottles warp and blur. Bourbon's face burns, either from the liquor or the shame. Maybe both.

"You love to see yourself as a victim, don't you Bourbon?"

"Fuck you. God. Fuck off. Can you fuck off?"

Khan stands, and Bourbon glares at a bottle of moonshine. "You can sit here feeling like a victim all you want. I'm going to go get some information."

"Fuck you." And Khan doesn't say anything in response, just leaves Bourbon to his moonshine.

He probably spends another two hours in the bar before Khan sits down again. Bourbon starts to lift his head to look at him, already spitting vitriol. "So, you old bastard, did you find any..."

The man who's sat down to his left eyes him strangely, and Bourbon shuts up fast. "Sorry. Thought you were my friend," he says, and the younger man with the scarred temple grins amicably.

"No, sorry to say, I haven't seen any old bastards around."

"Count yourself lucky," Bourbon says. He glances at the younger man's uniform. Red line. He's not fond of communists. The communist orders a drink and settles in.

"You're a ranger aren't you?" He asks, and Bourbon glances down at his gear. He'd forgotten what he was wearing. Come to think of it, this might not be the best gear to be seen in around here.

"Sure. I guess."

"How do you like it?"

"If you're thinking of enlisting, do yourself a favor and don't."

The man from the Red line laughs. "No, no, of course not. I'm not interested in leaving the Red line anyway." He pays for a drink, lifts it to take a taste.

"Are you a masochist," Bourbon asks, and the man chokes on his drink.

He dabs at the front of his coat, grinning lopsidedly. "What a thing to ask. No, of course not. The Red line isn't that bad, you know." Bourbon's grimace must show on his face. "Don't worry, I'm not going to preach to you."

"Good." The communist chuckles again, and the two of them fall into silence for a minute. "Why do you ask, anyway," Bourbon pipes up. "About the Order?"

"Oh, just curious. I've got a friend who... Well, either way."

Bourbon glances at him. The communist smiles down at his drink, blue eyes melancholy. "So?" Bourbon prompts him. He's curious. At the very least, to know which one of his fellow rangers is consorting with Reds.

"Well, I think I lost my shot with this friend of mine," the communist says. "Even if D'artagnan forgave me later, we're screwed to be apart. You know? Fate doesn't want us to be comrades."

"Star-crossed," Bourbon murmurs thoughtfully. The communist eyes him strangely. "What. I'm just saying what you're saying."

"I've never heard it put that way."

"Well, you're probably too young to remember stars. So? What did you do to piss your ranger friend off?"

"I broke his trust. And if I ever see him again, it'll probably happen a second time. Again and again, until one of us is dead."

"Well, don't do it then." Case closed. The Red chuckles softly and shakes his head.

"It's not so simple."

Bourbon hums, hand on his empty cup. He can't decide if he wants to order another or not. The communist takes his silence for interest. "I think I really fucked up," he sighs. "Maybe we could have had a good thing."

Bourbon sits there uncomfortably, glancing over at the Red. He's not the person to talk to about this shit. He can't even sayI love you back. He clears his throat. "Listen, ah..."

"Athos."

Not your real name. "Listen, Athos, don't beat yourself up over one bad decision. Your ranger... is he the forgiving type?"

"Yeah," Athos says. He laughs a little breathlessly. "Yeah, I think he is."

"Then don't sweat it. Next time you see him, grovel for forgiveness. If he's worth it, he won't hold it against you too long."

Athos nods, thinking it over. "What was your name?"

"Bost."

"I appreciate it. Listening to me." The Red starts to stand. "Well. My men are waiting for me at the whorehouse, so I'd better catch up. Do me a favor, stay away from Red Square."

"Sure." Good information to file away for later. Bourbon crams it into the neglected filing cabinet in his brain.

"See you sometime, eh chuvak?" Athos claps him on the shoulder. Bourbon turns back to the bar once he's gone. He should probably go find Khan, the bastard, maybe suck it up and apologize now that he's had some time to steam. A hand lands back on his shoulder.

"You're back so soon?" Bourbon asks, turning to look. He expects to see one or the other, Khan or Athos.

It's Hypocrite.

"Ah."

His hand is big and heavy on Bourbon's back, and he finds he can't move. He should run, he knows that. Run where? Back to the surface? Back to D6? Maybe he'll run straight into Khan and beg him for protection.

"Hey," Hypocrite says, voice soft. He's not aged much. It's been 10 years, and he still looks younger than he is. His grayed hair betrays it, though, and Bourbon knows anyway. He's just as big and tall as ever, just as imposing. His eyes aren't friendly right now. "Come on. Let's go talk."

Bourbon stands carefully. He's scared. It's been an easy ten years since he ran, and he hasn't ever really forgotten about those two. Hypocrite and...

But he's terrified now. He'd somehow never anticipated running into either of them again. Maybe he had just figured the two of them were dead in a tunnel somewhere, victims of their own brethren. Bandits against bandits and the metro full of corpses.

Hypocrite keeps his hand on Bourbon's shoulder as if making sure he doesn't run, but Bourbon wouldn't be able to anyway. Ten years. Back when he was Tyoma's age, the last time he'd seen these bandits. He still owes them. And it's still an unpayable debt. How much does he still owe, anyway? Easily nine thousand rounds, at the least. His pay rate as part of the order is only so much...

To his horror, Hypocrite leads him straight to the whorehouse, where the Red had said he was going. He shoos a woman out of one of the private rooms downstairs and sits, beckoning for Bourbon to settle in.

Bourbon sits across from him, heart pounding in his throat. "Is he here," he asks, mouth dry.

"No. Not right now. He'll be back soon." Bourbon tenses up. "You shouldn't have run," Hypocrite says. "Why did you?"

"I was scared," Bourbon chokes out.

"Scared of what? We took care of you, didn't we?" He says it with such sincerity. Does he genuinely believe it? He could laugh at that, if he weren't so shaken. Bourbon just stares at him instead.

"You don't think so?" Hypocrite presses. "Why not?"

"The... my debt to One-eye--"

"Are you worried about that? He might have forgiven it somewhat, if you'd stuck around."

Bourbon doesn't respond. He bites his tongue. He had run because he had gotten scared, more scared than when the two of them had taken him in and he had accrued the debt. It had terrified him, the thought of being tied to One-eye, not just as his property, not just in the physical sense. And sure, sure as hell One-eye might have forgiven some of his debt, even if it never fully went away--but he would have also had to have stayed with him, and wasn't that just trading one debt for another? He's not a bright guy, but isn't that how people get in trouble with finances? One debt to pay off another just digs the hole deeper.

He'd run out of fear of being tied down by the heart, like a beast caught in a particularly nasty trap. And now he's running again, isn't he?

"Are you that afraid to face him?" Hypocrite asks. Bourbon swallows and doesn't answer. "What's so scary? He won't hurt you."

"It would be easier if he would."

"You can't go through life expecting everyone to punch you in the face to settle up, Bourbon, sometimes you're going to have to turn towards the music and talk." Fuck, he hates when Hypocrite says something smart. It's annoying as hell.

"Or you could punch me in the face and call it good."

"He wouldn't forgive me if I hurt you."

Bourbon groans and puts his face in his hands. "I never really got it," Hypocrite sighs. "When he bought out my half of your debt. Why go to the trouble?"

"Please don't tell me this." He doesn't want to know. Hereally doesn't want to know. It's hurtful enough to have to remember any of this, but to learn fresh details...

"He really loved you. It tore him up when you ran away."

Bourbon keeps his face buried in his palms.

"But you ran anyway. Pretty selfish."

"I was scared," Bourbon snaps, finally looking up at him. "I'm still scared, Hypocrite. You have to let me go before he gets back."

"Why?" His eyes are cold, but curious. A serious question.

"I don't want to be with him."

"That's your problem."

There's laughter in the hall, and Bourbon recognizes Athos' voice as he and his men leave. Hypocrite sighs, crossing his arms as he leans back. "You remember that day I beat you? The one time... Well, it took him weeks to forgive me for roughing you up. And even after that he was petty about it for months." He does remember that. He mostly remembers the bruises that took forever to fade, but also how One-eye had kicked him out of the tent to speak to Hypocrite privately, and that the bigger man had left looking completely shaken. Hypocrite levels Bourbon with his gaze. "You know what'll happen if I let you walk out again? He'll never forgive me."

"Don't tell him. Let him think I'm dead."

Hypocrite chuckles and shakes his head. "I won't lie to him, Bourbon. Just stay put and be a good boy."

They sit in silence for a bit. One of the women brings them drinks. Bourbon doesn't touch his, just sits miserably waiting. He wonders how Artyom is doing. Is he safe somewhere now? Maybe he'll be back at D6, safe and sound...

The curtain to the room they're in opens, and One-eye steps inside, nods to Hypocrite. Bourbon feels cold, tingly. Is Artyom okay? He's not going to make it back to find out. Sorry, Tyoma.

"Hey," One-eye says, standing over him. Hypocrite stands and steps out to let them talk. "Look at me, Bourbon."

He can't. It's not just because he doesn't want to; he physically can't move right now. Bourbon tries to wiggle his fingers, to prove that he's still in his body, but it's not working. One-eye says nothing, watches him patiently for a minute. "Bourbon."

He wiggles his fingertips.He lifts his head and forces himself to make eye contact. One-eye hasn't changed much. He's ten years older, but easily recognizable. His left eye with the scar through it stares blindly into Bourbon's, milky and useless. One-eye pulls a chair closer to sit across from him. "You gonna say anything?"

Bourbon tries, but can only croak something wordless in response.

"I'm not mad," One-eye says. "Really. I get it. I understand why you took off."

"Sorry," Bourbon croaks. He's not sorry. Not sorry enough for it. It was worth leaving, even if he'd only thrown himself into hotter and hotter fires afterwards. At least at the end there'd been Artyom, to soothe his burns and cool him down.

"You're not in trouble. Did Hypocrite make you think you were? Look, you can consider your debt forgiven. I'm not worried about the rounds." His hand finds Bourbon's on his knee, and Bourbon tries not to jump. "Don't be scared. You don't owe me any money. Okay?"

He glances down at Bourbon's gear, taking it in for the first time. "You joined the Order?"

"Kind of."

"Right after you left?"

"No, just last year."

"Hm." One-eye seems to have some thoughts on that, but says nothing more on the matter. "Look, Bourbon... I don't expect you to come back or anything. I know you wouldn't."

Bourbon nods silently. "You have a good gig? Are they taking care of you?"

"Yeah. It's good."

"Then you won't come back. Hey. Look at me." And Bourbon redirects his drifting gaze to One-eye again, makes eye contact once more. "I know you don't remember me fondly. You don't have to deny it, I get it. You hated me."

Bourbon says nothing. He's not wrong. "They treat you well in the Order?"

"Yes."

"That's all I want, then." He pulls his hand away. "What are you doing in Venice, anyway?"

"Looking for a ranger."

"The one that was just here?" One-eye asks. Bourbon stares at him. "The young guy. Hey, whoa, sit for a minute."

"He was here?!" Bourbon snaps, stepping out of the room. One-eye follows.

"He snuck out after the Reds."

"Fuck." His chance at catching up with Artyom just slipped through his fingers. On the other hand, now he knows he's alive. At least he has that.

"What is he to you?" One-eye asks. "This other ranger." Bourbon shakes his head without an answer. "Your lover?"

He's jealous. Bourbon shakes his head again. One quick lie to placate him.

One-eye seems unconvinced, but he sighs and releases Bourbon's arm. "If he's after the Reds, I know where he's headed. I'll escort you."

"You don't have to do that."

"I don't have to do anything. Come on."

They leave the whorehouse, and One-eye leads him down the platform to the entrance of a warehouse. They pass a kebab shop selling rat meat, a gun peddler, a bullets exchange. "The boss isn't in," one of the thugs guarding the place informs them when they approach up the steps.

"And? Open the door," One-eye snaps, and the guard sullenly does as he's told to let them through. It seems even here, he has some weight to throw around.

Bourbon glances around as they pass through the warehouse, taking it in. Smuggling ring, how typical. They've got some kind of mushroom operation going, which he assumes to be something psychedelic. No other reason for so many guards. He pauses to look at a stack of paintings leaned against the wall. Where'd they loot them from, museums? The State Tretyakov gallery, possibly. His escort grabs his elbow and steers him along. "Quit acting suspicious," One-eye says in a low voice, breath tickling his ear. "You trying to start shit with these guys? Keep moving."

A guard lets them through the back door, into a small room with an exit at either side. They pass through the door to their left, through another section of warehouse, and then through another door into the metro tunnel.

"Straight shot to Oktyabrskaya," One-eye tells him. Bourbon nods and starts to pull away, but the bandit grabs his wrist again to pull him back. "You can't come back the same way, so don't get lost. Hey. Bourbon. Are you in love with him? Either way. I'll see you again soon."

"I have to go," Bourbon says urgently, and One-eye tightens his grip on his arm.

"Give me a kiss first."

"Glaz..."

"I'm not asking much. Payment for escorting you this far."

"You're never going to drop the debt collecting business, are you?"

"Not on your life."

He checks his watch as he starts through the tunnel. Almost sundown. Funny, the amount of daylight that can be lost in a bar. Bourbon walks in silence for a while, trying to formulate a plan. Artyom is after the Reds now for some reason, from the sound of it. Maybe they know something about the Dark One. He doesn't care much. He doesn't have time to worry about the creature. As long as he can reach Artyom soon and put him back together, the rest doesn't matter.

He keeps his hand on his rifle as he walks, but nothing comes after him in the tunnel. Soon enough, he's coming up on the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya Line section of Oktyabrskaya--equally as owned by Hanza as the other half of the station, but this part is allowed to act as a satellite, at the very least. A dog on a leash, just long enough to pretend it has freedom. The guards at the entrance direct him to a desk with a tired looking official behind it, who checks Bourbon's passport and stamps it.

"Quite a lot of traffic today," the official tells him, before handing the passport back.

"I bet."

"Between you and me, I'm not fond of communists, but as long as they're not causing trouble..."

"Sure, sure."

Bourbon takes his passport back and shoulders his backpack, heading past the desk to look around. If he's going to find Artyom, he must first find the Reds, and--

"Hey," a voice calls, and two hands clamp down on his shoulders, a Hanza guard on either side of him. "Let's go talk in there."

Fuck. He doesn't even recognize these guys; he hasn't been through this station in years, but they must remember him. "Look, we can work something out," he tries, as the two of them shove him into the station head's office. The station boss isn't alone; two rangers are there. Spartan fucks.

"Hey, Bourbon," Idiot says, sounding tired. Sam glances back at him and stands up, as if preparing to give chase if he runs.

"Well, it looks like you've found your man," the boss says. "Will you send my regards to Melnikov?"

"Of course," Idiot says. "He sends his best wishes as well." He stands too, and the three rangers step back out into the station.

"How did you find me," Bourbon asks, the moment they're out of the boss's office.

"Well, it wasn't hard. You're predictable," Idiot says apologetically. "Anna said you went MIA at the ferry as soon as she mentioned Venice. The obvious path for you to take from there would lead you either here or to Kitay-Gorod."

"And if you were wrong? If I went up on the surface instead?"

"Then I'd look pretty stupid, wouldn't I?" Idiot smiles at him. Sam stays silent as the philosopher gets on the radio to inform Duke and Alyosha that he's been found. Their groans of disappointment from Kitay-Gorod crackle through the receiver.

"Miller's going to have words for you," Idiot informs him, as they head for the station exit, Bourbon between the other two rangers like a prisoner. "He shouldn't go too hard on you. You defected for a pretty good reason." Bourbon is barely listening, searching the crowds for Artyom or one of the Reds. Nothing, not a glimpse of either.

"He's going to come here," Bourbon says, and Idiot stops beside him. "I have to find him."

"Bourbon. You're acting obsessively. He's a man on a mission, you realize. Artyom won't stop until he's completed his task, and it's adisservice to him to believe that he would give up his chase and come back to D6 without closure."

"Let's get moving," Sam suggests.

"I can't leave him," Bourbon starts, and Idiot shakes his head.

"You don't trust him to take care of things himself?"

"No. I'm terrified he's going to get killed out there, doing something stupid and brave." Sam sighs loudly, and Bourbon ignores him.

"He won't," Idiot says. "Not as long as he has a task ahead of him."

"Can we have couple's counseling later?" Sam suggests. "Maybe after we get back to base."

Idiot also ignores him. "You have to trust him," he says. "He's clever. He'll make it home safe and sound."

Bourbon's not convinced, but Sam is at the end of his rope and starts shoving him along. Idiot falls into step with them. "Which route are we taking," Bourbon asks, defeated.

"Dobryninskaya, back to Polis. From there, we're to go straight home." Idiot reaches out and pats his shoulder. Bourbon shrugs him off.

Dobryninskaya on the Serpukhovsko-Timiryazevskaya line is kind of a dump, by Hanza standards. Not that any of them haven't lived in worse, but the place sucks. It stinks worse than Riga. The three rangers head north through the station, passing beggars and dodging pickpockets to reach the tunnel north to Polyanka. Back in the darkness of the route between the Hanza station and the ghost station, they fall into complete silence.

This gives Bourbon time to think. Idiot's probably right, and he knows that. Artyom will at least keep himself alive until he finds the Dark One. He can probably count on that. But beyond that? What's going to motivate his survival afterwards? That's why he needs to find Tyoma, to be there for him, keep him safe.

"Heads up," Sam says, "we're almost to the gh-gh-gh-ghooooooost station."

"Don't talk to anyone here," Idiot says, and Bourbon just sighs.

It's an uneventful trek. They make it to Borovitskaya within an hour, where the tired border guards let them in to speak with the ranger working the intake desk.

"Is Colonel Miller in his office?" Idiot asks Krasnov, who glances at their papers.

"He's not. You might check in Biblioteka Lenina."

"Thank you." The three of them head into the underground city. It's a world away from the squalor of Dobryninskaya. No one needs to beg in Polis--or at least, no one is allowed to beg in Polis. Bourbon's not sure which is true.

"If he's not under the library, we'll head back to the bunker," Idiot says decisively as they cut through the station. Sam nods. Bourbon should be worried, he knows. He's going to get his ass chewed out at the very least. He just can't bring himself to care about it right now. Maybe later, when he's got latrine cleaning duties for a full year.

"There he is," Sam says, and grabs joyfully onto Bourbon's shoulders to steer him towards Miller. The Colonel looks up as they approach and sighs.

"So you found him. Good work." Miller sounds exhausted.

"You could have expended the same effort into finding Artyom," Bourbon snaps.

"He's at the church, Bourbon. They just radioed in to tell us."

God fucking damnit, if he'd just gone to the church with Anna in the first place... He's past that, he decides. He would have driven himself insane with worry if he'd gone and just sat to wait. Actively trying to look for leads was better.

"They're heading to Oktyabrskaya soon, to find the Dark One," Miller continues.

"We were just there!" Bourbon protests.

"You were just missing for sixteen hours. Most militaries would consider that an act of traitorship. You're lucky to still be walking around."

"I was looking for him while you sat on your ass!"

"Keep talking, Boguslav, see how it goes for you. Sam, Idiot, you can head back to D6. You, come with me." Idiot and Sam give salutes and "yes sir"s as Miller stands, leading Bourbon back through Polis to his office. He all but slams the door behind them. "Sit."

"I'd rather stand."

"And I'd rather you sit, so sit." Bourbon narrows his eyes and pulls out a chair. "Look. I know you don't like this, and you're not going to like hearing this, but it needs to be said."

"What."

"Artyom doesn't need you to protect him. He never has." Miller folds his hands. Bourbon stares at him, face falling into a scowl.

"He does."

"It's very unfortunate that you think that. He's a strong young man. He's capable."

"I'm not saying he's not," Bourbon argues. "But he's also not in the right mind to--"

"He excels when he has a mission. He gets better every time I send him for recon or scouting, or any time I give him busywork."

"Is that what this has been to you? Busywork? Being captured by nazis?"

"Bourbon. He doesn't need you like that. It doesn't mean he needs nothing from you. Just that he can handle himself. And sure, he might come back banged up--"

"You'd better hope he doesn't--"

"But he'll be fine in the end. He always is. You shouldn't try to take that from him," he says, flipping open his tin of cigarettes to offer one to Bourbon. He takes one, lets Miller light it for him.

"How am I taking anything from him?" Bourbon asks after his first inhale.

"Remind me how old you are," Miller requests.

"Thirty five," Bourbon huffs. Miller nods.

"Old enough to remember your parents, I presume?"

"Yes. I remember." Miller nods again.

"My daughter, Anna... She remembers her mother fondly. My wife was still around for a few years after the war. We weren't a very happy family, even before the metro first became our home. It wasn't the best situation."

Bourbon takes a long drag off his cigarette, trying to listen and calm down.

"My wife killed herself when Anna was seven. Not in a pleasant way. She drank poison to get away from me." Bourbon bristles slightly. Miller continues. "I wasn't a good husband. Not a great father, either, even though she's all I had. I became pretty unbearable for a while. An omnipresent parent."

Bourbon leans back, cigarette dangling between his fingertips.

"I think my daughter still resents me for it, honestly. Driving her mother to suicide and becoming so overbearing." Miller takes a drag off his smoke and exhales, blowing towards the ceiling. "I took away her mother, and then her agency. She wasn't allowed to grow up to be anything other than my daughter."

"He's his own person," Bourbon argues. "Artyom is. He doesn't live in my shadow."

"No, and that's not really what I'm saying. What do you want out of life, anyway?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Yes, and I'd like a serious answer."

"I don't know," Bourbon admits after a minute. "I don't. There's nothing out there, anyway."

"What did you want before all of this?" Miller asks, waving his hand to punctuateall of this. The war, the apocalypse, the metro.

"I don't know," Bourbon repeats. "I never expected to make it this far."

"Why do you want so badly to cling to Artyom? If anything, you're holding him back to hide in his shadow yourself."

"He's all I have," Bourbon says. A bit of ash drops from the end of his cigarette and bursts apart on his jumpsuit's leg. "Shit," he murmurs, brushing it off.

"What are you going to do if Artyom doesn't want that anymore," Miller asks gently. "What if he comes back and tells you he doesn't want to be all you have? What if he finds someone else and tries to pull away, are you just going to kill yourself? Swallow poison to escape it?"

"I don't know." Maybe. He might. He's had nothing before, back before he met Artyom, but now that he's hadsomething, why would he go back to that? He might as well die.

"That's not fair to him. That really would break him."

Bourbon swallows, eyes on the ashtray. He's not about to cry in front of Miller. He hasn't cried in years, anyway.

"You can't wager your life on him. On whether or not he's okay or not. It's not fair to him, Bourbon. I'm not saying this as your commanding officer, but as your friend."

"We're not friends."

"We are. I'm giving you friendly advice. You can take it or leave it, but know that if you leave it, as long as you do, Artyom will be hurting. Your relationship will become strained. Do you want that?"

Rhetorical question. Bourbon closes his eyes for a minute.

"We should both get some sleep,' Miller sighs, and Bourbon opens his eyes when he hears the ashtray sliding across the desk towards him. He puts out his neglected cigarette in it. "It's been a long day. No news is good news, remember?"

Bourbon nods, and moves to stand.

"Don't do anything stupid tonight," Miller says. "Get some rest. I might need you tomorrow."

It's a long fucking night of thinking it over in the guest housing. Bourbon lays awake for the first couple of hours, repeating Miller's words in his head and trying to let himself sleep. What if, huh? What if Artyom doesn't come back, or comes back hurt, or finds a new lover? What then?

It's not like he's ever purposefully thought to himself "I would kill myself without him," it's just that he's never had a contingency plan. And the same can be said for the time before he knew Artyom. He never had a plan. He'd always figured he would die soon, one way or another, by crossing the wrong person or wandering into a nosalis den. It was kind of a sharp thing to think about during the dull days before all of this. Before Artyom, the Order, D6. Like, well, maybe I'll die soon. Better watch out! He's never needed to plan for the future before, because the future was never meant for him.

He doesn't know what time it is when he finally falls asleep, but by the time he wakes up, it's late in the morning. Bourbon has to force himself to get up, stand up off his bedroll and trudge out into the station.

Miller is nowhere to be found. Bourbon loiters for a while, eyeing the Red and Reich soldiers gathering in the lower level of the station, flying their flags. There are dozens of Rangers too, gathering in a crowd together, mingling and discussing the conference. Krasnov passes him by with a little nod, and Bourbon throws a hand out to stop him.

"Do you know where the colonel is?" he asks, and Krasnov raises an eyebrow.

"He went with the old wolf to find Artyom. No one told you?"

Of course no one told him! When does anyone ever tell him anything? "Thanks," Bourbon mutters, and Krasnov marches off again, back to his post.

The peace conference starts, and Miller still doesn't stop by his office. Bourbon lingers near the door for some time longer, hoping to catch the colonel coming back. Hopefully with Artyom in tow, for once. Miller doesn't show up, but eventually, Ulman does.

"Bourbon!"

He jerks his head up, lifts a hand in greeting. "Hey--"

"What are you doing here, man? We've gotta get back to the bunker."

"What's going on," Bourbon asks, as Ulman hurries him back towards Metro 2. "Is Artyom back?"

"He will be," Ulman says, and laughs dryly. "We need to hurry. The train's packed."

"What's going on," Bourbon asks, stopping on the tracks. Ulman doubles back, grabs his hand, and keeps walking.

"The peace conference broke down--the Reds are going after D6. We might not even make it back in time, at this pace--"

"The Reds? Is Artyom okay?"

"He's fine, he's fine, come on!"

They soon break into a run in the Metro 2 tunnel, Bourbon taking the lead. They're not alone in the tunnel; other Spartan rangers have started returning en masse from the conference, boots thudding against the tracks. They near the Polis-side entrance to D6.

"Bourbon," Ulman says, grabbing his arm to pull him back. Bourbon stops, but glances anxiously at the entrance. Artyom could be in there. He could be hurt. Also, the Reds are coming. "Hold on. Let me say something."

"I'm listening," Bourbon says, but his eyes are trained on the door. The Spartans around them thin out, eventually leaving them alone in the tunnel.

"Look... Now's not a good time, but I have a bad feeling about this battle." Bourbon looks back at Ulman, and something snags and knots up in his stomach.

"What do you mean?"

"I just get the feeling that... I don't know. Call it intuition. This is going to be bad, Bourbon. I don't think a lot of us are going to make it." He pauses, then continues quietly. "I don't thinkI'm..."

"We're not even there yet," Bourbon says with a nervous laugh.

"I know. But I have this feeling... Look, if I'm wrong, then nevermind. We can laugh about it later. Just--if this is the last time we ever talk, I want to say something."

Bourbon nods, feeling Ulman's hand slide down his arm to his wrist and drop off. They stand in silence for a minute, Bourbon watching Ulman, Ulman watching the tunnel. "I don't want this to be the last time we ever talk," Ulman chuckles sadly.

"...Then you'd damn well better survive to tell me later, alright?" Bourbon claps him on the shoulders.

"Hey, you too. No matter what happens." Ulman shakes his head and heads for the door. "They're going to seal us out if we don't hurry up."

The base feels simultaneously empty and full when they enter it. Like a shell, devoid of a hermit crab for its owner, but full of sand fleas. Rangers bump into them and keep moving. Men gear up all around them, readying for battle. Vladimir spies them and waves them over, hustles Bourbon to get changed into a heavy armor suit and helmet.

"Hope you boys are ready for this," Vlad says, and Bourbon nods, checking the fit of his helmet. Ulman's checking his guns, double checking them, triple. The radio at the armory crackles as Blizzard phones in to announce they're falling back, forced into retreat by the Red Line's advance.

"Let's go," Ulman says, and Bourbon follows, their boots pounding against the floor steadily. They enter the mouth of the tunnel. Bourbon adjusts his helmet again as Miller starts in on his speech.

"Moskvin wasn't bullshitting this time," he announces, pacing the floor. "The Red Line's advancing on three sides." Miller gestures to the radio, still crackling with static from Blizzard's last communication. Miller stops his pacing, turns to face the Spartans gathered. "My brothers in arms! I'm not a man for speeches, but here it is. You are the most dedicated, most courageous soldiers in all of the Metro. Each of you is worth five Reds. If you simply do the job you were trained to do... we will win this battle."

There's a moment's pause. The siren begins blaring, warning of the Reds' arrival. "Sparta! To battle!" Miller cries, and the cry is echoed by his men. Bourbon looks around as they press on into the tunnel. He doesn't recognize anyone here, as decked out as they all are in helmets and tactical armor. The man next to him could be anyone, even a Red, even Artyom.

He falls in beside Ulman and readies himself. Somehow, none of it feels real yet. As if Miller could at any moment chuckle and announce it was all a joke, there are no Reds coming, and that he was just testing them.

He turns his head to say something to Ulman, and the Reds drive a train full of explosives through the far gate. D6 rattles and roars dully with the noise, and then Reds swarm them like little fire ants. The Rangers do what they've been training to do, all these years. They defend.

It's a cacophony of noise and light and death. Ulman stays by his side, the two of them mowing down Red Line soldiers together, until one of their own takes a shot in the shoulder. Ulman hops up to drag him back behind cover again, hauls the man, still shooting, to Bourbon.

Artyom pries his helmet off, gasping and pale with pain, and doesn't even have it in him to force a smile. Bourbon wants so badly to grab onto him and run. Fuck D6. But Artyom would never forgive him if he did that. He'd never forgive himself. He only has a second to spare to guide Artyom's hands to press on his wound, and then it's back to the job at hand, firing away at the Reds, round after countless round, MGR passed hand over hand to be loaded and wasted on an endless swarm of their enemies. There's a lot of yelling. Bourbon can't make anything specific out. Ulman is silent on his left; Artyom grits his teeth and tries to stop the bleeding on his right. He reloads his Kalash endlessly, empties the clip, reloads again, a mindless gesture.

Ulman was right. A lot of them are going to die here.

A Ranger keels over ahead of them and topples back, gurgling through the hole in his face. He goes still almost immediately as Ulman shoots down the Red that shot him, then another. It feels like the kind of thing that could go on forever. There's no end to it, and if Bourbon had the time, he'd wonder where the Reds got so many soldiers. Hired help? From Hanza, maybe? Prisoners of their own gulags? He'll never know.

"Fall back!" comes the order, and Bourbon grabs Artyom around the waist to throw him over his shoulder. Ulman follows, providing cover fire.

And as suddenly as it began, it seems the Reds run out of soldiers. For a moment, there's silence in the tunnel, other than the echoing of gunshots further down. Maybe that was it. Maybe the Red Line really does have a limit to the number of soldiers it can send to their deaths. Maybe--

Another explosion shakes the bunker. A lesser structure would have quivered. D6 stands firm, but the gate on the opposite track blows wide open. A tank rolls through the gap, gun turning slowly to take them into its sights. "Fuck," Ulman laughs quietly, in disbelief.

"Sniper!" Miller orders. "We need a sniper!"

Anna pushes her way through with her rifle at the ready, and Miller has no chance to argue against her being there; she already has her Preved loaded and lifted to take aim at the tank. There's also no time to sit back and watch her; the Reds have begun pressing through again, and Bourbon returns attention to the main track, joining his fellow Rangers in mowing them down. He's not watching to see the tank explode, but when it does, the Reds retreat again. The Rangers regroup. Someone thrusts a gatling into Bourbon's hands, and it takes him a minute to register it, or figure out why. He's got the heavy gunner armor. They're trusting him with this.

"Trooper!" someone calls out, and Bourbon squints across the battlefield at the Red Line soldier approaching. He's got a flamethrower, and a dozen or more soldiers precede him, carrying riot shields.

"Take em out, Bourbon!" Ulman yells over the din, and Bourbon nods, squeezing the trigger hard. The engine sputters and starts to spin the coil. He staggers back a step at the weight of it and laughs despite himself as one of the riot shield-wielding Reds takes a round to the head and collapses. The others close ranks to defend the flamethrower trooper.

This has to be it, Bourbon decides, shooting them down as the gatling thrums and sings in his hands. There can't be any more Reds left after this. There's no way. After this, the Red Line stations will all be empty, just women and children where there was once an army. The flamethrower trooper catches a bullet and staggers. His tank hisses, leaking, and then he goes up in flames himself. Ulman cheers and grabs Bourbon by the shoulders as he releases the trigger, finger cramping. That's all of them, he thinks decisively. Miller turns and levels him with a look.

"We're not making it out of here, people."

He can't be serious. They've wiped out the entire Red Line army by this point, Bourbon thinks--and then the roar from down the tunnel reaches him. More soldiers. More tanks. More of this unending, unwinnable fight.

"I didn't want it to come to this, but... D6 is rigged with a self destruct system. If we can't protect it... It mustn't fall into their hands."

Ulman was absolutely right.

"When I give the signal..."

Whatever Miller is about to say, it's cut off by the roaring of the next tank. It thunders across the platform, slices through the barricades, and slams the cluster of Rangers.

Some time passes before Bourbon opens his eyes, trying to catch his bearings. The world is a haze of smoke and blood and pain. He forces himself to look down. Artyom is curled against his chest, right where he belongs. He struggles to lift his head and look to the side. Ulman is immobile to his left. Miller drags himself nearer. His legs have been blown off, Bourbon slowly notices, as General Korbut of the Red Line approaches at a leisurely pace, already talking to his men.

"Well, Colonel Miller! Or what's left of you," Korbut says cheerily, planting a boot in the back of Miller's head to press him to the floor. Miller groans something out in pain. It's too late for all of them, Bourbon realizes. If any among them are still breathing, they'll be dead in a few minutes. He glances to his right, at the self destruct panel. It's within reach.

He reaches for the switch and grasps it. His hand shakes. His body shakes. His brain rattles in his skull, and for a moment, Bourbon is too distracted to flip the switch. Where else has he felt this before? In the tunnels, he realizes. It's tunnel madness. Hallucinations. Call it what you want. The sound rises up behind him, that discordant singing he'd first heard in the graveyard outside of Market with Artyom in tow; he'd felt his own death looming behind him then, and he feels it again now. His hand slips off the switch. He turns his head slowly to look back over his shoulder and into the eyes of a Dark One.

It must be young. It's so small, compared to the stories he's heard of these creatures. Its eyes are as black as its skin, big and shiny in its beaked face. It tilts its head curiously at him, looks at Artyom, cradled against his chest.

Bourbon reaches for the switch again, and the Dark One does something with its beak that makes it feel like the outside of his brain has peeled off and vibrated inside his skull. He elects not to try that again.

There's screaming and gunshots all around them again, Red Line soldiers going down fighting. Bourbon keeps his eyes trained on the little Dark One, which crawls closer and picks at Artyom's armor, lifts his head and strokes his cheek. Bourbon can see movement at the edge of his peripheral vision, more of the same type of creature but bigger, so tall and terrifyingly inhuman. The little one pries into his mind again, tries to communicate something that makes his head feel like it's melting off his shoulders. The Dark One cocks its head to the side again, grabs onto Artyom's hand and then Bourbon's. A gentle voice crawls through his mind, rattles around and bounces off the black space there.

[Take care of him for me. He's family.]

Before the reinforcements from the next tunnel reach them, the Dark Ones are gone. It's as if they had never been there at all; only the human corpses remain. So many corpses. So many Rangers, and for every one of them, five Reds.

The next few months are long and brutal. Idiot runs the Order while Miller recovers. In any other circumstance, Ulman would have stepped up and led, but Ulman is...

Milking his bed rest time for all it's worth. That's not quite fair; he was shot in the thigh and the gut, and Bourbon knows it's going to be a while before Ulman is back on his feet anyway. But you would think he was at a day spa for the way he acts around the doctors. They're all sick of dealing with him, and turn to Bourbon to handle his bizarre requests.

And he might as well. He's in the infirmary all day and night for Artyom, anyway.

Artyom is fine. Nothing vital was hit, he's just wounded. His helmet took a blow that would have killed him, and he's got a massive bruise across his face that's started to slowly ebb away over the days. More alarming, he seems disoriented much of the time, but Bourbon figures that's normal for a concussion. It'll go away. He tells himself that so that he won't panic.

Anna took a shot in the shoulder too, but refused to take even a full day's bed rest after they dug it out. From what he hears, she's been up and giving orders, working twice as hard as any of the uninjured.

There aren't many of those.

Even Bourbon had been grazed again, though he hadn't noticed until after the battle. They'd stopped the bleeding and bandaged him up, but there wasn't much more time they could spare on someone who was effectively fine. He doesn't mind. He's got other things to worry about.

Miller's in a bad state. They'd had to amputate what remained of both legs at the knee. It was gruesome, and it's impossible to look Miller in the eyes now. There's too much shame on both sides. Bourbon hasn't told him about the Dark Ones, coming to the rescue at the last moment. He's not sure Miller would want to hear it; it feels like the colonelwanted to go out in a big bang, and now he's had that stolen from him.

And now he's like a little ragdoll, wheeling himself around to bark orders.

For two months, everyone heals and catches their breath. It's only at the start of summer that things begin to move again. In August, the boot drops.

They're in Polis, a group of them. Miller is in his office, nursing a drink on his own. He doesn't like to be seen in the wheelchair, being stared at by civilians. People who wouldn't understand. People who wouldn't have fought beside him.

The bar is full of Rangers, a few handfuls of the survivors of the battle. The mood is sour; they've lost another of their own today. They had gathered around the radio as it crackled with the news; one of the comatose survivors of the battle had slipped away. There are less than fifty of them now. Forty six Spartans left, and no way to replenish their numbers. If the Reds were to attack again, or god forbid the Reich, they'd be extinct. They all know it. It lives in the front of their minds, rapping at the inside of their skulls every so often as a reminder. How are they supposed to bounce back from this, anyway? An extra sixty trained men aren't going to knock on the door to D6 and beg to join them, and even if they did, how can they trust those men not to be spies? There's been talk around the base, murmurs that maybe Miller will have to hire outside help to replenish their losses...

But Miller had given them the night to themselves, to drink and forget for a bit. So forget they do, for the time being, at least. The bartender doesn't seem to mind them taking up his tables, as long as they keep ordering drinks and keep paying up. Their MGR allowances will all feel lighter come morning.

The group of four at one table--Bourbon, Artyom, Ulman, and Anna--sit in silence, nursing their drinks. Artyom's got Bourbon's hand under the tabletop, on his thigh, safe and warm. Anna's got her back turned, listening in on young Duke and Alyosha, who are trying to keep the mood light at the next table over. Ulman's eyes wander, scanning the edges of the bar--and then he bristles at Bourbon's side, his teeth clack together audibly. Bourbon follows his gaze to the other end of the bar.

A Red Line officer. What a blow, to see one still standing. He's looking their way; not just at the rangers as a whole, but at their table. Bourbon squints. He knows that face, that scarred temple, those stunning blue eyes.

Artyom sees too. He pulls away from Bourbon, stands, and goes to meet the Red. Bourbon can't hear them from this distance, barely sees Artyom's lips move--he's mumbling something. The Red cracks an awkward smile, and Artyom smacks him, straight across the face, leaving him clutching his cheek, hat askew on his head.

"Who the hell is that," Ulman murmurs. Bourbon knows. Athos. D'artagnan--he knew him all along. The good thing they could have had. Artyom pulls the Red into a hug, and the mood is tense. It's painful. Nobody moves. He should...

And what's he going to do? Stand up, push between them, and make clear to Athos that this is his Ranger? That he's not willing to share? But he is, and he already knows that. He's selfish, but not that selfish. He wouldn't keep Artyom all to himself. Not if it wasn't what Artyom wanted. It would only add strain to an already stressed thing, and--what was it Miller said, a few months ago? What was he supposed to do if Artyom found a new lover? Swallow poison? Or let the eagles keep pecking at his liver every day, like a real Prometheus? Man up, shut up, and let loose the deathgrip he's got on Artyom, before he notices it cutting off his circulation and shies away.

He and Ulman watch Artyom leave with the Red, to go speak somewhere in private, and then Ulman whips his head around to stare at Bourbon.

"You're not going after them?"

Bourbon shrugs and lifts his drink to take a sip. "Not my business," he murmurs, and Ulman slams his hand on the table.

"It is your business! What's he doing with a Red, huh?"

"They're--friends. Or something." Anna turns back to their table, curious. Duke cranes his neck to listen in.

"And you're okay with that?" Ulman studies his face, and Bourbon tries to keep his displeasure off of it. "You're jealous," Ulman decides, and Bourbon snaps at him.

"What do you care, huh? Fuck off."

"If you're not going to check up on them, I will."

"No you won't. Sit down, you can barely walk." Bourbon grabs his arm and Ulman yanks away, hobbling stiffly off after Artyom and the Red. Bourbon heaves a deep sigh and stands to follow.

"Hey," Anna says, grabbing his sleeve. "Don't start fights you can't finish. Alright?"

"I'm not."

"We don't need more shit with the Reds. As much as we'd all like to see them all dead..."

Bourbon shrugs her hand off, nodding, and goes after Ulman. He hasn't made it far. He walks with a cane for the time being, and now he leans heavily on it, face pained.

"Come sit down, Ulman."

"I want to know what they're doing. Even if you don't care."

"I care. I'll go look for them--come on. Sit down." He slips his arm under Ulman's armpit and wraps it around his back to help him, listening to Ulman grind his teeth all the way back to the table.

It's surprisingly difficult to find Artyom after that, considering the time of night. Polis is still awake and alive, nevermind that all the smaller stations have doused their lights and put up their night guards. Bourbon feels panic rising in his chest and tamps it down, one swing of the shovel at a time, until he spies the Red's uniform again. He's standing over Artyom, who's taken a seat on one of the stone benches in an enclave, and the two are talking quietly, amicably.

"I remember you," Athos says, turning as Bourbon draws near, making no attempt to hide his approach. "We met in that, ah, bar, right? In Venice. You gave me some advice--hey, I appreciate that, chuvak. Really helped me out." Bourbon nods stiffly, and Artyom looks nervously between the two of them, as if expecting Bourbon to reel back and hit Athos. As if he himself hadn't already done just that.

"Bost, right?" Athos asks, holding a hand out. Bourbon considers for a moment and shakes.

"Bourbon, actually."

"Bourbon, huh? Good to meet you again. D'artagnan and I were just catching up, having a bit of a chat..." He's playing it casual, but Bourbon can feel his excitement, his anticipation, his anxiety. He wants to talk to Artyom alone.

Artyom stands and inches subtly towards Bourbon, eyebrows knit in worry. "You've met," he says softly, and Bourbon nods as Athos goes straight into the story of their meeting in Venice.

"Just before you and I crossed paths again, Artyomychka. He gave me some advice on how to, ah... make things up to you."

He's leaving something out. Something huge. Artyom hasn't told Bourbon much about the day leading up to the attack on D6, and nothing about the Reds. Just that he'd been captured twice, first by the Reich, then the Reds--

And things click in his brain, start to grind slowly into motion. When the Reds had taken Artyom--how exactly had they managed that? He'd shied away from the topic before, veered hard in the opposite direction when Bourbon tried to broach it. It was clear something bad had gone on, and Bourbon had assumed it was torture anyway from what Miller had said, those Red bastards...

Athos had handed him over to them, somehow. Or at least, that's the version of events he's made up in his head to justify not liking the Red.

"So, you two are friends? In the same platoon maybe?" Athos asks, as if he doesn't know the Order has been decimated by more than half. As if they have enough men left to form platoons of any kind. Artyom looks to Bourbon, opens his mouth, glances hard at him again.

"He's.. we're, ah..."

He's floundering, unsure how to answer that. Bourbon should step in, but some incredibly petty, mean part of him has decided not to step in at all. If Artyom wants to play buddies with a Red Line officer, the one who (in Bourbon's mind) handed him over to be tortured, then go ahead. Be best friends. He can sit back and watch.

Athos is either too slow to put two and two together as Artyom stammers and blushes and hems and haws his way through not answering--or he's feigning ignorance, possibly to be polite--or out of cruelty, to force one of them to vocalize it. Artyom shoots Bourbon a desperate look, a silent cry for help. He's calling for him. Bourbon buckles and relents. He can't just leave Tyoma drowning.

"We're together," he says, stepping closer to Artyom and throwing an arm around his waist. Artyom sinks into his side in relief. The Red doesn't balk or flinch, just nods in understanding.

"Good for you, good for you. Well, D'artagnan, it's been good catching up... I'll, ah, see you around, then?" Artyom nods, and Athos excuses himself smoothly, gives them a casual wave as he heads off. Just friends parting ways.

"I thought you weren't going to come," Artyom says, sitting back down on the bench. "I kept waiting..."

"For me?" Bourbon asks, blinking at him. "Isn't he a friend of yours?" So why the apprehension?

"It's... it's very complex," Artyom murmurs, eyes on his hands in his lap. "We were friends, then not... A lot happened. I couldn't be sure..."

He feels he's not going to get much more out of Artyom without a lot of prying. Bourbon settles in beside him and takes his hand. Artyom leans against him. Tucked away into the enclave, no passerby can see them sitting like this--so it's fine. Nothing to worry about.

"Did he hand you over to the Red Line," Bourbon asks softly, and Artyom nods. He half expects he'll burst into tears next, but that doesn't come. Maybe Artyomhas gotten stronger. Maybe he doesn't need someone to fuss over him like a wounded baby duck.

"Yes. They tortured me for information. I don't really remember it..." Artyom trails off. "We met again at Venice, he escaped, then I caught up with him at Red Square. A fight to the death... I spared him."

It's the quickest, dryest, most matter-of-fact rundown of the story. Bourbon senses there's a lot more there. He doesn't push. "I didn't expect to see him again," Artyom admits. "He says the Red Line is changing, since Moskvin's son took power... I don't know. I'm not smart about politics..."

Bourbon figures they'll hear something from Miller and Idiot, if that's the case. He swipes his thumb over the back of Artyom's hand. "You weren't going to say anything," Artyom says quietly, accusationally. "You didn't want to."

"It's kind of cute watching you struggle."

"You're so mean." But he's smiling, and leaning in for a kiss.

"I love you," Bourbon says quickly, and it's not as sharp coming out as he had thought it would be. Artyom pauses and smiles.

"You don't have to force yourself--"

"I'm not. I mean it."

"I love you too," Artyom says, and leans in to kiss him sweetly. Bourbon's eyes fall shut slowly, breathing him in and deepening the kiss.

Anna clears her throat from a couple meters away. "I hope I'm not interrupting," she says. Bourbon cuts her off before she can continue.

"You are."

"My dad wants to see you both. In his office."

"He can wait a minute," Bourbon says, but Artyom is already pulling away to stand.

They head back through the station towards Miller's office, where Artyom knocks and Miller calls to them to enter. A year ago, this would have been nerve wracking. Now, Bourbon doesn't really care what they've done to get in trouble.

"Good, you're here," Miller says. "Sit down, Artyom."

Artyom sits. Bourbon hangs back.

"Things are moving in the Red Line," Miller starts, hands folded on his desk. "I was waiting to say anything, but it seems the time has come. Moskvin's son has taken over as Secretary General and leader of the Red Line. It seems he's trying to mobilize a new peace conference..." Miller frowns, and it's hard to miss. "We have no way of knowing if he's legitimately looking for peace, and this soon after the attack on D6... For all we know, it's a plot to get back into the bunker."

Artyom nods slowly. "I'm told you have a connection in the Red Line," Miller presses gently, and he nods again. "Has this acquaintance of yours told you anything? Anything at all. Even small details that might not seem important..."

"I'm not well versed in politics, colonel sir," Artyom says meekly.

"I know you're not. Try to think."

Artyom fidgets in his seat. They didn't really talk about politics, Bourbon knows that. Athos didn't get to be a Red Line officer by divulging miniscule leads to his enemies.

"Pavel didn't say anything about the Red Line particularly, sir... I don't know anything about the situation." Miller sighs and nods grimly. "I'm sorry," Artyom clarifies.

"Don't be. Step outside a moment, will you? I need to talk to Boguslav."

Artyom passes him, and Bourbon takes a seat at Miller's silent gesture. He expects Miller to bring out his tin of cigarettes and offer one. Instead, Miller opens his desk drawer and takes out an unlabeled bottle and two glasses. The two of them are silent while Miller pours.

"What do you want to talk to me for," Bourbon asks as Miller slides a glass over to him.

"Two things." Miller straightens up in his wheelchair, lifts his glass and tosses it back. He shivers at the taste. "Have you ever had whiskey, Bourbon?"

"No. Just mushroom vodka, moonshine."

"How did you get your name then?"

"Some men I didn't like named me." He leaves it at that, and Miller leaves it alone.

"We need intel on the Red Line. I need to know what's going on in there--with all the men we lost at D6, I have no eyes anymore. Leonid Moskvin can preach his mission for peace all he wants, but until we know what's actually happening on the inside, we have to consider war an ongoing possibility."

"And you want Artyom."

"I do. He already has an in with his Red Line visitor. A ranking officer... He's not going to tell me shit, though."

"Sure he will."

"He won't. No matter how loyal, he'll find a way to wriggle out of it, out of respect for his friend. I need Artyom to... How can I put this? Gather information without being asked. And I need him to relay that information to you, so that you can relay it to me."

Bourbon bristles slightly. "You want me to report back to you what the Red tells him."

"Yes."

"You expect me to do that."

"Iexpect you to follow orders. I know you'll do it. He'll tell you anything in confidence. He might not even realize that he's letting Red Line information slip, if you do it right."

Bourbon nods, eyes on his glass of liquor. "So?" Miller asks, and Bourbon lifts his head.

"That friend of his told him the Red Line is changing. That's all we've got so far." And this feels nasty and horrible, Bourbon realizes immediately, divulging something told to him privately by his lover--but he can't take it back.

Miller nods, stroking his beard. "For the time being... As much as you can get out of him without arousing suspicion. Okay? If he realizes what we're doing..."

What I'm doing.

"He won't be so willing to collaborate. Got that?"

"Yes sir." This is dangerous territory. This is bordering on violating Artyom's trust. He needs to weasel out.

"Good," Miller says, and pours himself another drink. Bourbon picks up his glass and downs it, shuddering as it burns down into his core.

Some part of him, though... Won't it be better--even for Artyom--if they know what the Reds are up to? And won't it be nice for Tyoma to have more of a chance to talk to his Red friend? No. He's trying to rationalize it, but it's not taking.

"The other thing," Miller says, and Bourbon lifts his head again. Somehow, he'd thought the whiskey was the first thing. "I need your help on something else."

"Yes sir."

"This is a strict need-to-know basis. Understand? What I tell you does not leave this room, under any circumstances.

"Yes colonel, sir."

Miller considers him for a minute, scratching at his beard. "Hanza... Has offered something of a collaboration. Their manpower for our services."

"I don't follow."

"They want us to... among other things, secure a weather station for them. On the surface. In exchange, they'll help us replenish our numbers with their men."

Bourbon feels his nose wrinkle with distrust. "Weather station?"

"Don't ask what they need it for. They have several already. I need to send a stalker up to help them secure the location and fortify it."

"But a weather station?"

"You're asking too many questions, Boguslav," Miller warns him. Bourbon nods. "It doesn't matter what it is, or what they're doing there, understand? Your job is to go up and help out. Do as you're told."

"Just me?"

"I'm not sending any others right now."

"Idiot? Damir?"

"No, and no one else you know either. None of them will do for this job. They need not to know about it, got it? You're to tell no one where you're going, what you're doing on the surface. As far as anyone here should be concerned, you're on a mission in the metro, delivering mushrooms for all I care."

Bourbon flinches and takes a drink of his liquor to mask the movement. This sounds worse by the minute. Obviously Miller isn't telling him something,can't tell himsomething, but the level of secrecy is starting to worry him. He bounces his leg anxiously.

"You'll be going up starting tomorrow. On the surface for four days to start, then you can return to Polis for three days. Then, if all goes smoothly, back on the surface for another four. They'll drive you to and from. While you're back, you can work on Artyom. I'm sure he'll be eager to talk to you when you return."

Bourbon nods dully, setting his empty glass down.

"Don't get killed up there, either."

"Yes sir."

That night, when Artyom presses against him in bed and asks what they talked about, he lies. He lies through his fucking teeth. "Miller's sending me to Hanza tomorrow," he says, because that's what Miller had told him to say.

"Why?"

"It's a secret mission."

"Which station?"

"That's secret too."

"Will you be safe?" Artyom asks, and Bourbon opens his eyes to find he's closer than expected. He can see his eyes in the dim light of their room, and they're full of trust and love.

"Of course I will. I promise."