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Comrades had left hours ago, subordinates always steered away from him, it only left him and the dirty cup he was nursing. He had joined a group of colleagues' chatting, lips pulled a little too wide and laugh a pitch too low.
The talks, the godforsaken talks, were always the same. Only places and names changed. They talked about the same events, same weathers, same things. Over and over. What was the difference between shooting a Nazi in the tunnels or in the surface or in one of Reich outposts? They were all the same. What was the difference between him shooting a mutant or a private shooting a mutant? Did they believe it was worth talking about because the subject was different?
A showgirl, it was a prettier word than prostitute, sat next to him as he got another refill of the shroom radiation. He passed a couple bullets to get her out of his hair, and she left without a word. He continued to stare at the crack on the ceramic surface, like it would tell him the secrets.
Rock bottom seemed to be the place he always found himself. Always down there, trying to climb back up, only to fall again. What was the point of climbing, anyway? He had climbed and scraped his way out once, and there was only Korbut to send him back down. Would the outcome be different, now that he was dead?
Metro hated thoughts, it hated thinking minds. And yet, he was sitting in this bar, overthinking again. It seemed like Korbut failed to break him down. Or maybe he had succeeded, and his overthinking was the result.
He wished he was a private again. Privates didn't have time to think, or overdo it, they had barely full stomachs and bigger things to worry about. Getting enough bullets to make it to the end of the month, doing without asking and killing without questioning, dying at worst and getting killed at best with no other outcome. A simple life as a rat where you get to perish without asking why for once in your lifetime. Maybe someone would weep, probably no one would remember when the hour passed after your funeral, at most you would have a partner that would move on the same day. A goodbye adequate to an insect. And what was a private, if not a roach to crush?
The drink scratched his throat as it went down his oesophagus, and it settled like a rock in his stomach. It tasted like distant dreams of childhood; mouldy walls and beating and expired food that went rancid. He wondered his partner would react, if he were to reveal that he always had the taste of childhood within reach. Expecting childhood to have a pleasant taste would be stupid.
But, on top of the stool and surrounded with showgirls and drunks, he wondered how a good childhood would taste. Maybe it would taste like the "ice cream" his partner always remembered. Whatever that was.
He wondered what ice cream tasted like. And he wondered if he had a childhood where there were no mould and pleasant tastes instead, how much he would change.
Though, would something as simple as being a happy child would change the outcome of Korbut being his saviour? Would a proper childhood mean he wouldn’t face the horrors lurking beneath a man’s skin, or would it mean that the horrors would only scar more?
Maybe some questions didn’t have answers. Or maybe they did, but he refused to acknowledge. Nothing would change, even if his childhood improved somehow or someway. He would still be stuck in that hellhole with that woman who resented him, not being seen as a boy but as the continuation of the man that had wronged her. He would still get caught underground as they waited for the metro, eyes wide and fists clenched, looking for guidance from a woman who never cared enough to give.
And he would still hold the corpse of the woman that was growing colder, knowing that it was going to be him next. And he would still press his teary face against the stiff one, still calling that woman “mom”, and he would still be scared. Scared of fate, scared of what was going to happen, scared of the what the people outside of the room would decide to do. And he would still press himself closer to that corpse, because there would be nothing else to hold onto.
And it would be Red Line soldiers who would save him again. It wouldn’t be anyone else except for Korbut, the man’s heavy boots would beat the ground as he approached him once again, and he would be the first person who would hold the child like the boy he was, and not the man they tried to make out of him.
And maybe their respective home stations were the thing that separated them. His partner didn’t know how it was like to survive; he had spent his years living comfortably in a relatively wealthy station, with a loving stepfather and spending his days with what, reading? Playing? What even were the usual childhood activities?
And what did he have, apart from survival? From the streets of Moscow to tunnels of Metro, what changed except for the location he had to survive in? He stole, pickpocketed, got beaten with an inch of his life, all for survival. When the bombs fell and the city he knew died, he was surviving again. Stuck in a far station, away from what made a man a human, stuck with people who didn’t deserve to live. Hands that were supposed to belong to a kid were holding a gun, saying the prayers that his mother once murmured under her breath. Because the only thing a child could do was pray and survive.
When the Red Line squad came, freed metro from beasts in human skin and Korbut took him under his wing, his struggles only changed ideologies. But he didn’t know, he didn’t realise, because getting hot food for the first time since the surface died had given him a false sense of security.
He was too stupid to see that general broke him down so he could rebuild him in his own image. Did his partner even know what it was like, to be broken over and over, until everything human became a distant dream? To be seen as nothing but a weapon made of flesh, to exploit something as naïve and pure as trust. Getting dissected alive in the name of greater good, getting his limbs ripped only for them to be sewn back in wrong places, like a cheap version of Frankenstein’s monster.
Would he understand what it was like to have everything about you weaponised against you, from your own body to mind, from something as unrelated to your cause like your attraction? Did he know what it was like being hold by your saviour like a doll, thinking there was someone who cared enough to show kindness? A psychological experiment and nothing more, just to see how much you could exploit feelings to fit someone into the mould.
And it wasn’t like he was an unwilling participant. The lines of torture and pleasure had blurred years ago; there was something that made the blade alluring. Both parties happened to be into his obedience and how quiet and still he could keep despite the procedures. And maybe he was too young to understand the meaning of mental scars.
His body seemed to ache again; the stool didn’t help. The pain lurked over healed scars, the long-gone stitches and the ghost of the scalpel were its companions.
The worst part was, he still craved that attention from a man long dead. Something inside him stopped being attracted to men long ago, his attraction had shifted to the hand that was holding the gun. Was that what Korbut wanted to achieve? Getting him attracted to the executioner’s blade instead of a human?
His tongue ran over his chapped bottom lip; he could almost feel the taste. The taste of the general, the man who took too much and gave the blood that stained his hands. The nails of a ghost hand digging into his cheeks, forcing him to stay still and obey as he took what he wanted and never needed. And he was always obedient enough to stay still; it would be a lie to say he never enjoyed it. And maybe that enjoyment made him as guilty as the general.
His inexperience compared to his partner was blatant. Just like every aspect of him, his love life was also messed. From the general that watched him grow up into a soldier to exploit, to the man he betrayed then nearly sealed him into a fate worse than death. There was no love story, death of your superior officer wasn’t exactly a breakup, and he knew nothing except standing still and giving.
He wondered what his partner saw that was worth giving time. He wondered how he stood in front of someone as inexperienced and fucked up as him, teaching even the simplest things about relationships with a straight face. How naïve one had to be in order to do the things his partner willingly did for him? How stupid one could be?
And maybe that was the thing he resented about his partner. His childish delusion that dealing with mutants was the worst thing ever. Acting like he knew what he was doing because he found a bunker. Not knowing the meaning of struggle, thinking a stupid title made him a man. Facing away from the horrors of the tunnels, facing to the people who gawked at him for “saving” the Metro. Bearing a title as heavy as that without stopping and questioning what did he even do to save fifty thousand people. Having only the blood of the evil on his hands, and sometimes not even having that. Finding enough mercy within to knock them unconscious and leave them.
And loving him. Like he was still human somewhere within and not an animal. Bringing him those gifts even though he couldn’t understand the reason. Cherishing things he gave him, when they were only given for survival. Trying to teach him how to be normal, failing to see that the man he knew had nothing to do with the man he was.
Some people were only born to kill. To have their hands stained with blood, whether innocent or evil not a matter of importance. To serve, to be an animal with sharp teeth and an open mouth, ready to gnash and bite and attack. To cover themselves with blood until they were not soldiers but butchers, reducing the people in front and around into animals to slaughter.
And he was only an animal, a butcher, someone who found the greater good as a comfortable excuse rather than an end he believed. He had accepted it long ago, when he had first put on the uniform and chose the path of a “soldier”. What if he was born to kill? What if he was only meant to have blood? Maybe the reason of his struggles and survival was to get him ready for his role.
And if his partner had a brain, he would also see that and run away. To save his life, to save himself from the darkness that would consume him.
He absentmindedly picked a scab on his hand as he stared at the counter. The ranger wasn’t dumb; he was one of the smartest people he knew. So why didn’t he run?
The scab ripped away from the skin, the blood beadled on the surface of the healing wound. He brought his hand to his lips, licked the blood before it could drip. The last drops of the alcohol followed suit, he put the bullets next to the cracked cup and left.
The station was empty at this hour. Not that hours meant anything. But order was necessary, without order, humans would lose their humanity. And time meant order, time meant civility.
When he was passing through the marketplace, he stopped to lay down on one of the benches. He stared at the ceiling, an arm under his head. He didn’t have a cigarette, had left his pack in his room, and wished he had one.
He used to lay on benches like this, when he was way younger and the worst thing was his home. With the blue sky above, he would daydream until it was time to go. But there was no blue sky in the tunnels, or in the surface. Just a never changing, ever mocking grey. A grey that scratched at his eyeballs until he wanted to gouge them. A grey that he couldn’t see right now, thanks to darkness.
He closed his eyes. A thought crept up, just like how it always did when he was alone. There was no reason to be alive, not a mission or worth. And even if there was, he was only kept alive because he knew too much. But everyone was on edge, not knowing what would Korbut’s most loyal man would do.
Lover, prisoner, victim. They all meant loyalty, a loyalty that only came from exploitation. He was loyal to Korbut, to his saviour, to his lover, to his jailer. To the man only raised him to eat him alive.
Or maybe he wasn’t loyal. He didn’t know at this point, there had been too much doubt in his life since their defeat against the Order. He only knew that they somehow let him keep his position and treated him like a ticking bomb.
What if he leaned into that ticking bomb act? Made the doubt grow, until he found himself in front of the firing squad. With his comrades’ guns pointing at him, fully believing he wanted a coup, shooting him under the guise of protecting their secretary general and faction.
It would be a death that Korbut would hate. And as his blood pooled under him, he would know that he was the one who won in the end by choosing to be put down. And if there was an afterlife, not that he believed in one, he would laugh at the man’s face.
It sounded great, too great. Maybe the change was getting to him in the worst way, or maybe the change was only giving him the best ideas Korbut knew how to keep at bay.
As he thought more about it suddenly something crossed his mind: Artyom. His eyes shot open as he sat up, he scanned his surroundings like his partner would come out from a shadow and berate him for his thoughts. He was alone, his partner was probably in D6, training new cadets. But it still lingered, continued to stay. It felt colder, like the barely there warmth of the station had dropped even lower. He wrapped his arms around himself, smeared the blood on his hand onto his jacket without realising, and shivered.
He hated it, how he could perfectly see his face with his sad green eyes and chewed bottom lip, as he listened Leonid explain his death. He knew how the ranger grieved; he would keep a straight face and nod until the secretary general left him alone. Then he would sit down. He wouldn’t cry, he never saw Artyom’s tears go beyond wetting his lashes, and he would stay like that for hours. And then a ranger would knock to check on him, asking if he was okay, and if the leader of the Red Line had said something bad. It would be his cue to get up; to wipe the quiet sign of his grief and act like everything was fine.
It only made him shiver more. He cursed under his breath as he started to walk. Stalls got swallowed by darkness, his steps fastened as his mind split between two thoughts. Death would be the only escape, but he couldn’t do it when his life had seeped and influenced another. At least, not in the way he wanted.
The tremble in his hands caused him to drop his keys. He picked them up, forcing himself to keep it quiet to not to wake up anyone. He fumbled with the lock again; his fingers didn’t want to cooperate. Cursing was looking more alluring, when the door of him room opened.
His free hand went to the revolver he didn’t take with him; he only grabbed the air. His partner’s face appeared, tired yet happy to see him. He leaned against the side of the door; his cheek pressed against it. He was waiting, for him. For a man that would rather waste on top of a stool.
He shook the surprise; his hands cupped his partner’s face. Artyom’s face felt warm, a warmth from past. He pressed their foreheads together, the façade of a normal man kicking in high gear. “I wasn’t expecting you, Tyoma.” He mumbled.
An annoyed sigh, more amused than Artyom wanted to show, was coupled with the roll of the green eyes. He was pulled into his room, the door closed behind and immediately locked. He listened Artyom’s footsteps as he took off his uniform. The shadows hid his body from his eyes, but his fingers still found an old scar. A gift from his ex-lover, a grotesque memory stretching on top of his ribs. It was supposed to be his reminder of his failure, but it had slowly become a reminder of the love lingering inside, like how radiation was inseparable from Moscow now.
He knew how his partner would react; it had become a routine at this point. He let his hand drop, and grabbed one of the few pieces of civilian clothing he owned.
The sweater scratched his skin, years and the harsh washing conditions had completely destroyed once soft garment. But it kept him warm enough to not feel like he was freezing.
He turned around, and found Artyom sitting on his chair. His gaze slipped to the instrument that was held by the ranger, and he questioned if he was sober. Managing to pass the patrol was one thing, the only reason he hasn’t punished them was the convenience it created for them. But a whole instrument was a different story. “You smuggled in a guitar?” he asked.
Artyom’s head moved enthusiastically, pale hand left the guitar for a moment to point at the bed. He sat down; his back pressed against the cold wall and his hands resting on his knees. He didn’t care for music, apart from anthems, so he wondered what would be so important to show him that Artyom felt the need to bring a guitar.
His eyes focused on the way his partner’s hands were moving on the strings. The song felt strangely familiar, as if it was calling back a long-forgotten memory. Memory of a day in the surface, a day that was better than his other days. But it was far, and he could only reach out to grab handfuls of fog.
And the fog only gave him a sinking feeling. Something that numbed his fingertips and made his child version realise that he couldn’t live in that moment forever. It would end, just like everything else, and leave nothing but longing. A longing that raised his small hand, and made him wave to the empty air in front of him, a farewell to the goodness he was allowed to experience.
He couldn’t remember if the person was waving back, or if he even deserved to be waved at. He couldn’t remember the person, was it an adult or another kid? There was nothing in this fog surrounding him, only the feeling and his hand in the air. And the tears that were weighing his once brighter eyes.
The remnants faded away as the song ended. The frown on Artyom’s face made him aware of the dampness on his face, which was quickly wiped with his sleeves. “I liked it. Don’t look at me like that, D’Artagnan, I mean it.” he looked away, the cracks on the wall seemed to be a revolutionary find. “It, uh, reminded me an old memory.” he confessed quietly.
He kept his eyes stubbornly on the wall until he felt a hand grabbing his face. It wasn’t restrictive or punishing, the fingers against his cheeks gently guided his face to make their eyes meet. The kiss against his forehead was unexpected, but he selfishly soaked up the affection regardless. The second one was against his lips, and the sickly unfamiliar feeling stuck to his insides, chasing the darkness away for another day.
Artyom kicked off his boots, and he once again found himself sitting with his back against the wall, with his partner pressed against his chest. It was weirdly familiar, how Artyom seemed to perfectly fit the space between his legs and against his chest. Guitar filled the silence, one of his original songs, he guessed.
He couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around Artyom. He laid his head against the younger’s shoulder, a usually ignored vulnerability making him crave the closeness that he didn’t know its existence of until recently. The low clunk from the guitar as Artyom rested it against the nightstand only made his arms tighter. Artyom shifted in his arms to turn around and hug back.
It wasn’t enough, it would never be a good enough reason, but right now, it felt enough. And maybe, just maybe, he could feel normal for one more day.