It has been years since the bombs dropped, and maybe a year or so after the harassment of The Dark Ones, near-invincible creatures with telekinetic and psychopathic abilities. Fortunately, it seemed, that the rangers had been there to stop the Dark Ones in their path with the remaining missiles left behind at a bunker known as D6. How unfortunate that civilians were rarely let inside on a whim, it could have been a second home to the denizens of the metro.

Life in Kuznetsky Most was bleak. Kuznetsky Most, otherwise known as Armory Station for being the major supplier and distributor of weaponry and ammunition across the Metro, was under complete Red Line control. Sure the local militia at the station stood guard at the post outside, but on the inside, you'd see nothing but the strong presence of the Red Line, Red Army posters and paraphernalia practically littered the station, as well as cages of people who would be forced to manufacture more munitions and guns. Those in the cages were usually attempted fugitives, and prisoners.

Worst still were the frequent raids and searches on everybody's homes, having a decent reputation helped even if by the tiniest margin. Still, it was better to have the Red Line soldiers try to be gentle and tidy when rifling through your belongings.

His name was Dante Estoli, just about the only Hispanic man in the whole wide Metro for all he cared. A tiny speck of ink in a sea of white would be the best way to describe him, his family and him went to Moscow for a simple tourist trip, a one week stay and then head home to America.

That was before the bombs dropped, that was when he was just a small lad, no older than twelve or so. That would make him.. Twenty Three? Around that age he was now, he had a smoothed angular face and somewhat chubby cheeks, courtesy of his deceased father. His hands were a bit on the thin side and perfect for anything that required fine motor skills, courtesy of his mother. He still wore his now faded blue long sleeve shirt from all those years ago, just that years of patching it up and tailoring it has made it look like strong patchwork made to fit around only him, and the only "new" clothing on him were some shoes plated with metal, and some sweatpants, equally as plated. He had a fascination with science and medicine, as well as graphic design and 3D modeling, and secretly a passion for designing crude weapons, like guns.

Being a marine biologist and designer was likely out of the window years ago, same with 3D modeling on a proper computer that had any software, to begin with. The only modern-day tech he had on him was a USB drive with to best of his memory told him that it had an old, heavily modified game and some codes he used daily.

Good luck trying to use that in the apocalypse.

He always kept the piece of the old world on him, hidden somewhere that always changed so that the Red Line searches would never find it. But if his plan worked he would never have to worry about the dictatorship that was being in occupied territory, he only hoped they had no bases on the surface and that he would run into a friendly face like the Spartans instead of a Nazi combatant.

Twenty-four minutes total in 4 filters, a "reinforced" gas mask (which just had a layer of clear resin over the glass.)

40 shotgun shells with at least twenty more empty, as well as his Ubinoik, or Shambler as some called it, a combat shotgun whose inner workings were forged from kitchen parts and ingenuity.

A small backpack, a single molotov cocktail, and four medkits.

Those who went out on the surface were called Stalker's and brought things back to the Metro in exchange for simple goods such as ammo or medical supplies.

This would be his first trek out to the world since the bombings if he wasn't killed on the way out. He quietly left his room with a dummy in his place made from pillows and some of his shaved hair woven together like a wig and hid in a ditch in the concrete ground where the tracks for little wagons could embark and depart.

Now it was a waiting game, and mere luck would decide if he was taken closer to his goal or to the frontlines of combat depending on what trolley appeared with what destination in mind..