"Artyom… wake up, Artyom…"

"Mama?"

"We're here, Artyom. Let's go."

The blurry vision of his surroundings had nothing to do with wakefulness. Try as he might, Artyom could not see his mother's face. He saw the pink sweater, the faded blue jeans, the dark hair—the same shade he had inherited—but her face was ever so blurry.

His mother held her hand out to him. Jostling slightly under constant motion from the train, his tiny hand six-year-old hand reached out to take hers…

"Artyom? Wake up!"

~o~O~o~

Startled awake from his dream—memories—Artyom's eyes snapped open. Blearily, he looked around the darkened room-small, cramped, but familiar. His observations were interrupted when a tiny click followed by a sudden burst of light which forced him to turn his eyes away and hold up his hand to block the offending source from the nearby table.

"Artyom, you must get up," his adopted father, Alex, sternly said.

Adjusting to the light, Artyom nodded and rubbed his eyes. "Uncle? What is it?"

"Hunter is coming," Alex said. "We should receive him. He should have news from the other stations. Also, I need to check the condition of those in the hospital. Come along now."

Nodding again, Artyom hid his sigh with a yawn. He was no longer six years old, but twenty. He was not riding a train to the botanical gardens with his tortured faded memories of his departed mother, but living in Exhibition Station with his adopted father—whom he affectionally has called uncle ever since Alex adopted him—in his personal tiny bedroom.

"Are you all right, son?" Alex worriedly asked.

"I'm fine, Uncle," Artyom replied. "You said Hunter is coming?"

Alex nodded. "Yes. I'm expecting he shall arrive shortly. Let's go."

Sitting up in his bed, Artyom fumbled around for his boots and quickly put them on. "I'm ready."

"Good. Be sure to turn off the light before leaving," Alex said, semi-sternly, before walking out.

Artyom took a moment to observe his collection of postcards, reminders of an age now completely destroyed by man's folly, before doing as he was told and turning off the light.

Power was important to maintain in the Metro, and carelessly leaving lights on was something Alex frowned upon. With the world ruined, the underground Metro housed the remaining vestiges of humanity. As he slipped on a jacket, Artyom dimly remembered the day everything ended. The air raid sirens, his mother's panicked voice as she carried him to his new life underground, the desperation, the fear, the hopeless as darkness entrenched on their senses while nuclear fire engulfed the surface…

The world had ended over a decade ago, but humans endured. Forty thousand Russians living in Moscow all sought shelter in the Metro stations threaded throughout the city. There, they carved out their new existence below ground, creating homes and turning the Metro into a fortress to shield the survivors from the irradiated surface, the endless winter, and the birth of nightmarish mutants that freely took to the surface or roamed the darkness of the tunnels.

Dispelling his errant thoughts, Artyom left the confines of his modest room. Closing and locking the door behind him, he jogged through the tight, and perhaps to some unlucky few, claustrophobic hallways to catch up to his father.

"Let's go, Artyom," Alex called out over his shoulder without breaking stride.

Alex may have been well into his sixties, with full head of grey hair, but his stocky size and purposeful strides showed that he was still fit and capable. Alex seldom talked about his life before the Metro, but given how his father carried himself, Artyom privately thought that Alex may have been in the military one upon a time.

As they ascended some steps, a doctor rounded the corner above them and waited until they reached the top.

"Alex."

"Yes, Nikolay?"

"The station can't survive much longer if these attacks don't stop," Nikolay said matter-of-factly. "We must do something."

Alex sighed in frustration or annoyance and resumed walking. "What more can we do?"

Artyom could only shrug at Nikolay and hurried to keep pace with his father.

"Do you have idea what to do, Uncle?" Artyom asked when he caught up.

"We'll see what Hunter says," Alex replied.

Artyom nodded and followed along silently.

Exhibition was one of the bigger stations, providing much of the mushrooms many of the other stations enjoyed, either as food, vodka or tea. Unsurprising since it used to be one of the busiest stations from before the war. Artyom could even recall its former name: Exhibition of Achievements of the People's Economy. However, unlike most of the other stations, Exhibition was remained stubbornly neutral from the other city-states that make up various government bodies of the Metro. In addition to mushrooms, Exhibition was also able to raise pigs, which provided food and leather.

Privately, Artyom was proud to be raised in Exhibition. It was civilized with its citizens able to eat and sleep in comfort and safety. Laws had been established to ensure children were taught to read and write, with books coming all the way from Polis Station. Collapsed tunnels safeguarded on area, allowing manpower to be diverted to stand guard at outposts at the remaining tunnels to ensure any threat, be it mutant or human, could not enter Exhibition. Every man of age takes a turn at guarding the passages, with each one trained in the use of firearms, including Artyom himself.

After a few minutes, both men were finally approaching the hospital. Sadly, it was placed near one of the few doors leading right to the surface. It was by necessity, in the event that a plague or some other infectious disease was discovered among the patients. The doors to the hospital could be sealed, preventing the sick from going deeper into Exhibition and threatening the populace. The only other way out was into certain death from the wasteland of old Moscow.

Alex knocked on the heavy door.

"No visitors!" came a muffled reply from the other side.

"Petr!" Alex calmly called back.

A slot in the door opened and a man peered through. "Oh, it's you!"

The slot closed, but a moment later, the entire door opened instead. "Come in, Alex."

Alex nodded and walked through. Artyom couldn't help but glance at the large crowd of people, held back by several guards. Hurrying through the door, he nodded at Petr.

"Hello, Artyom," Petr kindly said. He swiftly closed the door. "I know they want to see their loved ones, but the hospital is full, and our medics are busy trying to keep the survivors alive. It's an uphill battle I hear."

"So we can't have the others in here to crowd the area," Artyom said. He had already observed several curtains, each containing cots with men moaning in agony.

"Exactly," Petr said before sitting back down and resuming his post.

"How are the wounded?" Alex asked one of the physicians.

The old doctor heaved a sigh. "Not much improvement. Two died this morning."

"The Dark Ones…" Artyom whispered.

Alex nodded. "The Dark Ones do not kill outright. But they damage a victim's mind… sooner or later, this leads to death."

"It makes one almost wish we were dealing with regular mutants," Artyom said, trying to keep upbeat.

No one could accurately describe what the Dark Ones were, or what they even looked like. Those that encountered them either disappeared, or were broken men, muttering gibberish about moving inky blackness, darkness, or other assorted nightmares. One of the more coherent "survivors" had coined the name Dark Ones to label the threat Exhibition now faced.

"It would almost be a godsend," the doctor replied. "God, when will this ever end? I can't take it anymore."

Artyom avoided making eye contact with the unfortunate souls twisting and turning in their cots. He and Alex passed through the far door, which led into a guard outpost. An even bigger and heavier imposing metal door blocked the way at the opposite side. Beyond it, the merciless desolation of the ruins of Moscow lay just beyond.

Alex crossed his arms and waited patiently. Artyom didn't even have time to wonder how long they would have to wait when there was a knock on the door.

The guards manning the door were startled. "What the hell? Who could that be?"

"It's Hunter," Alex answered.

The guard in charge, Kiril, rolled his eyes at his two subordinates. "Mutants don't knock, you idiots—open the damned gate."

The guards hurried to follow their orders. Artyom had to wrap his jacket tighter around him as the icy winds of the surface chilled room. Bathed in sunlight, an armored figure cut an intimidating presence.

"Welcome to Exhibition, Hunter!" Kiril greeted.

Hunter pulled a large bag through the threshold of the airlock doors before stepping through. "Thanks. Now close your gate!" he barked; his voice muffled through his gas mask.

"It's been a long time, Hunter," Alex warmly said.

As soon as the doors were closed, Hunter took off his gas mask and took a deep breath. "Good to see you, Alex," he said before walking up and shaking hands. He looked over Alex's shoulder and smiled. "Hello, Artyom!"

"Hello, Hunter," Artyom said with a smile of his own.

Whatever relationship Alex and Hunter shared, Artyom suspected it was due to Alex's past as a possible soldier, which would no doubt appeal to Hunter.

However, the relationship shared between Hunter and Artyom was different. While all men in Exhibition had to train how to use firearms, Artyom had shown an unusual level of talent that set him apart from his peers. It didn't seem to matter what sort of gun was in his hands, as long as he could shoot it, he quickly became proficient in it.

It was that talent that caught Hunter's eye when he visited Exhibition all those years ago, and since then, Hunter had taken it upon himself to hone Artyom's skill. At first, Hunter had been gruff, like a drill sergeant, but had long since become friendly and encouraging as Artyom's talents grew.

Artyom remained thankful for Hunter's tutelage, especially when it quite probably saved his life during a mutant attack at the outpost he had been assigned to a year or so previous. His peers had been in awe of his ability to hit every target in the dimly lit tunnels with very few misses, accounting for most of the kills that evening.

After all, it wasn't as if anyone could be personally taught how to shoot by a Spartan Ranger.

The military might of Polis Station, the Polis Rangers, often going by their nickname, the Spartan Order or Spartans, were widely considered to be the most skilled soldiers in all of the Metro. Hunter was one such soldier.

"So Hunter, what's happening in the outside world these days?" Alex asked. He gestured that they seat themselves around the campfire the guards had been sitting at moments ago.

Hunter's countenance was grim. "Not much. Most of what I hear is about Exhibition—and the 'undead' infesting your tunnels."

"No one knows what they are or where they come from?" Artyom asked.

Hunter shook his head and rummaged through his rucksack. "No. It seems your station is the lucky one to make first contact with this breed of mutant… ah, here it is."

"What is it?"

"I met a trader selling old postcards of New York City," Hunter answered. He carefully took out a postcard and held it out. "I thought of your wall."

Carefully taking the wrinkled paper, Artyom studied the image of a statue he knew of through some of the books in the library.

The Statue of Liberty… I suppose she too lies in ruins now… a beautiful, tragic waste…

"These are not the usual mutant creatures," Alex gravely said and pulling the conversation back on track. "This is something else… something much worse."

"Hmph. Dark Ones," Hunter said, almost dismissively. "Well, whatever in the hell they are, my Order has a motto: If it's hostile, you kill it."

"The Dark Ones do not kill outright," Alex cautioned.

Before he could continue, the loudspeaker above beeped before a female voice spoke. "Intruder alarm in the main vent shaft—they're coming from above!"

Kiril grunted and check his kalash. "Shit! Just what we needed!"

"There are wounded here just behind the wall… The hospital…" one of the other guards said.

Alex opened a nearby locker and pulled out a kalash. "Kiril, take your group to the tunnels. Hunter and I—"

"Alex, we must stay here and defend the hall," Hunter said before Alex could finish. He shot a meaningful look at Artyom.

Alex hesitated for a moment before reluctantly agreeing. "Alight. Artyom, take the revolver."

Artyom picked up the .44 Magnum along with some ammo. He deftly popped the cylinder and saw it was loaded before setting it back in. Pocketing the bullets, Artyom stood in a loose circle with the older men.

"Damn! They never come this far into the station!" Alex said.

"It's the hospital—they smell the blood!" Hunter grimly said.

They waited in silence for only a few seconds, though to Artyom, if felt like minutes, before the roars of the nosalis' could be heard. They were the kinds of mutant he was quite familiar with. Territorial predators, they were vicious, yet a common sight in the new apocalyptic world. It was widely believed that the nosalises were mutated from pests like moles or shrews, but now grew to be bipedal, hunched back, with a large head filled with snapping teeth with matching claws on their hands and feet. They tended to roam in packs, but despite such advantages, were quite easy to kill, making them more akin to target practice so long as he didn't let himself get overconfident and let a nosalis tear out his throat from behind.

"Four vents in this room," Alex muttered.

"Five," Artyom corrected. "The one above us."

Alex tore his eyes away from the walls and looked up at the circular vent above their head. "Damn."

It was good thing Artyom had said something. No sooner than their gazes focused on the solitary vent above was when a nosalis breached the room through it. Hunter was quickest on the draw and fired a three-round burst into the beast.

The growls grew in intensity. Alarm bells were ringing throughout the station now, giving warning to the women, children, and elderly to seek shelter while all able-bodied fighters were to man their posts.

nosalises were charging into the rectangular vents on the walls now. Hunter and Alex raised their Kalash's and proceeded to fire away.

Artyom took careful aim with his revolver and easily put a round into the oversized head of the mutant. Taking care not to damage to vents, he fired the last five rounds in the handgun at five more mutants, using their bodies to plug up the vents and prevent any other nosalises from coming in.

The fight was brief, but furious. The three men won out in the end though when the way in was blocked by the dead. The nosalises in the vents had to give up and retreat.

Once the growls had faded away, Hunter carefully shined his headlamp into the ceiling vent. "Looks clear," he declared.

Artyom carefully and deliberately loaded the cylinder one round at a time as Hunter had taught him. Haste and panic would infinitely do more harm; it was better to have one bullet in the chamber than none at all. At least that way, he could either take out one more threat, or eat the bullet himself if needed.

Glancing at his foster father, Artyom's theory about Alex's military background seemed to get stronger and stronger. It was the first time he had ever seen the older man hold a weapon, but he held it with confidence and familiarity.

Once he was sure the danger had passed, Alex lowered the barrel and sought out his adopted son. "Artyom, are you all right?"

Arytom nodded, but Hunter answered. "Of course—he's a dead-eye shot, this one."

Artyom fairly beamed under the praise from the Spartan Ranger.

Hunter kicked one of the bodies and frowned. "No Dark Ones here… just the usual 'tunnel trash'."

Alex shook his head. "Even when you don't see them—the Dark Ones are there. Fear—that's their weapon, that's what made the nosalises run through the tunnels like rats. The Dark Ones are not simple mutants—they Homo Novus, the next step in evolution."

Artyom recalled reading about the Latin words, 'Homo Novus' in ancient Roman history books.

New Man.

"You've heard about 'survival of the fittest'?" Alex asked angrily. "Guess what? We lost."

It was the first time Artyom had ever seen his foster father lose his composure, and it was heart-breaking to see.

"What's happened to you, Alex?" Hunter asked for spitting on one of the corpses. "You can go like lambs to the slaughter—I'll hang on to whatever life I got, with teeth and claws. And I'll take more than a few of your 'Homo Novus' with me to hell!"

Alex almost laughed and pointed at the door to the hospital. "You think you're some old movie cowboy? Have a look, Hunter! Ten soldiers trained in combat; their bodies broken, their minds gone!"

Before Hunter could retort, a guard burst into the room from the hospital. "The Dark Ones—they destroyed the outer guard post!"

The three men were stunned, but only for a moment before they ran through the station. It had been crowded before but was now eerily devoid of people. Artyom knew they were hiding in their homes; he could hear children crying, mothers whispering, as he ran by, but he still couldn't shake the idea that it was an omen… that his station, his home, was under attack by an enemy the couldn't even identify. That without help, Exhibition would be no more.

They reached the outer tunnels, but as the guard had said, the outpost was no more. The men were still alive, but their eyes were wide open, mouths gaping in silent screams with their hands clawing at phantoms only they could see.

Alex swept the room, weapon ready before kneeling down to check on the guards.

Hunter ignored men around him. Instead, he knelt down and closely inspected some tracks. Artyom walked to his mentor and tried to discern what pattern in the loose rock and dirt Hunter had seen.

"The Devil knows what's happening out there, beyond your perimeter," Hunter muttered. He glanced at Alex. Sure that the older man was out of earshot, he turned to face Artyom. "I must go recon the situation."

"By yourself?" Artyom asked in shock. He couldn't help but observe the broken men that had once been guards of this outpost, now reduced to shadows reflect terror and fear.

Hunter nodded. He grabbed Artyom's arm and pulled him toward the tunnel, further away from Alex until they were out of his line-of-sight. "There's no time to wait. Listen carefully, Artyom. If I'm not back here by morning, you must get to Polis Station and find a man named Millar. Tell him what's happened to me, and what's stirring in the northern tunnels."

"Me?" Artyom blurted out. His mouth felt dry and his hands clammy. It was one thing to learn how to shoot, but he was not a soldier. Certainly, nothing like Hunter, there was no comparison.

"You can do it, I believe in you," Hunter said with a firm clap on Artyom's shoulders. He reached under his collar and pulled out a small chain with a pair of dog tags attached. "Show this to Miller, so he knows I've sent you. I trust everything to you, Artyom. Don't let me down."

Artyom grasped the chain and studied the tags. One side was stamped with the heraldry of the Spartan Order, the other had Hunter's name, serial number, and blood type.

Hunter drew his Kalash and boldly walked into the dark tunnel. "If we are to survive, this threat must be eliminated. No matter the cost—eliminated! Understand?"

"Yeah… I understand, Hunter," Artyom said, though his voice had been so quiet, he wasn't sure Hunter had heard him.

Checking his watch, Artyom prayed that Hunter would return as promised.