INTRO

This city used to be great, huh? Not so much anymore. Now it is nothing but a frozen waste land, one of many on this used up and discarded earth. Moscow is but a shell of its former self, only inhabited by the nightmarish abominations born of the radiation, and few people are willing to risk it all to gather the trinkets of the old world that remain in the embrace of this endless winter we now life in. That is where we come in, stalkers, the few brave, or perhaps crazy, enough to venture up into the ruins of the motherland. They say we are worth our weight in gold, down here in the metro, but that is all it is, a saying. We, like everyone else, endure the poverty and state of perpetual torment that we have come to accept as comfort now.

You may wonder why people like us, me, carry on doing this, risking so much for so little. You could ask that of many people, but why do I do it? So that I can going on to the last hope we have, the hope that we will last long enough for the world up there to accept us again, to let us crawl out of the dirt where we live like rats, and remember what it is to be human.

-Kirill Antonovich Dragomirov

CHAPTER 1 – POLIS

"So, why don't you run it past me one more time?"

The man sniffed, scratched his nose, and then leant back in his wheelchair. He rubbed his eyes, itchy and fatigued. He hadn't slept for days and hadn't had a hot meal for a lot longer, the younger of the two guys on the other side of the desk was sitting on something big. There were three men in the office, a small and cramped room, the air of which tasted like smoke; mould gathered in the corners, and there were several picture frames hanging from the walls. The younger man sat forward on the edge of his seat, scratched at his stubble and raised his hands, as if he were about to explain something. He was still wrapped up in a mix of protective clothing and combat gear, he hadn't even had time before the meeting to wipe the blood off of his suit.

"Alright," he began.

"In the library I came across some rooms, looked like they hadn't been opened in years, now this was a couple weeks ago, it looked pretty interesting. Now last night, when I set off, I brought some bolt cutters, and some old mining explosives I had bought, along with me. I got in to the room, and you would not believe it, all of it was intelligence relating to the scientific work they were doing in the labs in the government bunkers, the Urals!"

The man stopped briefly, took a sip from the mug on the desk before him, and carried on.

"So, you remember a couple years ago we found those plans, and a couple files in that secret military base, you know, the one near Bittsevskiy park? Yeah, the thing in regard to solving the problem of radiation in disaster zones. Basically they figured out a way to clean up fallout or something, I'm no scientist, but remember it said about how they were going to test it at the Chernobyl exclusion zone, but they never did. It's because the military realized that it was way too valuable to use in civilian instances. You see, they wanted to use it in case nuclear weapons were ever used against Russia!"

The man was very excited now, he had potentially stumbled across the answer to everyone's problems.

"In that room in the library I found out all of this and more, I've got it here-"

He picked up a rucksack that was resting against his chair and rummaged through it, eventually producing several old and musty files, filled to bursting point will papers, and schematics.

"Now, colonel. I need a team of four men, five at the most, and a truck. I'll go to the bunkers and find whatever this is, you have my word."

He had hope in his eyes. The colonel sighed and was about to speak, when the man sitting next to the young guy spoke up for the first time. He was a Brahmin, on the Polis council, and pretty high up the chain. He went by the name of Aleksandr.

"Come on Miller! Even if they got past the planning phase, it's highly unlikely the scientists in the military got a working prototype out before the bombing. Not even a chance!"

He put a cigarette up to his lips, inhaled, and coughed, before stubbing it out on an ashtray sitting on the desk. Acrid, blue tinged smoke curled up from the crumpled stub.

The young man leant back in his chair, and closed his eyes for a while, letting out a soft sigh. On the other side of the desk, Miller scratched his head, and spoke.

"Alright, Kirill. You can go. But don't take too many good soldiers, chances are you will die on this trip. It's around 2000 kilometres, through what is now deserts of ice and endless forests."

Aleksandr began to object, and was asked to leave.

"Don't make me regret this Dragomirov…"

He gave a short wave of his hand which Kirill interpreted as an order to get out of the office, he quickly complied.

Outside of Miller's office was a young ranger called Pyotr, he had gone to the library with Kirill and was eagerly waiting for Kirill to come out.

"So, what did they say?"

"Yes!"

Pyotr smiled, he didn't show off his emotions much, and when he cracked a smile every once in a while, it was definitely and occasion to celebrate. The pair walked off through the arches together.

There was no one in the gardens, save one man. He scrabbled frantically at the ground, not even sure himself what he was looking for. It was a long while before he looked up from the hole he had been digging with such enthusiasm, the only reason he had done so was the sudden lack of light. The sun had melted away over the tops of the rotting apartments to the left, like ice cream in a cone. Ice cream, it had been two decades since he's last tasted it. Beneath his gas mask the man licked his lips with longing. The last few dying rays of light illuminated his wild eyes, open as far as they could stretch, and the pupils dilating.

"Screw you Anton…" the man whispered, pausing as if he wanted to continue, yet thinking better of it. He sniffed, and sniffed again, the second lasted a lot longer. He was emitting a barely perceptible low noise, felt more than heard. The best way of describing it was probably a growl, not quite hostile enough to be a snarl, yet too abrasive to call a hum. All the living things within five metres recoiled from the disheveled man, understanding his warning.

After a couple minutes, the man still hadn't oved, and he was still growling. A slightly larger than average rat cautiously approached. The man still didn't move. It took two, three, and then began a fourth step before the man's left arm shot out like an arrow, grabbing the rat. He quickly withdrew his arm, crushing the squealing rat, he held it up in front of his face. The man cocked his head slightly. Then as quick as before, he grabbed the head of the rodent with his right hand, and tore the head off in one swift motion.

He licked his lips again.

"Looks like dinner for Anton is sorted…"

He spoke in the same disconcerting whisper.

Anton shoved the carcass into his satchel and slowly rose. The more audacious vermin had once again crawled closer. He threw his head to the left, then to the right, then let it settle in the middle again. He drew his head back and roared at the top of his lungs. Nothing in these gardens tried to hurt Anton.

His filthy, mud stained trench coat hung loosely from his shoulders, it didn't sway much in the wind. The lower half was caked with too much mud and animal dung for it move when exposed to such a light force. Even Anton didn't know what colour his trouser were originally, or what they were made of. He had a vague recollection of them being a pair of blue cargos, but now they were only a faded grey, with brown and slightly different grey patches covering most of them. The only real colour to his clothing was a red ribbon on his right bicep. No one had ever wanted to ask him what it was, it bared to much similarity with a piece of blood stained uniform, and that was all too likely.

A common misconception about Polis is that all the inhabitants are learned scholars, or brave warriors. All wealthy in some way. But people never pay attention to the homeless, do they? That isn't to say Polis had lots of vagrants, just the odd wanderer. However most of these sorry souls were chased out of town before they could find a suitable corner to squat in. Ten to fifteen years ago, the authorities had tried to deal with Anton. No one could place a finger on how long he'd actually been at the station, he only popped up every couple of weeks, and even then only for a couple of minutes. But Anton had proved to be incredibly agile, and was never held more than an hour or two in the cells before disappearing. After a couple months, the guards tried to out where he lived, and after torching two of his 'nests' he still persisted, like a bad smell. He moved in the air ducts, slept beneath trains, squatted in dark corners, one time they even caught him snoozing in a bin.

Eventually they gave up on him, the bugger was just too slippery, and his presence seemed to comfort some residents. Rats lived everywhere in the metro, and when the rats aren't to be seen, it'd be best you left too. Anton was like the rat of polis, the last time he was gone for a significant amount of time was during the Hansa/Red-Line war. There had been sightings of him as far north as Riga, and just as many as far south as Pavletskaya. But when the flames of war died down, there he was, at Polis, like he'd never left.

The local traders never complained about him, of course, whenever something went missing, it was usually Anton. However he brought enough stuff down from the surface for this to be acceptable. No one ever paid him what he was due when it came to his wares. He'd appear out of nowhere, his face shadowed by a hood, slam something down on the counter, clutching it with muddy fingers, before retracting his arm like he had been scalded. Then he'd chew on his fingers and bite his nails, his eyes wide open as he waited for the store keeper to count out five cartridges for his trouble. He'd snatch at his bullets, cradle then in his hands and inspect them meticulously, almost waiting for the store owner to avert their eyes for a second, and he mumbled in broken Russian. He would spout a single word every tenth of a second, things like 'thank', 'appreciate' or just 'good', never forming a coherent sentence. After a minute the bored shop keeper would look away, sometimes even just a fleeting glance at a clock, but when they looked back to where Anton had been, he'd never be there, as if he's blown away on a tunnel breeze.

He was back in the station now, scratching furiously at his long, matted hair. His angular features seemed to force the rat metaphor even more. Anton had lived in Polis so long that he didn't even use the hermetic doors at the top of the escalator to get in, he knew his own paths.

His boots squelched on the polished marble of the station, but he left no footprints.