Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 9:30 PM — MGR: 10
"Which one's worse?" he asked quietly.
The nearest guard scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Left one," he said, nodding. "Keeps double-feeding, ejector's sticky. The other just dies after three rounds. We have to be creative with piss last week when a couple Nosalis appeared. Helped with the overheating short term, but this is what happens."
Mikhail managed not to wince. Cooling with piss. Every scav or drunk in the northern tunnels had tried it, urine would help but it creates corrosion, fear, or the ghosts of misfires. He set his satchel down on the table with care, keeping his opinions to himself about their armourer. He unpacked his tools like a medic preparing for surgery.
One by one, they appeared: the brush with its frayed bronze bristles, the small vial of Lye-Mix solvent, a strip of cloth worn soft as skin, a tin of lubricant no bigger than a coin. All he could afford with an understanding of half being given away.
He began with the left SMG.
The Bastard's anatomy was cruelly simple. All stamped steel and hatred. Each piece fits into the next through sheer stubbornness. No grace, no balance, just function beaten into shape. But even ugliness had laws. He worked by feel and sound, by the tiny resistance of metal that whispered where the rust hid.
The brush scraped softly, its strokes steady and deliberate. Each twist drew out black ribbons of fouling, curling like dead worms. The solvent bit into the grime, releasing a sharp, chemical stench that burned his eyes and cleared his thoughts.
The guard leaned back, watching, cigarette trembling between his fingers. The room filled with the whisper of steel on steel. The rhythmic clatter of disassembly, the faint hiss of breath through clenched teeth. Somewhere deeper in the tunnels, a generator coughed, sending a brief shudder through the pipes above.
Mikhail's world narrowed to the weapon before him. Brush, wipe, oil, reassemble a litany of labor. Each motion was measured, each breath steady. The clink of small parts on the table sounded like the ticking of some ancient machine counting down his life.
Every few minutes, he did the math again in his head, running the numbers like prayer beads. Eighteen MGR might be workable. Eighteen if they're grateful. Don't ask too soon. Don't sound desperate. Desperation was blood in the water.
An hour crawled past.
By the time he'd finished, his hands trembled. not from fear, but fatigue. He slid the bolt home, cycled it once. Smooth. No grinding, no catch. The metal sang softly under the lamp, the sound pure and alive again.
He exhaled, a sound halfway between relief and disbelief.
The guard stepped forward, took the weapon, and shouldered it. He dry-fired once. clink. The sharp echo bounced off the concrete, swallowed by the tunnel's throat.
"Feels new," the man muttered, eyes wide. "Didn't think these old whores still had breath in them."
"Everything should work properly now," Mikhail said quietly
The guard gave a crooked grin. The kind only half-alive men manage. "What's your price?"
Mikhail hesitated. This was it. the moment between survival and another debt to Gus. He looked at the gun, at the rag soaked black, at the thin smear of oil across his palms. He did the math again.
"Eighteen MGR," he said finally. His voice almost cracked on the number.
The guard raised an eyebrow. "Eighteen?"
Mikhail noded. "Gus charges ten just for breathing on it."
The guard stared for a long moment, the silence stretching like wire between them. Then he reached into his coat and drew out a small cloth pouch. Three rusted five round stripper clips were put on the table, glinting in the lamp's jaundiced glow. Perfect, untouched relics of the old world.
"Fifteen seems fair," he said, a smirk stretching his face. "Three's for not talking."
Mikhail froze. The cold calculation was immediate. Three MGR, charged by the client, for his silence.
"You came from the market side," the guard continued, voice low. "If Gus finds out you're working this far north, he'll come sniffing. But we'll keep quiet, you'll have customers who pay fair."
Mikhail nodded once, a slow, deliberate movement. He pocketed the three stripper clips and felt their weight settle like a heartbeat in his coat. Just three stripper clips, but they felt heavier than all the guns in the armory.
"Fair enough," he muttered to himself. "May I?" He gestured to the second weapon.
The guard shrugged. "If you're not dead tired, go ahead."
So he did.
While Mikhail worked over the Bastard rifle. Hands aching, solvent biting at the raw skin between his knuckles. The low thud of heavy boots rolled down the corridor. Not the staggered, sloppy rhythm of the station guards. This was measured. Disciplined.
A squad from Demolitions moved past, heading deeper into the tunnels toward Tsaritsyno.
Their silhouettes were unmistakable even before they stepped into the light. Reinforced armor plates patched with old blast scoring, canvas masks stained with soot, heavy charges strapped across their chests like a second ribcage. Each man carried the smell of scorched metal and disinfectant, the scent of controlled fire.
Every few days they marched the same path, vanishing into the deep tunnels to contain the Biomass. No living civilian has seen the Biomass but the Demolition Corps. A living rot that crept through old ventilation shafts and sewer lines, held back only by fire and explosives. Rumbles can be felt knowing they are doing their job.
The station guards paused as the squad passed. Even the loud ones fell quiet.
Whispers followed them, barely audible.
Elites.
Heroes.
Suicides with rank.
Mikhail kept working, but his eyes tracked them for a heartbeat. The Bastard's guts yielded grudgingly under his hands. By the end, the second SMG clicked clean, its bolt running smooth as breath.
"I cleaned it as much as I can," Mikhail said, wiping his hands on the rag, packing up his tools with quiet precision.
"That's better than most promises down here," the guard said, slinging the weapon over his shoulder.
Three more stripper clips clinked onto the table looking like gold had just been dropped.
"Keep them clean," Mikhail advised as he pocketed the clips "and oil them regularly."
He packed his cleaning kit and stood up, "I better get back" he announced to the guards who's too busy seeing their SMG good as new.
When Mikhail stepped back into the tunnel, the air hit him like a wave. Cold, damp, and thick with the metallic tang of rust and mold. The lamplight faded behind him, swallowed by the black throat of the corridor.
He walked south, boots whispering across the grit, past discarded casings that glimmered faintly like insects in the half-light. The sound of his steps echoed faintly, keeping time with the slow throb of the pipes.
He adjusted his satchel, feeling the weight of the MGR shift inside, and started walking again.
In his mind, he saw the numbers again. Two Bastards cleaned. Half percent towards the quartermaster. Thirty MGR earned. His ledger balanced—a profit of fifteen MGR—for the first time. On his own terms.
The thought was so alien he almost didn't trust it. He'd worked a years under Gus, bent his back until the skin split, cleaned guns for men who treated him like a stain. And now, thirty extra MGR sat in his pocket.
He turned his head toward the south tunnel. A faint glow waited there, pale and trembling. the station lights, flickering like the memory of dawn. Dawn that hadn't touched Moscow in decades.
For a long while, he just stood there, listening. The Metro breathed around him. The groan of steel bones, the whisper of leaking steam, the faraway rumble of trains that no longer ran. The darkness wasn't silent. It was alive, and it was listening too.
For the first time in years, the tunnels didn't feel like a cage. They felt like veins, pulsing with some strange current. Each echo carried him forward, south, toward something that might almost be called freedom.
But freedom, he knew, was a currency like any other. You paid for it in sweat, in blood, in the quiet gamble of disobedience.
He adjusted his satchel, feeling the weight of the MGR shift inside, and started walking again.
Behind him, the checkpoint light burned low, the guards' laughter swallowed by the dark. Ahead, the market waited. its air thick with smoke, lies, and opportunity.
Mikhail walked between them, a man made of grease and hope, each step ringing like a promise no one in the Metro could afford to make.
And as he moved through the dark, one thought clung to him, steady as the thrum of the pipes.
Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 11:30 PM — MGR: 39
Mikhail returned to the Northern Guard Post with the same slow, measured walk of a man who trusted nothing that couldn't be caught by the desperate beam of his lamp. The tunnels were a vast, living silence, and that silence was the most terrifying sound of all. Every echo carried potential danger: a scuttling rat, the low growl of something larger, or the footsteps of an enemy patrol. So he kept his steps careful, quiet, measuring the distance between the slick, mildewed ties.
His breath came out in pale clouds, hanging briefly before thinning into the dank, fungal air of the line. The cold here was deeper than mere temperature; it was a damp, bone-aching presence that clung to the skin. He could taste the concrete dust, the iron oxide from the ancient rails, and the residue of burnt electrical wiring and spent casings.
The lamps here burned low. These were not the bright, life-affirming pools of light found in the central settlements; these were yellow, dying embers that barely cut the deeper gloom. Lower light meant lower morale, some said, but more importantly, it meant saved fuel. The Guard didn't need morale; morale was a luxury for the rich stations. They just needed rifles that fired when commanded, clean air filters, and enough MGRs to survive the next shift.
Mikhail held up his right hand and called out, a sound instantly swallowed by the vast, hollow space. "Стрелка (Strelka)!"
"Who is it? Is that you, smith?" a guard echoed from behind the sandbags. The reply was muffled, carrying the subtle, wet distortion of the tunnel's acoustics.
"Yes, this smith," Mikhail replied, keeping his voice flat. He resisted the urge to push his hood further back. Exposure was weakness in this world.
A flicker of movement behind the makeshift barricade. The guards lowered their battered Bastards, the sound of metal settling. A small, cold, and utterly necessary assurance of safety. The barricade itself was a grim monument to survival: sandbags stuffed with tunnel dirt, rusting rail ties stacked like kindling, and a few scavenged, cracked sheets of polycarbonate.
The quartermaster was exactly where he had been hours earlier. He leaned against a crate stamped with faded Russian script, his coat wrapped deep around him, steam rising from another tin cup. He looked as though he had never moved at all. As though time did not pass here, only wore deeper grooves into men's faces, adding layers of grime and weariness.
The man raised an eyebrow, the single gesture speaking volumes of suspicion and impatience, when Mikhail approached. "Back already? The Bastards usually take longer to tame."
Mikhail nodded, his hands tucked into his sleeves to hide the nervous tremor that always afflicted him after handling high-explosive components. He saw the quartermaster's eyes flick down to the hidden hands, noting the gesture. "Both Bastards should fire clean now. I cleared the fouling from the pistons and grime blocking the mechanisms."
Silence settled. A single, exposed lamp overhead buzzed, the insect whine grating on the ears. Somewhere deeper in the checkpoint, a guard coughed. The deep wet sound, the 'tunnel consumption' spoke of lungs ruined by mold, cold air, and the omnipresent threat of tuberculosis.
Mikhail cleared his throat and discretely put his half, fifteen MGRs on the counter. "Tell them not to piss on the SMGs again. It doesn't help. It just gums up the receiver with uric acid corrosion."
Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 11:50 PM — MGR: 24
The quartermaster chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "I heard, but necessity, smith. An overheated quick fix. They're running a firing pattern, not an exhibition drill." He scoops the MGRs into his booth, metal rang faintly, the sound too loud in the silent, tense outpost.
Mikhail nodded, the grim reality settling cold on his skin. "The… reloader?"
The quartermaster took a slow, deliberate sip from his cup, drawing out the moment. "An actual kit, that's rarer than sleep, smith. Rarity that costs you lives, not bullets." He spoke softly, but the words were heavy, weighted with the history of the tunnels. "Reloader kits don't get traded. They get inherited. Passed down. A family's chance to get a comfortable life fulfilling station contracts. When one changes hands, it's because someone died stealing them. Or died trying to make a bad round work."
Mikhail looked down at the frost riming the concrete floor. His own boots were worn thin, the rubber sole cracking. Another desperate fix waiting to happen. The quartermaster's voice softened, barely.
"I don't know anyone selling one outright. Not now."
A pause. A significant, heavy pause that stretched like an empty piece of track.
"But parts? Maybe."
Mikhail leaned in, careful, but unable to help the urgency that tasted like bile in his throat. "What parts?"
"And that's a maybe," the quartermaster said, counting slowly on his thick, scarred fingers, "but it should work for a shotgun shell. You need a piece of thick 1-inch metal pipe, that's your sizing ring, maybe three inches long, to hold the shell snug while you lever it to be resized. You'll also need a short piece of 3/4-inch pipe at a couple inches length, that's your shell cradle. It's screwed in the board and holds the shell base when you work the lever." His fingers curled, demonstrating the invisible machine.
"You need a straight nail, maybe a wooden one would be safer, to punch the spent primers out the pocket. A square tube just big enough to not touch the primer and to push the shell down to the new primer. And a scoop, obviously. For the crimp, you'll need the shell set in the cradle, and a short, 5/8-inch cylinder, a metal slug,at an inch length to use the lever to press the roll-crimp shut."
Mikhail nodded steadily, committing each precise measurement to the mental ledger. Every fraction of an inch mattered; this was the difference between a functional shell and a bomb.
"And the lever," the quartermaster added. "It can be stamped down onto a board base, nothing too fancy like Gus's, but it gives you leverage to push down on the shells."
Mikhail's hands twitched, phantom-touching invisible tools, feeling the imagined weight of the lever, the smooth cold of the pipe.
"That should be it," the quartermaster echoed, with a low breath that sounded halfway to a laugh. "With that 1-inch pipe, you'll be able to reload those 12-gauge shells. It doesn't need to be that precise like lead bullets. Shotgun shells are forgiving. They'll ruin your shoulder, but they won't usually ruin your life." He tapped the rim of his cup with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"But listen to me," he said, voice dropping, the weight of the tunnels settling into every word. "You can try with pistol round but you will have to find the die for its size. Do not try to make bottleneck rounds with a homemade die. You'd need precision machining for that. Even a hair's width off. Just a whisper of metal shaved wrong. And the case will rupture. Pressure goes backward instead of forward."
He held Mikhail's stare, his own eyes showing a deep, unforgettable memory. "And then the round explodes in your hand. Take the fingers with it. Sometimes the whole hand. The metal shrapnel and hot gunpowder will turn your palm into soup. We bury a man or two every month who didn't listen to that rule."
Mikhail swallowed, the image vivid, metallic, and close, the smell of burnt flesh mixing with the tunnel dust. The fear was a familiar old ache.
"I won't," he said.
"Good," the quartermaster murmured, his gaze finally breaking. "You only get one mistake with reloading. And it's always your last."
The quartermaster's voice softened in the way old metal softens under extreme heat, not wear. He took a slow breath, the sound heavy in the dim light.
"Listen, smith," the man continued, his eyes calculating. "I know you need those reloader parts. That brass pipe, the iron for the lever, they aren't found just lying around, and the sizes must be right."
Mikhail leaned in, ready for the coordinates of some long-forgotten supply closet.
"Do not go to the residential service tunnels. Not for those parts," the quartermaster warned, his voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the low background hum of the station. "That area… that's where the walls fall away, and the outside bleeds in."
Mikhail looked up slowly. The blood pounded against his eardrums, trying to drown out the noise of the buzzing lamp. "The pipes—then where do I—"
The quartermaster tapped the rim of his empty cup with a slow, deliberate rhythm. "You'll have to find it in the Market or a trader."
"You must be kidding me, the Market?" Mikhail sighs.
"I know, I know," the quartermaster agreed, the corner of his mouth twitching in a dry, humorless smile. "But they also don't carry the tunnel consumption or the fangs of the surface. You want the brass pipe for your 12-gauge shell press and the heavy copper wire for the Bastard's heat sink? You buy them. You do not strip the station for them."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that felt louder than a shout in the low light. "Find Yasha, the scrap and coal dealer from the Hansa line. He's the nearest man who deals in materials and he might be able to find the parts. He's greedy, but he's reliable."
"Now get back into the station," the quartermaster said, setting the empty cup down with a soft, final clink. "You'll want gruel and sleep after the work you did. And you'll need the strength to bargain."
Orekhovo Station: Day 3, Tuesday, 11:50 PM — MGR: 24
small cache—springs, shavings of brass, and one bent firing pin