Disclaimer: The characters and story originally created by Dmitri Glukhovsky in the book and video game series "Metro: 2033" and its sequels do not belong to me. Those properties are owned by Glukhovsky, 4A Games, and Deep Silver. This work of fiction is intended for entertainment purposes and is not meant to be canonical, though I tried very hard to make it fit within the parameters. I do retain my rights for the creation of my own original characters and ideas. I do not make any money from writing this story.
Chapter 35: Rendezvous
The few short frantic sentences of Andrei Ivanovich were still ringing in Artyom's head. He continued to switch sides on whether this confidential rendezvous and the instructions he would receive from the unnamed courier were legitimate. Even on the trek from Novokuznetskaya to Avtozavodskaya two weeks ago, he had questioned at least once or twice the allegiance and motivations of the mismatched twin brothers of The Red Arrow. Truly, he had every right to be suspicious now as it had turned out that the simple escort errand which brought him to Avtozavod evolved into an entirely different series of events. Not that meeting Aleksandrya by chance wasn't rewarding in its own way, but every time he convinced himself that now he finally knew everything about her, the universe once again revealed what was hiding behind the curtain.
However, as Ulman had said moments ago, he was indeed establishing some confidence in himself. After all, he had managed to get back to the base alone with only minor incidents and convince the unwilling Colonel to mount a dangerous rescue operation in a volatile territory. If he acknowledged that he was an active participant of reality instead of just a hapless bystander, it was easier to make quick decisions and take the necessary actions to achieve his goals. So, he was choosing to go eagerly to this meeting despite the risks involved.
Now he was waiting patiently outside the door as Mikhail disappeared inside his barracks room, which turned out to be directly above Artyom's own. Since he had been instructed to change his clothes before entering the med bay, Artyom was essentially already prepared for their furtive trip to Mayakovskaya. He had on a plain pair of black trousers tucked into his usual pair of boots and a dark green sweater that had a few moth-eaten holes in it. It was one of the few possessions he had retained from his original wardrobe before joining the Order and it often seemed to bring him good luck, so he was able to feel less apprehensive about the upcoming journey.
Mikhail reemerged from his room in a stylish casual getup: a distressed dark pair of jeans with some worn off design on the back pockets, a blue shirt with its long sleeves bunched up around his elbows, and a sandy-colored version of the woven scarf around his shoulders. He confirmed that Artyom was ready to leave and they made their way up to the monorail platforms without conversation.
The short ride to Mayakovskaya was all too familiar to Artyom now, the boring little rectangular station, the coiling concrete stairs with the pipes in the middle, and the hidden passage that led out to the Zamoskvorestskaya line. He asked Mikhail if anyone had found a solution to the issue of leaving the door open in order to get back again. His partner replied that Melnik had already ordered the Belorusskaya barricades to be moved up further, and they'd be passing a hidden cordon of their own comrades shortly. It seemed that swift action had already been implemented since Artyom hurried back from the surface to report what he and Aleks witnessed at Mayakovskaya. He began to hope that no other fascist soldiers would be hanging around the tavern this evening, except for the one they were told to convene with.
Mikhail seemed to know exactly where to pause and salute towards a depression in the tunnel liners. Artyom wouldn't have readily noticed that there were two Rangers positioned across from each other on either side of the tracks. They were both dressed in black stealth gear from head to toe and even if someone had shined a flashlight right at them, they might not have perceived their presence because they were as motionless as statues. Did they simply stand there and take note of who walked by towards Hansa and the collective farms? Maybe the sentries only revealed themselves when the wrong sort of people approached and then staunchly suggested that they turn around and go back the way they came. Or did they lie in wait for a passerby only to sneak up behind and neutralize them? Usually, a tunnel cordon or watchpoint had a fire to sit around, a spotlight, piles of sandbags, and emplaced weapons but these two guards only had silenced Vityaz-type submachine guns and night-vision devices. Artyom stuck close to Mikhail's side.
"I was posted on this line last week and we'd already discussed which markers we would advance to if ordered," Mikhail apparently felt the desire to explain under his breath after the pair of Rangers returned his acknowledgement.
"Seems everything gets planned out ahead of time but I never seem to know what's going on," Artyom admitted quietly.
"That's how it is, especially when you're new and in the lower ranks. But it's kinda nice 'cause you don't have to think about the logistics, you just gotta do what you're told."
"Sometimes I can't even get that right."
"We all had to start somewhere," Mikhail shrugged and then seemed to suddenly remember something and reached into his pocket.
The blonde Ranger took out a square metal lighter and opened the cover. He struck up a flame and touched it to the end of the cigarette in his mouth, drawing air in through his teeth until he was successful. Tucking the lighter away again, he took a few quick puffs to strengthen the burn, then turned and offered it to Artyom. He reached out for it, hesitating for just a second, but accepted the invitation. Pulling in a moderate breath, Artyom tried to remember the last time he'd had a smoke. It had been quite a while, though he used to indulge readily, having been fond of the occasional little baggie of weed that Zhenya managed to convince some unscrupulous trader to haul in secret from Prospekt Mir all the way to VDNKh. The substance had been banned by Hansa, though the reasoning was never clear, and Artyom missed the hour or two of comfort and apathy that the drug provided. He figured that regular tobacco cigarettes had to have a similar if not less-potent effect, as they continued to be a popular staple the whole Metro around. The filling wasn't real tobacco anymore, he was told, but some kind of related variety of leaf that someone had managed to cultivate from somewhere up above in the early days. Leave it to humanity to find a way to hold on to their most treasured vices.
Mikhail gave him a nudge and Artyom shook his head, realizing he'd been lost in thought for a bit too long and burning down the stick needlessly. He held it out to his partner but Mikhail pushed back at his arm so Artyom took a good long drag before trying to pass it back again. The blonde Ranger gave a crooked smile and focused his attention forwards again.
"You nervous?" He asked soothingly.
"No, not really," Artyom professed honestly. "Let's just see how it goes."
"Seems a little too good to be true but if he's as loyal to her as you said, then we might as well take the bait." Mikhail attempted to form a smoke ring with his next exhale but it didn't quite take shape.
"Do you think it could be a trap?"
"There's always that risk, but having heard the guy through the radio myself… you could hear the desperation."
"Yeah," Artyom agreed. "Maybe this courier can explain why he went back to the fascists."
"You might never get that answer but we've got to take the track we're given. There may not be any good alternatives."
"I hope the others can come up with a plan in the meantime, just in case."
"We've got the best of the best in there, not to brag," Mikhail chuckled smugly, flicking the cigarette gently to get rid of the ash.
Artyom didn't have anything else to say on the subject at the moment. He could barely begin to detect the faint red light from the station up ahead and wanted to take the last moments in the tunnel to think about how to conduct himself, what to look for, and what to say to this courier if conversation was even needed.
"You go in first. I'm going to wait a minute, see if anybody follows you or approaches you. If nothing presents, we'll look around together for the signifier."
"The scarves? There's a theme with these red ones, isn't there? What does it mean?" Artyom asked consciously. He'd thought it was strange that Ivanovich had said to look for someone wearing a red scarf just like the one Aleks always had on and Artyom hadn't seen one like hers anywhere else before, believing its color to be related to their clan's name.
"I dunno exactly how it started but these days it's one of the few visible markers of someone who supports the resistance. Some of the renegade freedom fighter groups already use those colors, too. Excluding the Red Line of course, but their red is more of a metaphor."
Artyom was offered the cigarette again but this time he declined politely.
"Red was the color of the Russian Revolution of course, it represents passion and anger, the color of blood that men would take from their enemies and give their own for their ideals. In the Reich, red and black is already their standard, so it sorta blends in and nobody really questions it if you have one." Mikhail explained in detail, to Artyom's delight.
Oftentimes Ulman would rapidly tire of his incessant queries and begin to get aggravated. Mikhail had been reticent at their first meeting but ever since they had been assigned together, he had become more amiable. Perhaps it was because of all the explicit elements that Artyom had reported to him about everything to do with Aleksandrya, so he already felt that he knew Artyom well. But lately it seemed more so that Mikhail was delighted to share the things he knew, almost as if showing off his astute comprehension. Whatever the exact reason, Artyom was happy for the insight and discussions because most of his superiors simply told him to be quiet and follow orders. How was he supposed to learn if nobody would ever take the time to explain things?
"And what about your black one, and khaki one?" Artyom pressed a little more, testing his own theory about his newest partner.
"It's called a shemagh or sometimes a keffiyeh - surplus from our past activities in the Middle East. The Arabs wore them in the desert, it keeps the sun off, the sand out of your face, and in some places it was a status symbol. Muslim women are required by Islamic law to cover their hair and most everything else, too." Mikhail pulled the edges of his scarf up over the top of his head loosely as if to demonstrate. He paused for a moment, gazing off further than the distance of the tunnel and gave a melancholy sigh. "I was going to go into International Studies after secondary school. I thought someday I'd be an ambassador somewhere cool like Rome or Greece or Egypt… anywhere the weather is nice. But then… well, you know."
"I studied a bit about other places, and history too, but we only had so many books at VDNKh, so I did the best I could… well, and um… thanks, for telling me about it all," Artyom's response devolved into shy gratitude. "Most people say I ask too many questions."
"There's nothing wrong with wanting to understand the world. It would have probably been a nicer place if people asked more questions and tried to understand each other better."
Their conversation seemed to end just as the platform of Mayakovskaya station was coming into view. The hazy glow of a few sporadic fire barrels danced between the wide semi-circular arches. Artyom knew the tavern was the first thing they'd see coming from this side and gathered his breath and his resolve. Having already discussed the first steps of their plan of action, he didn't waste further time trying to think ahead. His job was to simply walk inside and act naturally, keeping an eye out for anyone approaching or for someone with a red shemagh. Mikhail savored his final puffs as the cigarette was dying out and began to slow his pace so Artyom could pull ahead. As he stepped up the short flight of stairs that led to the platform, he fumbled in his pocket for some cartridges so that he could order a drink inside. It would probably seem strange to meet someone at a tavern and not order anything while you were there.
The late hour had driven most of the residents and traders off to their tents or perhaps rooms under the platform, as Artyom had never stayed here long enough to find out how and where the people lived. Only a few disheveled men huddled around the fires, seeming to be travelers or local militia keeping the peace and not really in defense against anything serious. He cast an inquisitive gaze down the far end of the station, wondering who else might be hanging around, wary of running into another squad of Nazi stalkers. On his way back through here from the surface, he'd torn past this place in a blur mostly sticking to the tracks and ignoring everything and now almost regretted not taking any notice of what had changed in the meantime. Had Boris already been taken off for a hasty burial, or might his decaying body still be laying at the opposite end of the hall? Deciding that he didn't really want to think about it, and wouldn't be venturing in that direction anyway, he turned towards the opening that separated the bar from the station.
A teenaged boy was on the far side of the doorway, playing his aging guitar with peeling veneer and singing tenderly about some girl he'd lost. Artyom tried not to identify with it, striding inside stiffly and simultaneously taking notice of everything inside the tavern. It was busy but not fully packed, the atmosphere was cheerful and different groups of men and women sat around low tables or gathered in the corners. Not a single inhabitant was wearing a smart black uniform and he didn't immediately see anyone with a red shemagh either. No matter, it was possible that the courier hadn't arrived yet or hadn't donned the scarf for some reason.
Artyom sidled up to the bar and simply asked for what the usual serving was here. In exchange for two cartridges he received a thick and misshapen ceramic mug filled with a slightly cloudy and sharply aromatic liquid. He sipped it without fear, hoping whatever was contained within would help relax him and loosen his tongue in the right way. He turned around and tried to look as nonchalant and confident as possible, leaning his back against the tall bar shelf and scanning around the space again. He noted Mikhail's presence along the right-hand side of the wall, and he was also watching the crowd thoughtfully. None of the current patrons were alone and they were all engaged in lively conversation or a card game.
The musician outside finished his song with a flourish and then began a more lively tune. It was only a few minutes before a new group began to enter the establishment. Four men of varying ages and appearances poured in, already in a good mood, and looked around for an open table. Behind them, a tall and broad-shouldered young man had paused in the doorway and leaned his head from side to side as he was examining the interior. He was wearing a black double-breasted peacoat and a red and black shemagh – just like hers. The man's eyes met Artyom's briefly and his heart began to pick up a faster pace, his mind spinning with a jumble of words. How do you covertly introduce yourself?
The young man with the red scarf had the Olympian frame of an athlete so it was difficult for him to weave through the narrow middle aisle. He pulled up to a stop right next to Artyom and ordered his own serving. Artyom remained immobile, what if this person wearing a red shemagh happened to be a coincidence? Why hadn't he said anything yet? Did he not know who he was looking for? He glanced over to Mikhail who gave an enthusiastic look and began to edge his way along the perimeter to meet up. Trying to rouse himself into action, he turned his head to the brawny young man and had absolutely no idea what to say.
The group of men this kid had walked in with had found a table and began telling stories, none of them were wearing any kind of Reich uniform or paraphernalia. Of course, everybody could take off their uniform at the end of the day and appear normal. He and Mikhail had done exactly the same thing so as not to clue anyone in to the idea that the Order was carrying out reconnaissance. How many of the people here might also be working undercover? That man in the back corner with the ushanka and beard could be a General of the Red Line. The skinny guy with short black hair and a leather coat could be a fence who smuggled all kinds of illegal things through the big stations. The chubby woman with greying hair and a patchwork dress could be the wife of a former KGB agent. No, he took his final gulp of his beverage and settled himself, it wasn't going to do him any good to start seeing things that weren't there. Nobody here was out to get him - nobody even knew who he was. So, he told himself, he could be anybody he wanted.
"Hey Artyom, sorry I'm late, how's the brew here?" Mikhail popped up beside him and spoke cheerfully.
Artyom instantly caught on to his unspoken plan and shook Mikhail's hand, giving an affirmative response and turning to order another cup of the local vodka for them both. Mikhail looked past the barman to the right; the young man with the red scarf had perked up and begun observing them.
"Any news on your friend Aleks?" Mikhail asked openly, still side-eyeing as stealthily as possible.
"No, I still haven't heard from her," Artyom said uneasily, thinking of what hints to add in without being too specific. "She went to visit her stepfather in Reich."
"I remember her saying that the man is like a despotic madman. Hopefully she'll be okay, or we'll have to go and get her ourselves."
"Artyom?" A youthful voice asked in almost a whisper.
"Yes? Do I know you?" Artyom said haughtily and turned his whole body to look at the possible courier who was about the same age as him, maybe a few years older. In his head he was pretending he was some renowned and accomplished warrior enjoying a drink with a fellow adventurer after a long days' worth of heroic work.
"Uh, well I hope you remember me, it's been a while," the young guy spoke anxiously, turning his eyes out into the tavern and then back again. "It's Kirill… Kirill Ivanovich."
"Ivanovich, right!" Artyom gave a false smile and dared to clap this Kirill on the shoulder like an old friend. Was that even his real name, or just a cover? Either way, he seemed to know how to play the same odd word game that Mikhail had started. Was this some kind of subculture language that these Nazi resistance members used to communicate important details without anyone finding out their true meanings?
"I uh, saw your friend Aleks before I came down here," Kirill sipped from his cup tensely.
"Well, that's great," Mikhail feigned a weak laugh. "How's she doing?"
"She's alright but I think she's eager to get back home again. Her family hasn't been very… hospitable. She was feeling a bit ill and… mentioned your name."
"Ah, sounds like it hasn't been a fun trip." Artyom let the words out without context, but in his mind he thought he knew what this guy was trying to say.
"Let's take a walk and catch up," Mikhail suggested after downing his cup of brew, wrapping his arms around both young men firmly. The trio exited the tavern and steered towards the far set of tracks where it was dark and deserted. "Have you seen my old friend Varnayev around Schiller lately? I keep meaning to visit but the war wound makes it hard to travel far."
"Varnayev? You know…? Yeah, I, uh, I work with him in Darwin." Kirill glanced over his shoulder, maybe to see if his comrades had taken notice of his departure.
"You what?" Artyom gasped loudly, trying to take the words back in as he said them.
"Look, I didn't ask for the damned job," Kirill spat back in an agitated growl.
"Take it easy," Mikhail said softly as he pushed the pair behind one of the columns.
Artyom clenched his teeth, not knowing what to say or ask first, hoping this kid would just hand them the letter from Ivanovich so they could get back to D6 and hurry up with the mission.
"Did you really see her in there?" Mikhail asked gently, crossing his arms.
"Yes, I saw her, but she's in bad shape," Kirill put his hands out defensively, looking over his shoulder again. "She's in the Second Unit Interrogation Sector, alive but not for long."
"You work for that creep there?" Artyom grumbled with an accusatory tone.
"Service is compulsory, idiot, where is it you come from?" Kirill scowled and crossed his arms in the same fashion as Mikhail. "You either join the Legion and get sent off to the front lines, or you volunteer for the shit work and stay close to home. At least this way I know I'm not gonna get shot tomorrow."
"It's fortuitous for the resistance, then," Mikhail stated without any specific intent.
"I found small little ways like this to fight back, to do what I can to care for those who are unfortunate enough to be interrogated in that dungeon. When the officers aren't looking, I can give the people water or medicine." Kirill softened up and sighed remorsefully, expressing some real sincerity and sorrow. "I've helped her as much as I can, you Rangers have to do the rest."
The young man finally produced a small square envelope made of brown paper and stuck his hand out between the pair, unsure which of them to hand it off to. Mikhail eyed the kid suspiciously but Artyom didn't wait for his permission, nearly snatching the letter offensively. Kirill seemed almost amused but didn't say anything. Artyom began to walk away but something inside told him to open the envelope to check it out first. He unfolded the flap and pulled out another piece of paper, scrutinizing it in the light of the nearby fire barrel for only a short moment before turning back to Kirill and Mikhail with frustration.
"What's this supposed to be?" he asked angrily. Ivanovich's instructions were written in a series of jumbled letters that made absolutely no sense at all; most of them weren't even real words. He and Mikhail had been on this excursion for almost an hour and the precious minutes were already in short supply. The last thing Artyom could possibly stand was another inconvenient obstacle.
"Don't you know?" Kirill replied with half a smile and raised his hands. "You sure you're a Ranger?"
Mikhail leaned over and looked from Kirill to the note in Artyom's hand, quickly assessing the situation.
"It's a cipher," he confirmed in an impassive tone, perhaps equally annoyed at this point. "Where's the key?"
Artyom examined his partner even more confused, but he soon began to understand that the letter was jumbled for a reason. At least Mikhail seemed to understand exactly what was going on. Had he been a part of the resistance force as well? Or did all types of undercover informants use such tactics?
"Just the usual precautions," Kirill said with a bit of a shrug.
Before Artyom could escalate his aggravation, the young courier gestured that they should follow him further into the station. Feeling rightfully hesitant, he let Mikhail go first.
"See, it took me about forty-five minutes just to get here and the guys I came with aren't exactly on the up and up. I thought it would be better to keep it separate instead of sending you to a dead drop."
"Smart kid," Mikhail complimented readily, giving an impressed nod to Artyom to reassure him that everything was going smoothly.
Kirill led them all the way to the opposite end of the main hall, past the rusty iron doors that led up to the surface and into the right-hand tunnel that led towards the Reich territory. Boris the sentry was nowhere to be seen on the floor. Maybe Aleks was right and he wasn't even missed by anyone. The young courier counted aloud about forty paces down the tracks and then pivoted to the left into a little side-room just like the office at Avtozavodskaya. There were no lights or people to be seen, though, and Artyom saw Mikhail instinctively clutch at his right hip where there was a slight bulge under his shirt. At least he was smart enough to have brought a weapon, just in case.
"Here," Kirill whispered, striking up a dim orange flame from a glass lantern on a small table.
Mikhail and Artyom stepped inside behind him, turning to face the wall that separated the space from the tunnel. Kirill lifted the lamp higher and moved it along slowly as he read the slogan that was painted in large gothic letters: 'Четвёртый Рейх.' It took both the Rangers a minute before they noticed the smaller characters underneath the main title. Mikhail took a pen out from his magic pocket that seemed to hold everything and grabbed the brown envelope from Artyom. He quickly sketched out which letters corresponded to the larger ones, in this way they could realign the alphabet to make the instructions on the page sensible.
"Good work, Kirill," Mikhail finished his notes and went to shake Kirill's hand. "Fight the good fight."
"I'll be on duty by five. Ivanovich already told me to shoot the ceiling, so I hope you'll do the same." Kirill accepted the gesture with a hopeful smile and then moved to extend his arm to Artyom.
"Thank you," Artyom conceded, grasping Kirill's meaty hand, finally understanding that the transaction was complete and everything had gone perfectly. "Tell Ivanovich the same."
"I will. Be quick. She doesn't have much time." Kirill extinguished the lamp and headed back towards the tavern with haste. Even his large frame eventually blended back into the sea of patrons gathered around and inside the bar.
Artyom almost wondered if they would see him again, be able to talk to him again after this was all over. It seemed like he had been familiar with Aleks even before all this ugliness occurred, perhaps they had even been friends growing up in Chekov or Pushkin or whichever it was. Now that the tense rendezvous was concluded, Artyom could fixate on the subtleties of the encounter more clearly. He almost felt sorry for the way he had reacted and treated Kirill with hostility in his eagerness to accelerate the rescue operation. The young man's dimly lit face did show concern and regret, and his tone of voice was casual once they were alone and away from the hubbub of the tavern. If he really did care so much about Aleks and the other prisoners at Tverskaya then how could he continue to stomach that kind of work? Why was he going back into the tavern when it seemed like a good opportunity to make a break for it. Wouldn't that kind of dissenter want to make his own escape from the fascists?
Mikhail pulled out his metal lighter again but this time he didn't have a cigarette. He held the orange flame over the envelope with his notes as they walked so Artyom could begin to compare it with the letter.
"There's a lot in here," he sounded impressed after taking a cursory glance, "I guess you were right about the guy."
"At least someone finally trusted me enough to listen. So thank you for your help as well, Mikhail."
"We'll still compare it to our intel, just to make sure it all lines up okay."
Artyom nodded his understanding and went back to devouring the scribbled characters on the page. His new partner helped to confirm a few words and then took over deciphering the code while they rode the monorail back to D6. They hoped to have most of it decoded so that there was less work to do in explaining it to the gathering of top-notch Rangers and the Colonel who were waiting for their return.
Mikhail was content to lead the way back to the conference room in Sector A1 with Artyom trailing behind, hanging on to the back of his shirt for guidance.
"There's a lot of numbers in here, too," Artyom reported without looking up.
"Probably tunnel markers, distances, timetables," Mikhail thought out loud. "Arseniy is pretty good with that stuff and Hermann can—"
Artyom had been so engrossed with the encrypted letter that he didn't notice Mikhail had halted his steps as well as his sentence. He crashed into his back at full tilt and recoiled with a whispered obscenity, glancing ahead to see what the roadblock was about this time. Only a tiny glimpse of dark hair and a neat goatee made him instantly cower behind Mikhail's shoulder.
"Mischa? You guys back from Kremlin already? I guess it wasn't as bad as we—"
"Fuuuck," Mikhail said under his breath and tried to widen his shoulders to hide Artyom from view. He'd been given a disguise for this very purpose but it seems Mikhail hadn't thought to wear one himself. "Keep it down, willya Ulman?"
"Where's everyone else? And who's hiding back there?" Ulman pried knowingly, leaning his whole upper body to the side in order to see behind Mikhail.
"It's nothing—" Mikhail began to make a defense but it was too late.
"Artyom? You're back too?" Ulman said with astonishment, his face quickly shifting to bewildered concern. "What's going on around here? Did everybody get a day off but me? I thought you were on patrol with Aleks and—"
"Well, that didn't last long," Mikhail sighed in defeat. Without answering any of the hanging questions, he took hold of one of the shoulder straps of Ulman's body armor and began dragging him along. Artyom thought it was a bit funny because Mikhail was shorter and scrawnier than Ulman but the latter went along submissively. Of course, more queries and conjecturing continued to pour out of his gaping mouth but one formidable look from Mikhail shut him up instantly.
"You're in on it now, like it or not."
Ulman simply looked back over his shoulder at Artyom who was following them closely and quietly. He already knew better than to speak out of turn or else Mikhail would hiss and frown at him again. Continuing to contort his face without words, Ulman's exaggerated expressions were asking Artyom if he was okay, was it something serious, was he somehow in trouble?
'No,' Artyom shook his head reassuringly, thinking back to his musings about the hand signals and how well everyone here understood each other.
The comical Ranger's eyes and brows cycled through several more stages of uncertainty and apprehension. The pressing guilt and desire to share the current situation with his original partner surfaced again and Artyom thought he might as well try to get a sentence or two out now - just in case Colonel Melnik really decided to exclude him from everything even though he'd already seen Mikhail and Artyom off duty.
"She's in trouble," Artyom started, not wanting to name any names or specifics in the public causeways of the bunker.
"Aleks?" Ulman mouthed wordlessly.
Artyom nodded solemnly.
"Hurt?"
Artyom nodded again.
"How? Where is—" Ulman whispered, to his detriment.
"Shh!" Mikhail hissed like he did before.
Artyom turned his eyes aside and followed the painted lines and hanging wires along the reinforced concrete walls. He wondered if Ulman would pick up on the response he was trying to give. The absence of his response would hopefully convey the absence of Aleksandrya.
"Is she—? Ow!" Ulman groaned with annoyance after Mikhail punched him hard in the arm. "Alright, alright!"
The three Rangers clumsily stumbled into the conference room with Ulman still trying to get answers, but the startled silence that had come over the men inside enveloped the clatter of their entrance. Mikhail pushed Ulman towards the conference table in front of everyone and the dark-haired Ranger gave a sheepish smile. Colonel Melnik stared at each of the three of them in turn, rolling his eyes at Ulman and then looking back over to Mikhail intently as he began to explain.
"Artyom and I have retrieved a coded letter with specific instructions but picked up a parasite along the way."
"Hey!" Ulman protested with a pouting face. "Give a guy a chance."
Artyom wanted to come to his defense or try to interject some excuse or plea before the Colonel could send him away but the commander simply walked over soundlessly and then took Ulman by the shoulders. Ulman leaned his head back anxiously, anticipating a furious berating, and looked over Melnik's shoulder just once at the gathering of soldiers around the table.
"Ulman, this is serious business, understand?" Melnik stared at him hard with severely narrowed eyes.
Ulman swallowed his words and gave a slight nod, suddenly looking fearful.
"Could someone please get Ulman up to speed while I go check in with Sam and the men at Kremlin? I don't think I can bring myself to say it all out loud again." The Colonel said with a despairing breath. He gave Ulman an accepting double pat on one arm and then headed out the door without waiting for confirmation of his orders.
Silence prevailed for a few moments as everyone looked around to see who would volunteer to rehash the story of the horrible situation to the newcomer. Artyom opened his mouth, thinking he should be the one to tell his former partner what had taken place in the last eight hours. However, Victor beat everyone to it. All the men in the room steeled themselves to hear the details all over again.
"Aleksandrya Dmitriyev has been captured by the Nazis. She and Artyom were injured in a building collapse while on recon at Tverskaya Street. We've just about worked out a strategy to distract them at Pushkin while a secondary team moves in towards the Second Unit from the service tunnels."
"No... it can't… we just got her." Ulman breathed regretfully, turning his eyes to Artyom for his confirmation and looking him over for signs of the mentioned injuries.
Artyom pulled up his pant leg to expose the bandages which had a brown stain showing through, probably from the hike to Mayakovskaya and back. He found that he couldn't look into Ulman's face again because the usually carefree man had tears in his eyes and it was painful to see him so opposite of his usual personality. He had only seen Ulman's real face one other time – when he arrived with Hunter's cartridge capsule, when he had learned that one of his closest comrades had gone missing in action.
"Are you with us Ulman?" Victor grabbed his attention again gently.
"You have to ask?" Ulman replied quietly but then looked up and hardened his expression. "When do we leave?"