Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 8 PM — MGR: 2
Outside, the station's cold air hit him like clean water—thin, harsh, honest. The market was already alive again, its early hum rising into a metallic chorus. Vendors shouting prices, knives chopping, steam hissing from cracked pipes, buckets ringing softly as drips from the ceiling found them.
For a fleeting moment, he stopped and closed his eyes. The sound of life—imperfect, desperate—was almost enough to steady him.
Almost.
He mentally opened his ledger. The invisible one. The real one.
Four chits. Eight MGR.
Two meals. One station tax.
Maybe a bottle of burner alcohol if he skipped food. Maybe not.
But the real math he kept was deeper. The count between debt and freedom. Between what he owed this place and what he planned to take back.
He pictured the tool again in his mind: the Reloader. Primitive, hand-cranked, but precious. The power to rebuild cartridges from scraps—freedom in the shape of a simple iron press.
To buy it, he needed capital.
And for that, he needed to face her.
Anastasia.
He walked toward her stall, weaving through clusters of exhausted workers and early traders. The smell of hot brass and wet stone filled the air around her booth.
She didn't speak first.
Mikhail set the chits down silently on her scrap-covered table. Anastasia slid them closer with two gloved fingers, counted them without expression, then met his eyes with a blank, almost icy look.
"Eight MGR," she murmured—acknowledgment, not judgment.
Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 8:10 PM — MGR: 10
He nodded. She pushed a small bundle of brass casings onto the tray. Cold, smooth, a promise of future options.
For a moment—just a moment—he closed his eyes and let himself imagine something better.
Then he forced the fantasy away.
He left the stall and began walking toward the Northern Post.
Halfway down the corridor, he passed Katerina's kitchen stall. Her curtain was half-drawn, the weak lamp inside flickering against metal pots and soot-black walls. She wasn't in sight, but he could imagine her—puffy eyes, tired face, the shadow she tried to hide earlier.
He slowed.
Stopped.
Ached to look in.
Then shame burned down his spine.
Whatever had happened to her because of that coal—
He kept walking.
Faster. Starved.
The corridor air grew colder, sharper, as he approached the checkpoint. Lights thinned. Faces vanished. The smell of grease and cooking faded, replaced by rust, mildew, and the metallic bite of frozen rail junctions.
The Northern Guard Post was a miserable outpost tucked into a forgotten corner of the station—old sandbags sagging with damp, barbed wire dulled by frost, and men hunched in threadbare coats that had long lost their insulation.
A young recruit sat slumped near the wall, SMG propped beside him like a cane. His gloves were fingerless in places; his fingertips were purple with the first hint of frostbite. Ice clung to the wool seams of his jacket. Each breath drifted out in a thin, trembling plume.
The supply shack door creaked open, and the post quartermaster stepped into the cold. A broad man with a patched coat and eyes that measured everything instinctively. He held a steaming tin mug, its metal rim frosted from the air.
"Cold, isn't it?" he said, voice rasping but not unfriendly.
The boy looked at the mug like it held salvation.
"Best thing on this side of the station," the quartermaster continued. "A hot drink. Keeps the hands working. Keeps the mind sharp. Helps the cold stay outside instead of crawling into your bones." He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth. "Shame we're out. Supply's late. Again."
The recruit deflated visibly. He couldn't leave the post—not unless he wanted a charge pinned to his back. A few older guards laughed, the sound brittle in the frost.
"You'll get used to it," the quartermaster said. "Or you won't. Either way, shift ends the same."
He turned to go inside.
That was when Mikhail approached. He made sure his boots scraped deliberately against the stone—a polite announcement of presence. He coughed once, a nonthreatening signal.
"Evening," he said, tone flat but respectful. "Heard the northern post's had trouble. Came to take a look."
The quartermaster eyed him over the rim of his mug, squinting as if measuring the truth by scent alone. "You one of Gus's boys?"
Mikhail raised his eyes just long enough to be seen, then dropped them again. "Yeah. One of his."
The man's expression darkened, then settled into something guarded. He swirled the drink in the mug, little waves of steam rising between them.
Mikhail forced a small, thin smirk. "He stays close to the places he values. The armory. The bar. His woman's cot. Man never leaves the same five rooms." The implication wasn't subtle.
That earned a short bark of laughter.
"You're right," the man chuckled. "He's not exactly hard to find."
But suspicion returned quickly.
Mikhail kept his voice neutral. "Not here to start trouble. Just looking for some small work. Cleaning. Quick repairs. Nothing official."
The quartermaster raised his brows. "You know the rules. Armory work goes through Gus. Station law."
"I work for him," Mikhail said. "I know the price. But guns break faster than he fixes them. If I patch a few here, you boys stay alive. That keeps the market safe."
He paused.
"And it keeps him fat."
The man's lip twitched.
"He'll never know," Mikhail added.
The quartermaster watched him for a long, silent stretch. The frost crackled softly on the sandbags behind him.
Then a smile crept up—not kind, but impressed. "You know," he said, "Gus pays better for ears than hands."
A cold stab went through Mikhail. His fingers tightened around his satchel strap—instinct, not aggression.
The quartermaster burst into laughter, cracking the tension like ice. "Relax, smith. Gus doesn't pay me a damn thing. I just like seeing men squirm."
The recruit recognized Mikhail then. "Hey," the boy said weakly, "it's you again. Prost!"
The quartermaster cuffed him lightly with the back of his glove. "Go fill it," he ordered, handing over the empty mug and jerking his head toward the mess tent. "And cool it with the tongue."
When the boy left, the man's tone dropped, low and serious.
"You didn't hear this from me," he said. "There's a pair of Bastards at the East checkpoint. Jamming every other magazine. Boys there are freezing their fingers raw stripping them."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"You fix them, and I'll forget you were here."
Mikhail nodded once. Sharp. Quiet.
He turned to leave, cold biting deeper now that sweat had dried.
"Smith," the quartermaster called.
Mikhail stopped. Turned his head.
"Keep your leash hidden," the man said with a grin. "Plenty down here who'd sell it for warmth."
He took another sip, then added:
"Oh—before I forget. Today's password is стрелка."
Strelka.
A word that meant arrow, point, or… rendezvous.
As he headed back toward the market's flickering lights, the meaning lingered in his mind.
And somewhere deep in his chest, the ledger gained another quiet entry.
Mikhail lingered a moment longer, watching the steam coil and unravel above the quartermaster's mug. The scent of mushroom brew mingled with rust and kerosene, soft but heavy, like the aftertaste of gunfire. He cleared his throat.
"You wouldn't happen to have a cleaning kit, would you?"
The quartermaster arched one brow. "You don't have your own cleaning kit, how did you expect to clean?"
"I didn't think that far," Mikhail said. "Lye-mix solvent, if you've got it. Eats carbon off the bolt. A bit of cloth. Brush. Drops of lubricant."
The man leaned back against the wall of sandbags, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're asking for luxuries, friend. Half the guards here clean their SMGs with spit and curses."
Mikhail lifted his eyes briefly to the Quartermaster, then back to the crate. "Then where's the taxes been going to?" He said, "Spit ruins the springs. Curses don't help much either."
He reached into his coat. The clink of metal filled the air, the rattle of MGR. The MGR gleamed in the lamp-light, its brass halo polished by too many desperate fingers.
The quartermaster's smirk faded. For a moment he just stared at the round, the reflection of the lamp trembling across its surface.
"Whatever you have smith, it's not enough" he said at last.
That earned a rasp of laughter. Brief, genuine, and tired. The man set down his cup and rummaged through a crate beside the heater.
Tools clinked and glass rattled. He muttered under his breath, words lost in the shuffle of scrap and rags. At last he drew out a small tin wrapped in a stained rag and placed it on the crate between them.
"Lye-mix," he said. "Enough for a few jobs. Don't drink it. Cloth's clean enough. Brush's seen better days, but it'll hold. Lubricant's the good kind. Kerosene and animal fat. Spill it and you'll smell like a furnace for a week."
Mikhail look at the tool set placed upon him. He hesitated, the next words heavy in his throat. "And if you hear of anyone holding a reloader. Any kind. Pipes, dies, scoop, hammer. Doesn't have to look pretty. Just has to work. I'll pay what I can."
The quartermaster snorted. "You trying to start your own armory?"
Mikhail managed a thin smile. "No. Not yet. Just thinking."
The man leaned his elbow on the crate. "Thinking gets you killed faster than the cold, friend."
"The reloader" He trailed off, the rest staying locked behind his teeth. Words like that could buy a grave. "The reloader means I wouldn't need Gus. Wouldn't need to beg for powder or scraps."
The quartermaster studied him. His gaze wasn't unkind. just measuring. The lamp between them buzzed, its filament trembling, carving hard lines across their faces.
"Don't bullshit me," he said finally. "Down here, that costs more than bullets."
Mikhail's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "So does staying alive."
That drew a low chuckle, more gravel than laughter. The quartermaster says "Staying alive means I take half of what you make at the checkpoint."
He took up his cup again and drank the last of it. "You find your miracle loader, smith, I'll drink to your ghost. But I'll keep an ear out."
"Half" Mikhail pursed his lips but without any leverage, he agreed. "Yeah... Half." Mikhail tucked the kit inside his coat, the metal tin pressing cold against his ribs.
The man lifted the empty tin in mock salute, eyes half-lidded with fatigue. "Careful with that thinking, smith. Freedom's a fever. Kills quiet men slow."
Mikhail said nothing. The thought was too close, too true. He gave a short nod and turned toward the tunnel. The lamplight followed him only a few steps before dying against the pervasive, wet dark.
The lamplight followed him only a few steps before dying against the fog of his breath. Behind him, the quartermaster watched the doorway, the shadows swallowing it whole.
"Poor bastard's already halfway sick with it," he muttered, and poured the last of the cold brew onto the floor.
The tunnel breathed.
He let a loud sigh, remembering the old screech with a Lurker that hid himself. The lungs of the Metro itself, sighing through the old vents and pressure locks, carrying with it the smell of wet rust and ancient mold. Mikhail moved through it slow and deliberate, each step testing the uneven concrete. The faint echo of his boots came back distorted, as if the dark had its own voice and answered in mockery.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel. The quartermaster's cleaning kit clinked quietly against the inside, every sound too loud in the emptiness. However this time, the Lurker was not in sight or sound.
Ahead, a sign painted decades ago. half-flaked and dim. Still read SECTOR: NORTH OPERATIONS.
He hadn't been this far in months.
Back when he first worked under Gus, he'd been sent north once. Hauling jammed Bastards and stripped receivers to the base before he was officially licensed to touch them. It had been the kind of work no one wanted: long walks, cold hands, the company of guards, sometimes alone, who stared at him like he was the dirt that clogged their SMGs. He hadn't been back since.
Now he was walking there on his own accord.
The thought made his stomach tighten. The idea of independence felt fragile. Like the thin glass of a pressure gauge. It wasn't freedom yet, just a dangerous sort of permission he'd given himself. One wrong move, and Gus would hear of it or a mutant hiding around stalking and waiting to pounce.
He paused by a broken service light, his breath misting in the dark.
How much do I charge? The question turned over in his head like a coin in a hand.
Cleaning two Bastards. standard maintenance, no replacement parts. Under Gus, it'd be twenty five MGR each, maybe less if Gus was drunk enough to "forget" a cut.
But down here, at the forward base, the soldiers had no time to walk to the market. No quartermaster willing to barter. They needed their weapons clean before patrol rotation. which meant desperation, and desperation had a price.
He ran the numbers silently, the mental ledger glowing in his mind. Two Bastards. One solvent tin. One hour of labor. Risk: Gus's lash. He needed to charge enough to make the risk worthwhile, but not so much that the guards refused.
"Twenty MGR per SMG." His breath hitched. Too much. The guards would risk jamming first.
"Eighteen MGR each." He settled on it. Thirty-six MGR total. A profit even after paying half to the quartermaster, it's meager but it's about 18 MGR closer to freedom.
He adjusted the satchel again and moved forward.
The tunnel narrowed. walls closing in, air colder, heavier. Fluorescent lamps buzzed somewhere ahead, throwing sickly white patches across the damp concrete. He passed old signage: "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY," "FILTER CHECKPOINT," "NO OPEN FLAMES." Their paint had run like blood years ago.
His boots met a puddle. The ripple moved outward, catching the reflection of a motionless figure. a guard standing half in shadow near the checkpoint gate.
The man's SMG was slung low, and the faint red glow of a cigarette pulsed near his mouth. When Mikhail came close enough for the light to catch him, the guard's expression hardened into weary suspicion.
"Stop there!" he said. His voice was gravel, stretched thin by night shifts. "Password!"
"стрелка (Strelka)," he said. "Armory." Mikhail's eyes were locked on the guard's chest piece, never meeting his eyes.
The guard's eyes narrowed. "That fat fuck sent you?"
Inside the checkpoint, the air reeked of powder smoke, sweat, and burnt oil—the holy trinity of every armed post in the Metro. The ceiling hung low, choked by a nest of blackened pipes that hissed faintly, leaking warmth into the cold dark. Condensation dripped from them in slow, rhythmic ticks, pattering against the corrugated steel floor like a heartbeat that refused to die.
A half dozen soldiers stationed at this checkpoint just couple hundred meters from the station. The safest of the checkpoint until the mouth of Tsaritsyno.
Condensation dripped from them in slow, rhythmic ticks, pattering against the corrugated steel floor like a heartbeat that refused to die like our neighbour, Strogino, further north.
A single kerosene lamp burned on the table, throwing out a dull amber light. Its glass was blackened by soot, and its flame trembled every time the tunnel breathed. On the table, two disassembled submachine guns lay splayed open like the carcasses of metal beasts. The "Bastards". That was what they were called, and the name was earned, not given.
Each one was a weapon made here down in the metro. The barrels are soft, stocks whittled from railway sleepers, bolts filed down by men who'd never seen proper tools. They fired when they felt merciful, jammed when they didn't, and killed their users almost as often as their targets.
The ammo doesn't help either. It's either been diluted even more from the already fouling and jamming maker of the black powder.
Both were coated in a greasy film of soot and grime. The bolts were half-frozen with carbon, the receivers scored and dented. The smell of old powder clung to them like sickness. Neglect, Mikhail thought. The kind born from apathy and corruption. When you've survived another day, you don't thank your weapon. You just put it down and pray it still fires tomorrow.
Mikhail hesitated, just a heartbeat too long. "Yeah."
That earned a grim smile. "Fair enough." The guard motioned to the side gate. "Two of the Bastards were jamming. If they don't cycle by morning, we'll probably be dead."
"Dead" he thought. Like most at Orekhovo. A dead end town with a dead end mentally. A place far off from the central line and everywhere else is too radiated to pass by. A biomass just a station away. Gas masks and filters are luxuries. No place but to stay. Jobs that pay just enough to survive and taxes collected by Erik. All that taxes collected but maintenance of these couple bastards are non-existent.
A measly one MGR saved at the end of the week. A pathetic amount.
He look up at the guard with the deep thought, "I'll make sure they move," Mikhail said quietly.
Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 9:00 PM — MGR: 10
small cache—springs, shavings of brass, and one bent firing pin