The Train

[BgKnight]

There is an abandoned train on the entrance of Belarus Station, the thousands of traders from all over the Metro entering and leaving the always living station, this train hosts people looking to take a nap or set up camp all the time. What makes it unique, is that its walls are covered with newspaper-scraps, little napkins and pieces of paper with rumors on them. And if one stops and read, he can quickly grasp what is happening in every part of the Metro, and if he listens to the whispers and rumors of those passing by, he can understand even more.

[Iss'fayn]

*crudely carved in the one of the walls is that ever present urban legend*

'Цой жив!'

[OYID]

FULL SCHOLARSHIPS
FOUR YEARS ROOM AND BOARD
AT THE BAUMANSKY ALLIANCE

The Bauman Moscow State Technical University and the Moscow State University of Civil Engineering are offering FULL SCHOLARSHIPS to all inhabitants of the Moscow Metro FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY.

Up to 40 applicants will be selected for the OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFETIME.

Scholarships open for:

• Civil Engineering.
• Electromechanical Engineering.[/size][/b]

Applicants will have to pass a rigorous psychological aptitude test as well as present a basic knowledge exam for the areas of Arithmetic, Algebra and Trigonometry. Candidates must apply by...

The Baumansky Alliance.
Science of Today, Technology of Tomorrow

[RinKou]

I knew she was trouble the moment I saw her. Eyes as deep, as dark as the tunnels, smokey as the kerosene lamps. Her gait said confidence, her clothes said class, her lips, "I need tickets for the show."

She took the seat across from me and offered me a cigarette.

"Sold out." I declined. She lit up anyway. Passphrases change at alternating intervals. This is rule number one. You never accept an outdated passphrase.

"Merchant of Venice," she said. "My friend said you'd have them."

"We're sold out."

Rule number two, you need to be a good man to sign up for this service, but you can't remain one if you want to continue. Better to turn away a refugee than to lose a runner. Better to let an innocent man be disappeared than to feed an entire caravan to the wolves.

"I really want to see the show," she said, pulling her jacket open to reveal three Kuznetsky Most grade mags, filled to the brim. "Desperately. As if my life depended on it."

Rule number three. At the end of the day, this is a charity. We don't do this for brass, we do this to help people. Bullets kill, and not only when fired from the barrel of a gun.

"It's not a very good show."

"You're not a very good liar."

"Neither are you," I said, taking a drink of my vodka. "What are you, NKVD? KGB? Come on. I'm not selling tickets."

"If I were," she said, ashing her cigarette into my drink, "You'd be dead right here."

I stared at her. "You owe me a drink," I said, eventually, not sure what else to say. In my years, no refugee ever came on this strong - and, no agent would either.

"Take me to Venice," she said.

"What?"

"Take me to Venice," she repeated, louder. "You're a smuggler, and I need to leave the Red Line. Take me to Venice.

"Lower your voice."

"Take."

"Miss, lower your voice!"

"ME."

"You're making a scene!"

"To Venice!"

"Fine!" I got up, heading for the door. Half the bar was staring by now, and I figured I had fifteen minutes to leave the station before, girl in tow or not, I'd find myself strapped to a chair in a side tunnel. I glanced behind me, half expecting to be staring at her over the business end of a padonak, but, for now, she'd decided to put in after me without another word, incriminating or otherwise.

"I'm Maya, by the way," she said, pulling her cigarette case out again.

"Konstantin."

This time I accepted, and we shared a light.

[Gesar]

The handsome young man passing through the station seemed to keep to himself, and his easy-going smile was offset by the uncomfortable look in his eyes. Few seemed to play much attention to him, but those who got close enough caught a few pleasant bars of an old, hummed song. His note was simple, and apparently of a more personal nature.

Dear S--

I doubt you'll read this, but just in case: I don't know when I'll be back again. Or even if I'll be back. I hate the idea of leaving so suddenly, but if this goes right...I won't have to live like this anymore, and we can get back to what's important.

In case I don't, though...one of the old poets said it best.

"Out beyond ideas of rightdoing
and wrongdoing
There is a field.
I will meet you there."

[Huojin]

BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK

FOR ECHELONS OF-2 AND ABOVE ONLY

ATTN: CHIRKOV, SERGEI. COLONEL, COMMONWEALTH JAEGERS
FROM: COMMONWEALTH FORCES COMMAND COUNCIL

CC:
GORSHKOV, ALEKSANDR. MAJOR, COMMONWEALTH JAEGERS.
MASORIN, YURY. CAPTAIN, COMMONWEALTH JAEGERS.
USHAKOV, VLADIMIR. CAPTAIN, COMMONWEALTH JAEGERS.

CONCERNING: PRIME MINISTERIAL HANDOVER

Following the results of the election of XXth XXXXX, Prime Minister Loginov has been unseated by Prime Minister-Elect, Pyotr Kirillovich Rusakov. The Commonwealth Jaegers under Colonol Chirkov are hereby tasked with protection and honour guard detail at the official handing over and swearing-in of the Prime Minister-Elect.

Disposition of these tasks is left to force commanders. Tasks will include the ceremonial lowering and raising of both the Presidential and Commonwealth standards, ceremonial guard duties, crowd control and policing, and area security. Attention is to be paid to this last point, with particular regard given to the potential for pro- and anti-militarism forces being present at the handover, after Cabinet recommendations to Prime Minister Loginov regarding the increased military preparedness instituted throughout the Commonwealth. We do not expect significant resistance or presence, although special direction should be given to troops to avoid negative public perceptions.

Following this handover ceremony, Prime Minister-Elect Rusakov will make a short speech. The event is to be heavily policed at this point. Approximately 5 minutes afterwards, Prime Minister-Elect Rusakov will meet with the Cabinet of the Commonwealth. At this point, Jaeger units should withdraw to their positions guarding the Government Building and remain while the Cabinet of the Commonwealth convenes.

After the conclusion of this meeting, they must be present to escort the Prime Minister-Elect through the station to the Prime Ministerial Residence.

FOR ECHELONS OF-2 AND ABOVE ONLY

BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK

[Snacks]

"Another lost stranger? There seem to be so many of those these days. Well, perhaps I might help you find your way again. Or maybe I was lost and you have found me."

The girl laughs to herself. It's a soft, gentle laugh that seems a little out of place in the half-life we're all given now... but maybe not so much out of place coming from this one. She pulls back her hood, revealing a soft face of a woman barely into her twenties; framed by long dark hair, a startlingly colorful (if faded) length of cloth tying it back, and some sort of strange ornament tied up in it, made from linked bullets and other baubles.

"Ah, you like my visulki, stranger? My father always said I was like a little crow, finding things that caught my eye and hanging them there, like my mother taught me. He was a good man, but serious. Such people find it hard to understand the family business. Ah, yes, perhaps that what has brought you to me? If you are lost, I may be able to help you back on your path again...for a price."

with a flourish, she produces seemingly from thin air a deck of strange cards: not like normal playing cards but tall and narrow. Resuming her speech, she expertly shuffles the cards and cuts the deck in two, setting them on either side of the space between you.

"With my skills, I may be able to pin down what has been holding you back- or what might help you on your way. But I warn you, as my mother warned me, and hers her: the great destruction wreaked havok on more than just the world above: the cards often showed unfortunate things we do not like *before* the world was destroyed. Now? Who knows, they tell the story of not just one person, but the Metro with them, so do not cry to Anya and demand a refund if they spell a hard ride ahead for you. Now, with that out of the way..."

With a swift, practiced hand, she slid three cards off of the right pile and onto the table in a row, face down, one hand hovering over them as she held the other out, palm up.

"Oh spirits, lost children of the Metro and the lost world above, hear my call. The Crow comes to appeal on behalf of another, one willing to pay the priceof knowledge gained before its time..."

She smiles as the bullets trickle into her hand, continuing, "Now, have mercy on us still bound to the struggles of our mortal coil, and help this lost one return to their path..."

With an audible intake of breath, she turned over the first card, bearing an intricate drawing of a serene looking man in flowing robes, bearing a golden crown and cross, labeled верховный жрец.

"Ah, I see. You are part of a great group, a pillar of the Metro... but ah! The card is inverted, see? There may have been groups like this in the past, and others may have stood once where you do now, but still you are set apart from all of them, your destiny is to make or break their future. Either way, they and the Metro will never be the same."

"Hm, next..." the girl makes a soft, chiding click of her tongue as she turns the card over and reveals the image of a man stabbed in the back -rather exorbitantly- laying dead by a waterfront, the picture bounded by two words: десять and мечи. "Swords... They come out all too often these days, all too easily. Perhaps that is why you find yourself surrounded by a Metro in ruins, beset by scavengers attempting to pick over the carcass of the world left to you, like demons. But perhaps things are not as hopeless as they sometimes seem, for you are one who acts, no? Now, the last card."

This time, you are greeted by the sight of a workman, joined by two other men holding blueprints, the card labeled три Пентаклей. At this, she smiles, "And a course of action reveals itself... should you trust in the cards. The troubles that plague you, Stranger, will require friends to defeat, most certainly. But whose goals will be served by your cooperation, and can you be sure theirs are as noble? Just remember, and this piece of advice is on the house..."

She smiles, "...No refunds."

[BgKnight]

Somewhere outside Marxiskaya, the tunnels roar with the sound of music from instruments long forgotten. The loud music draws in a small crowd, small time merchants and other people interested. The male voice seems to be familiar, as it fills the tunnel.

In-front of the band, a large painted sign declares "Цой жив" (Tsoi is alive!) . The male voice comes from a tall man, with boyish features. People were drawn to his eyes specifically, a bit different from what they were used to, once upon a time people would call those looks "Asian" or specifically "Korean", but nobody really remembers all of that now.

They don't remember Kino either, nor do they remember Tsoi, those few who do are not here, they are hidden away in the tunnels. Only the band itself knows who Tsoi is and only their followers believe he is alive and here in the Metro. And he sings the songs and fills the Metro, he sings of love, he sings of hope, of the sun that nobody has ever seen. And the small crowd is dragged in unison with the songs. They love him.

"Цой жив" Indeed.

[Master of Oblivion]

Posters are found plastered along various Metro Lines.

[Gesar]

Scrawled on an odd corner of the wall is a simple message, a crude star on top. A drawing of two magazine cartridges is followed by an equals sign and a mushroom. A drawing of three seems to be the equivalent of the sort of mask a Stalker would use. Beneath this, five magazine cartridges are opposite the three-armed swastika of the Fourth Reich. A very clear message is written underneath it all.

смерть фашиста

[RinKou]

The rulebook had gone out the window the minute I agreed to take Maya to Venice, so I didn't bother giving her the usual spiel as we stepped out into the tunnels. Instead, I said:

"First - no more tantrums."

She started to say something, so I cut her off and continued: "We have very specific rules in place about how we do things ensure everyone's safety, and we've already broken several. If you want me to take you any further, then you're going to have to do as I say from now on, alright?"

Instead of stopping with me, she kept walking.

"You have a lot of experience with bandits and mutants?" She asked instead of agreeing.

"You don't survive this long in this business without it," I said, watching her go. "You came to me for a reason, miss. Are you going to let me do my job?"

"There are worse things in these tunnels than bandits and mutants," she called back.

"Like people who don't follow directions," I called after her.

"Like NKVD," she said. "Like the Alney Fantom. Are you coming or not?"

"And what do you know of the NKVD?" I asked instead of following.

"I know they're waiting for you along your usual route, and that if we want to get out of Theatre alive, we're going to take the E5 service tunnel to Kitai-Gorod instead." She pointed east.

"This is fucking ridiculous," I said, turning around. "Ridiculous!" I called after her. "NKVD doesn't assign men to take a single runner. I don't know what your game is, but you seem to know how to handle this yourself. I'm leaving."

"They aren't looking for you, Konstantin Rostovich."

I stopped. I never told her my last name.

"Born on the surface, veteran of the Hanseatic counter-revolutionary forces turned book merchant turned people smuggler."

I turned, and as she continued, I started toward her. She didn't budge. Instead she continued: "Who said they're looking for you?"

Before I knew it, I'd broken into a sprint. I could have - should have shot her. She was no more than ten paces away, and I'd already had my ubionik shouldered. Her yelling my personal information was a bigger risk than any attention the gunshot would attract, and a single shot coming from the tunnels would be no cause for concern inside the station. But instead, I dropped my weapon and lunged at her, boxing her toward the tunnel walls before she could react. Grabbing her wrists in one hand and clapping the other over her mouth, I said for her: "They're looking for you."

As she stared at me, eyes narrowed with rage, then softed by something not unlike relief, she nodded.

"So who are you?"

"The station-master's daughter," she said. "My fiance is Viktor Vasilov, whom you smuggled to Venice five months ago."

"Jesus Christ," I muttered. "A party princess."

"That's right," she sneered. "Lay another hand on me and I'll kill you before he does."

Viktor was enough trouble - it didn't take long to see what the two saw in each other. The only thing worse than a headstrong escapee was one who was also capable, and knew as much. Now I'd have to deal with two of them, though thankfully, seperately.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, turning her around as I pulled the padonak from her gunbelt, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber before sticking it in my own. It certainly corroborated her story - after market autofire adapter, extended magazines, a collapsable stock and foregrip installed by a professional. This wasn't some side tunnel hackjob, and she wasn't your average refugee.

"So NKVD is camped out along the green tunnel?"

"Yes," she said, with measured scorn. "Do you not trust me?"

"Do you trust me?" I asked her instead, as I started to check her for other weapons.

She didn't answer.

The patdown didn't reveal anything but a bootknife. After a quick inspection, I turned it back over to her.

"I'm keeping the gun," I said. Then, after a moment, added: "For now."

"You know I can still slit your throat in your sleep," she said, as she slid the knife back in its place.

"What can I say," I shrugged. "I trust you."

Spoiler

Show

"Besides. I'm a light sleeper."

[Flamelord]

Joining those crude drawings and carvings on the walls is another, engrained with the blade of a knife or some other appropriated cutting implement. It is not long, perhaps, and certain not as elegant as some of the other things written here, but it has a hold of it's own, one that rings as a clarion call, to be ignored by some and heeded by others. It is the same word, over and over, urging purity, devotion, and it holds the loyalty of many. Just one word:

"Slava, Slava, Slava"

[Smyg]

Deep within the well-lit station-complex, there is a large plaque. It was once an empty wall, intended for a piece of carved artwork that was never added. Names are engraved on it now, with hammer and chisel. They aren't many, but the few that are there are respected by all, with the soldiers of Polis saluting as they pass. As you pass, a craftsman is carefully etching another name in.

PYOTR KONSTANTINOVICH NIKONOV

1988 - 2034

RANGER OF THE ORDER

DIED IN THE DEFENCE OF PAVELETSKAYA

[Huojin]

Military Advanced Surgery Headquarters - Krasnopresnenskaya 4077


“How on Earth did you do that?” he pondered, a mix of curiosity and bewilderment.

“New procedure. The neointimal hyperplasia causes restenosis, so we use a drug-eluting balloon during the angioplasty to prevent it.” He smirked. “It was perfected by a children’s balloon artist, you know.”

“So you can do that now! I’d heard of such a thing being developed. It’s incredible,” he said, shaking his head, “you’re so far ahead of us in Arbats in many ways.”

“We even rediscovered the banana daiquiri.”

“Hah, I’ll drink to that. Cheers”

“Cheers.” Glaz Yastreba leant forward and tapped his glass bottle against that of his guest, the soft clink echoing in the mostly empty room. Little in them was really alcohol, but it made waiting on call go by easier to imagine otherwise. A sterile, metallic smell pervaded the sparse little room, with a few military bunks against the back wall and mess tables towards the doors.

Over at another table, Frants hunched over, propping up his head with his arm, his mouth turned down. Across from him, Okhotnik looked up. “Frants, you look pensive.”

“Huh?” Frants looked up suddenly, knocked out of his daze. “No, I’m just thinking… Why do we need another doctor here?”

Okhotnik glanced over at Glaz, a smirk on his face, before turning back to Frants. “We’ve been short another doctor since the day you showed up.”

Shooting bolt upright, Frants cried out. “Hey! I’m as good a doctor as the next man!”

“As long as the next man is Viktor Tsoi,” offered Glaz from across the room.

Frants opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short as a voice boomed out on a tinny PA.

“ATTENTION ALL SURGICAL PERSONNEL. REPORT TO OPERATING ROOM, INCOMING CASUALTIES ARRIVING BY THE NORTHERN RAIL. IT’S A MESSY ONE.”

All four men leapt from the seats, some with a little more vigour than others. As they piled through the doorway and pushed their ways through pre-op, Okhotnik trilled out, “We got customers!”

No sooner were they standing by their operating tables than the first men began to be carried in on stretchers and laid out on the cold metal, more like autopsy benches than operating tables. With a flourish, bloodstained white sheets are thrown back at each station.

“Jeez,” decried Glaz, “Looks like this kid was playing beanbag with a hand grenade. Always thought those things were meant to be holy, not Satanist. Nurse, number 9 blade.”

The three men set to work on their patients, working quickly, their gloved hands quickly marked with blood. The new doctor, however, only assisted. It was only his first day here, after all.

Frants finished his man first, the orderlies exchanging him for the next patient. As he slid onto the table, Glaz glanced over and whistled. “Wow. See what happens when you play with guns?” Shooting him a poisonous glare, Frants glanced down at the man himself, gazing deep into the wound in his abdomen.

“Jesus, this patient is really messed up.” His hands plunged in working steadily for several minutes. “Nurse, more suction! And new guy, keep outta the way! Stop daydreaming, the both of you!”

From the head of the operating table, the anaesthesiologist’s voice rang out, “Doctor, I’m getting no pulse.”

“What? Are you sure?”

A shake of the head. “Nothing.”

Frants stripped his gloves from his hands. “Well, that’s that then.”

The new man looked at him in shock. “Whaddaya mean, “that’s that”? Do something!”

“He was a goner anyway. Lets get the next g-”

“Don’t just stand there, move!” A gloved hand shoves him out of the way, before beating the patient’s chest. “Nurse, cover his stomach wound, quickly!”

The beating on his chest becomes a steady, rhythmic pushing on his ribcage. From the other side of the operating theatre, Glaz calls out mid-surgery, “Try open heart massage.”

“Need to do it closed, too much risk of infection - squeeze that bag, give him some air!” The pushing continues, urgent but keeping pace.

“No pulse.”

A voice muttered half to himself, “Come on…”

“No pulse.” Frants snorts. “I told you!”

Louder this time, “Come on, come on!"

Eyes rolling, Frants half shouts, “When are you gonna give up your theatrics?” The pressing continues in silence, unresponsive.

“Hey, wait a minute.” The anaesthesiologist looks up. “I’m getting something. Good… better… huh, it’s going on its own.”

The doctor from Arbats stood back from the operating table, silent. He took a deep breathe, then stepped back in to finish the operation. Across the OR, Okhotnik glances up from his own patient to look at Glaz. “You reckon he’s gonna make it?”

Even with his surgical mask on, Glaz’s disdain is perceptible. “Well that depends. We could get bombed, there could be a mutant attack… Or Frants could operate on him again.”