Pain… that was all Artyom could remember. He had been scratched by mutants, felt their teeth gnaw at his body, and their claws holding onto him. However, it was nothing compared to getting shot. As time went on, Artyom noticed the pain in his head was slowly aching. Despite this small moment of peace, the young man wondered what did he deserve in life to deal with this? He should have been with his station, fighting the Dark Ones from overrunning his home and killing the defenders to the last man.

Then the thought of the Dark Ones occurred to him, why did they simply take the risk to come and meet him? These thoughts were strange because of how foreign the entity was at trying to meet with him. Artyom hoped there would be answers to this, clear answers, but in the world of the dying such answers were few and clean. A small cool breeze began to touch his face, demanding his attention. He opened his eyes, but with a simple hope that he would be having a dream of the strange events before he even woke up and lived his normal life.

Yet, it was never meant to be. When his eyes were brought back into the world, Artyom watched the ceiling's fan rotating above him. This is what he had to wake up to in the morning. Strange, he never had anything like this in the Metro and Sukhoi wouldn't have spent men or engineers to install a ceiling fan above him.

As he turned his head, Artyom watched from his cot and saw that he was in a room few people were ever given. In the Metro, a normal man would have been lucky to have a shack, but this room was different. The large space that was given for an old bald man walking around suggested either this man was rich or had plenty of time to make this much space for himself. "It's okay, I'll see what I can do to get you patched up." The older man commented as he worked on the body of a woman resting in her cot. "Just sleep and I'll see if I can fix this problem.

The young man looked around for a quick moment, only to take the opportunity to sit up from his resting place. As he sat up from his cot, Artyom felt a strange sensation going through his head. It could have possibly been the morphine to drown out his pain or the bullet wounds in his head. He would have to look in a mirror.

The doctor stopped working on his patient only to remove his instruments and turn around. "Oh, you're awake." He began before slipping his bloodied gloves off. When he walked over to Artyom, he took a quick seat beside the Russian. "Hey, don't move too quickly. You're still recovering from those wounds so take it easy." A small groan slipped from the lips of his patient. "Young man, just lay back down and rest. I'll see if I can get around to you."

After the strange doctor was finished helping his second patient, he was content with a few words. "That gal is going to need plenty of time recovering before she could be on her feet again, but she'll be fine." Then he took a seat beside Artyom's cot. "Okay, young man. Sit up for me so I can make a quick look and see how you are doing."

The young man did as he was told, sitting up to the man with the medical expertise. He groaned at the aching in his head. "Where am I?" Artyom wondered, curious to learn about his surroundings.

"Take it slow, you've been in a coma and I just want to see how you'll do since I took those bullets out of your noggin." The man answered as he gave out his hand. "Name's Doc Mitchell, I'm the town's doctor. Welcome to Goodsprings. What's your name?"

"Artyom." He said. "My name is Artyom." Then he slowly reached out to shake his hand. "What happened to me?"

"You got shot. Thankfully, I was able to extract those nine millimeters from your head before they could do any more damage. Hopefully, you will be fine." There was a small moment of silence between both people. "Strange, you have a funny accent. I haven't heard of it before, but I do believe that it's far from here."

"Doctor, do you know where I am?"

Doc Mitchell leaned back in his seat with his eyes gazing upon him like a hawk. "Seeing that you're not from Goodsprings and you don't look like you're from around here, all I can tell you is that you are in the Mojave Wasteland. If you want to know more, the Mojave has a bit of California, Utah, Nevada, and Arizona if we go by old-world states." The older man explained to him.

At the mention of these names, Artyom grew confused as he began to think for a logical explanation. He looked back deep into his memories, recalling such names that were mentioned before, but he could only recall his childhood. In this moment, he remembered how one of the countries outside of Moscow was split into states, but one he could remember was California. Yet, this man mentioned that he was within California. "Wait a minute, I'm in America?" Artyom questioned. He nodded his head at the thought. "No, it's impossible. I shouldn't be here."

The doctor raised his hands in goodwill. "Hey, calm down. Explain yourself. Maybe you can tell me what's going on with you. It might be you recovering from that wound of yours."

"You don't understand, I am not from around here."

"It's okay, I'll listen to you. Just tell me what's up."

"Doctor, I'm not from this place. I'm from Moscow Metro." When Artyom's words mentioned his familiar home, the bald man's eyes lit up. Perhaps he was surprised as well at this revelation.

"You're from Russia. Weird, I never thought we would ever find people from that part of the world." Mitchell said to himself. "Say, what is a kid like you doing here?"

Then he recalled his last memories. "All I can remember is that I was doing guard duty in my home station until some mutants came up to me and… I don't even know."

The doctor leaned forward as his chin rested upon his hand. "It sounds so far-fetched, but I've heard of worse. I believe you."

Artyom was surprised. Someone believed his story, one that was filled with enough nonsense to be called a madman, but this man took the chance to tell him that he was telling the truth. "Why? What makes you think you can believe my story?"

"It's your accent. It's not normal around these parts and people might say you'll be talking funny if I let you out of here." A groan escaped from the woman behind the doctor. "Okay, I better get you off your feet before I get back to patching her up." Then Mitchell rose to his feet and began to walk onto the far side of the room. This time, he stood beside a strange machine with letters and numbers.

The numbers were easy to understand, but the words were difficult to decipher. It was strange, but as Artyom blinked his eyes, the words made sense to him. He didn't know why, but this strange language was somehow making sense to him.

"See if you can walk over here, I want to see if you'll be able to walk."

The young man slipped off his cot and took a slow step. However, his feet were struggling to maintain a balance in his body as he walked over to the doctor. It was strange to think that his legs would be failing him at such a moment. Then his left leg succumbed to his own weight. Mitchell was quick to come to his aide, but Artyom raised his hand up. "Don't, I want to do this myself." He commented. Pushing himself off the wooden flooring, Artyom rose from the ground and continued his path.

When he finally reached the doctor and the strange machine beside him, he spoke. "That is some fine walking for a man walking out of the grave." Doc Mitchell commented. "I think you can carry yourself well."

"Doctor, do you know what happened to me?" He wondered.

"Other than getting shot? I don't know, but I did see a few odd fellows slip into town." He pointed towards his patient. "Turns out they had business with her, but somehow you got caught up in this debacle as well. Do you remember anything?"

Artyom shook his head. "Nyet, I don't know a thing other than a man in a checkered suit."

Mitchell's facial expression turned sour. "I knew you would say that and I somehow knew it had to do with them. Are you going to do know?"

Yes, what was Artyom going to do? He was in the middle of nowhere with no one to help him out and a place unlike his own. Other than the doctor, Artyom felt he had no purpose in life. Despite these facts, there was a memory calling out to him. There shouldn't be a reason for him to remember that moment where he was shot by the stranger, but his mind thought about it.

A Kalashnikov, what's this thing doing here? Let me bring this baby with me, I guess tonight is worth the cost.

Those words from that stranger made his blood boil. That man stole his Kalash, a weapon gifted to him by someone he trusted. Perhaps there was a purpose? At the very least it was something to look forward to after taking a shot to the head, but his mind settled in on the matter as Artyom thought about hunting that man and killing him. Strange, that was a policy for a Polis Ranger if someone took a life from their ranks. If only Hunter was here to think about his thoughts.

"Hey, you look red as a tomato." Mitchell commented. "Mind you explain this to me?"

"You said there was a man in a checkered shirt that passed through here, right?" Artyom asked. "Do you know where to find him?"

"I don't know. I just heard we had newcomers in town, but I wasn't there at the time. However, you can head over to Prospector's Saloon and talk to Trudy. She might know where those fellows went. After all, she knows what usually goes on in the town. Why do you ask?"

There was a tense feeling of rage within him. "Someone stole something from me, I plan to take it back."

"If that's the case I should worry about my other patient." Mitchell said. "I think you'll be fine enough, but before you leave I think I should hand this back to you. I didn't want this stuff to get in the way when I was performing a procedure on you." His hand reached out from behind his back with a familiar weapon in hand. "I don't know what the hell this is, but I guess it's a weapon you know about."

"Bastard." Artyom replied.

"What did you say to me?" The doctor demanded. "I just took the time to get you back together and this is what you say to me."

"No, this is a Bastard gun." He explained. "It's a bastard to use, hence why it's called a Bastard gun."

Mitchell took a look at the weapon with curiosity. "Oh… that makes plenty of sense. Sorry for overreacting."

Artyom began to laugh. "No worries, doctor. You're not the first person to act like that when I have this around. Thanks for keeping this, it's the only weapon I'm familiar with."

"Well, I guess it's time I hand this to you since I won't be using it anymore."

"Doctor, what are you talking about."

"You see, I have this thing called a Pip-Boy. I don't use it as much, but I think you'll need it more than I do. Especially since you're new around here and don't have a map of the Mojave." Out from behind his back, Doctor Mitchell revealed a strange wrist machine with a small computer screen attached. This device not only caught Artyom's attention, but piqued his curiosity.

When Artyom was immediately given the strange device, he inspected the machine with curiosity. "What does it do?" He wondered. "I never had anything like this back in Moscow." His fingers began to press buttons as the screens changed before his very eyes.

"Like I said, it's called a Pip-Boy. It's your own mini-computer attached to your wrist. Play around with it, you can figure it out along the way."

"I guess I have to thank you for saving me and helping me get on my why. How can I thank you?"

"For me, just stay alive and be healthy. That is all I am asking form you."

A smile escaped from Artyom's lips. "Still, I have to thank you for doing this for me."

"No problem." The doctor replied as he walked away from the young man. "I better get back to work, my patient needs me."

Strange, such actions in the Metro would get a man killed. However, this was not the Metro and this concept was rather strange for Artyom. Life was always harsh to him and now there was a chance of kindness coming his way. What were the possibilities of such things happening to him?

The Russian began to walk over to the nearest exit and as he unlocked the door, he felt a wave of hot air fly into his face. However, his eyes succumbed to the light as he raised his hand to defy the sun. In this moment, Artyom's gaze fell upon the remains of the town that had survived the bombs just to learn he was no longer in Moscow anymore.