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.

Trigger Warning: Though not as harsh as chapter 32, this chapter continues from there so some uncomfortable details and observations will still be present. Physical pain and discomfort as well as psychological distress is contained within.

Chapter 34: Flashes

"That's enough, Obersturmführer!" Hauptmann Smirnov commanded loudly as he flung open the door to the last interrogation room on the left.

"What the fuck? I told you not to—" Obersturmführer Varnayev's aggravated voice echoed from inside the hazy room but then he cut himself short once he realized it was his superior giving the order.

"Führer wants to see his daughter. He'll have your head if she can't even respond to him! Put her in a cell and you can have more fun with her later." The Hauptmann gave out an almost inaudible chuckle, shaking his head incredulously as he turned and headed back to his office.

Varnayev let out a long, infuriated groan before confirming his understanding. One last loud smack of the leather flail could be heard. Metal rattled and the bright yellow light that crept along the floor went out.

"Lev, Kirill, get in here and give me a hand!" Varnayev snapped his fingers as he exited the enclosure and stomped towards them. The callous officer had small splatters of blood all over him, staining the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves, speckling his stern face, and even a dried patch under his nose. He tried to conceal a look of embarrassment and fury by wiping his brow as he squeezed past the two men he had called upon, lowering his voice to a growl. "Fucking knock next time."

'Good, she got a piece of him, too,' Kirill said smugly to himself. He took in a breath and swallowed the anxious lump in his throat, giving Lev a sideways glance before cautiously complying with Varnayev's directive. Lev was a bit younger than him and much more afraid of their superiors, making his name a little bit ironic. But Kirill wasn't particularly fearful of the Hauptmann or Varnayev, only what they were capable of when their tasks of obtaining information were left open to interpretation. And he was nervous to see what condition Aleksandrya would be in since the last two hours had passed. He had hoped that his momentary expression of empathy would give her some strength but within her eyes existed only fear. She was already in poor condition when he had carried her in there in the first place; she'd just come from the infirmary and was completely unconscious for at least another hour before they heard her trying to shake the restraints loose.

The pair of torturer's assistants entered the room but immediately halted and scrunched up their faces as the disturbing scene unfolded. The various instruments of the Obersturmführer lay strewn about, his peaked cap still sat on the table, and his leather jacket was hanging on one of the chairs. He had dropped the whip to the floor just after its use and two meters from it lay the poor girl in a chaotic heap. Her injured leg with the tourniquet was sticking out to the side and her tangled red hair obscured her face.

Kirill gave a resolute nod to his partner and they went to work as usual, cleaning up the messes made by Varnayev or the others. Lev normally cleaned the equipment and organized the space while Kirill, who was much stronger and had an iron constitution, handled the victims. It had been quite some time since any of the subjects were female, and even longer since it had been anyone that Kirill had known. He tried to put all memories of the past aside and focus on what was currently in front of him. Aleksandrya desperately needed help, and she needed a gentle hand to prove that her fight wasn't hopeless. Any amount of care he could show her would give her reassurance to face her next battle. And the Führer, her stepfather, was on his way down to this dungeon to see her personally. Everything had to be perfectly in order before his arrival, or Lev and Kirill would end up with their own lashings.

Crouching down, he swept aside her long red hair and used two fingers to search for her carotid pulse. It was faint, but it was there, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. His eyes followed the crisscross pattern of crimson lines down her bare back until they blended with a sort of whitish substance, and he almost gagged when he realized what it all was. He pushed and pulled at her frail shoulders and straightened her legs until she lay mostly flat and facing up. The sight was even worse from this side: her head and face were dripping in blood which had seeped down into her tunic. Dirt and dust from the floor were stuck and clumped in random places and she was covered in sweat from the awful humidity. He had suggested once that they call a maintenance team to fix the leaking steam pipe but ultimately the brass had left it the way it was, as a way to make their 'guests' more uncomfortable throughout the 'examination' process.

"I've got you, Aleks," he imparted quietly as he positioned himself to lift her up into his arms.

Lev had almost finished tidying the area and was cleaning the officer's metal instruments and placing them back into their canvas pouch. The young man then took the discarded uniform pieces in hand and stood by the door silently.

Kirill found it no trouble at all to carry the lifeless Aleksandrya down the hall and into the adjacent section where the long row of holding cells was located. Lev followed diligently until they were in the main branch of the corridor and then took the lead into the lineup of metal-barred cages along the walls. He went over to the door of the first available vacancy, the third cell on the left, and beckoned Kirill towards it.

"Hold up, let's put her down at the end of the hall. We don't want to risk her talking to anyone else," Kirill suggested calmly, not able to share the reason or purpose of his choice. Lev obliged without question or comment, striding onwards to the very last cell on the right.

"They want her strung up," he said in an uneasy voice, reaching up and grasping for a length of rope that was connected to the ceiling by two strong metal hooks.

"That's a shame," Kirill said with a bit of remorse but didn't hesitate to follow the command. He held Aleks up a little higher while Lev wrapped the rope around her wrists three times in a figure-eight, looping the end up through the knot and back down again. Between the two of them they managed to get her upright and adjust the rope so that she was suspended from the hooks with just enough length to touch the ground with her bare feet. He hated seeing people like this, it was unnaturally cruel, but he had no choice in the matter.

"You go give this stuff to him. I'm going to finish cleaning up." Lev hurriedly passed the uniform bits to Kirill once his hands were free and left the cell, disappearing down the hall again.

Now that he was alone with her, Kirill took a moment to straighten out her soiled tunic and ensure that it was fully tied up in the back. As he did so, he attempted to mentally pass on some of his own strength. He definitely wasn't in a rush to deliver Varnayev's coat and hat, and that repulsive man would undoubtedly continue to wear his tainted clothing as a trophy. At least until the Führer came to visit and admire his handiwork.

"We'll get you out of here, soon. I'm going to meet Ivanovich when my shift is done." He whispered, touching her pale forehead with the wide palm of his hand to assess her temperature. Hearing her mutter something wearily gave him some assurance that she would be okay for a while. It took some effort to will his legs to carry him out of the cage and lock the door, and he puffed up his chest as he headed towards the Hauptmann's office to relay that the job was done. Everything was ready for the Führer's arrival.

From the windy rooftop of the crumbling high-rise, she clutched her coat a little tighter and pressed against the powerful gusts of air. The atmosphere was frigid even through the filter of the gas mask, and she swept the few long strands of hair from the visor. Nothing could be allowed to obstruct her long-awaited view. Far off in the distance, on the other side of the city, stood the white tower. Its thick golden spire only slightly tilted and the wreathed star was tarnished but still present. And if she stared long enough, trying not to blink, there would be a light. A signal that someone was there, someone intelligent and human, searching for others, trying to communicate.

There were some footsteps once. A man about ten meters away whimpered and pleaded when they stopped at his cell. The lock clicked and the door clanked and there was a struggle. His groaning turned into a breathless wail and then something heavy was being dragged off into the distance. Echoes of indistinct voices slipped down the long tunnel but faded just as they reached her ears. Laughter, a sentence, and an uproar. Someone across from her gave out an agonizing moan. Another wept quietly, breathing a few words in another language between the sobs.

Suddenly, there was a loud banging as if someone was striking the metal bars further down with another object. A few hopeful gasps sounded off and others gave frightened cries but all were told to be silent upon pain of death. A faint beam of light inched its way along the dirty floor. People were approaching her at the end of the row. The pair of steps marched in cadence and then halted in front of her. An intimidating and ageing face leaned in against the bars but it wasn't immediately apparent through her blurry and sleepy eyes.

"Seems you were a bit overeager, hmm Varnayev? And here I thought it was going to be difficult for you." A clear and authoritative voice echoed, amused.

Her stomach dropped and she shut her eyes as if it would help to conceal her. It was none other than the man she ran from, the top dog of this whole wicked confederation, a vicious mongrel ready to pounce and devour her.

"My apologies, sir. I was hoping to bring you the information we needed quickly, but this firebrand here—"

'Not that one, too,' she thought. Varnayev was quickly ascending the list to become her least favorite person. The Führer was indeed an awful man but at least he had never physically violated her.

"No need to apologize, Obersturmführer, I know firsthand how stubborn she can be. And I can always appreciate a broken spirit."

"She's not quite broken yet, but we'll get there." She could hear the mischievous enthusiasm in Varnayev's tone and convulsed a little.

"Look at you now, eh? Right where you belong." The confident voice of Yevgeniy Petrovich, the Führer of the Fourth Reich, taunted in her direction. Even seeing that she was in no condition to hold a conversation with him, he had apparently prepared some opening barbs to greet her with.

There was only a trifling murmur from Aleks as she was trying to object but she was having trouble operating her voice box. She tried again but there was only a miniscule squeak. The Führer quickly began to get annoyed that she hadn't retorted with her usual inflammatory remarks. It seemed he had been expecting a thrilling argument, or a battle of wits, and Aleks wished she could accommodate the desire but she was regrettably too exhausted to participate.

"Whaaat? Nothing to say anymore?" The Führer blew a single doubtful snort. "Finally been put in your place."

"Where… m… Ir-ina?" Aleks finally croaked out dryly. Would they ever give her some water?

"Irina? Oh, she'd be in no condition to come all the way down here. Then I'd have to hear her holler and cry for days all over again. In fact, I'm not sure that I'm even going to tell her that we've found you. As far as the people are concerned, they'll be told that you succumbed to your wounds after giving us the secrets of the Order – and you will do so."

Varnayev laughed with confidence.

"Anyway, your mother is busy tending to your little brother."

"My… your…?" Aleks rasped, struggling in the restraints and trying to inch closer as if to understand him better.

"Half-brother," The Führer leaned in through the bars and grinned, the single dim light source illuminating only half of his face and making ominous shadows. "No mutations. So even if another upstart like you chooses to start trouble, I can still blame it all on my first wife. Your little revolution is over, Aleksandrya, and I've won."

Aleks could only whimper in defeat, less so concerned with her symbolic crusade against The Führer's tyrannical rule and more upset that her mother seemed to have completely moved on and forgotten about her. When once she thought that her mother couldn't possibly disappoint her more as she began to date various Nazi officers, now she had committed the ultimate treason against Aleksandrya's heart. Was she truly such an insignificant daughter? Or was her mother simply unable to cope with this new form of life in the Metro that she had to sink to these depths to try and forget her pain? If only her father had been with them on the train that day. Maybe none of this would have happened at all.

'So, that's it, I have no mother anymore,' Aleks thought gloomily. 'Just kill me already, then.'

He had said something else, some other threat or grand monologue to gloat about his emblematic and procreative victory. She hadn't processed any of it, and just heard the boots of the two most detestable men in existence growing more distant. Perhaps he had gotten bored of trying to converse with her if she was unable to answer him satisfactorily. She shifted her arms in the ropes and tried to stretch however she could. There was boisterous laughter again and the light source was carried away completely. Silence and shadow prevailed and so she allowed herself to fall into slumber again. The light in the tower was shining.

Kirill promptly proceeded to the last cage on the right as soon as the Hauptmann had finished his morning briefing. Though he had been released for his usual eight-hour respite, he hadn't been able to get much sleep. Usually, he would have trudged up the dead escalator with a weary gait, using the border of Tverskaya as his mental marker to put his work behind him. He'd go to his little apartment, change his shirt, and then head to the mess hall for a meal and some tea. If Kolya or Oleg were off watch duty they would chat for an hour or two, swap stories about their latest exchanges with the local girls or relay any interesting rumors they had heard in the marketplace. Then, when his bowl and cup were empty and his head was full of nonsense, he'd traipse back home and get a few hours of sleep before doing it all again the next day.

However, the visage of his former friend kept creeping into the forefront of his mind and he was unable to stop worrying about her. He could even still feel the tempo of her pulse in those two fingers, though it was probably really his own pulse, amplified by his anxiety. Each gash, drop, and fleck of blood he'd seen on her, Varnayev, and the interrogation room added up and he tried not to fully quantify it. He had been released just after The Führer's visit and so he wasn't able to give her anything to eat which would help her body recuperate. Lev had stayed behind to hose down the rooms and so hopefully had also done the final rounds to maintain the 'guests' of the Second Unit with their paltry rations.

He turned the skeleton key in the rusty lock and tugged on it until it finally came apart, throwing open the door of the cell and hurrying up to her.

"Artyom?" She whispered timidly, sensing a presence.

Kirill didn't know to whom she was referring so he ignored it momentarily. He set his palm on her forehead again, straightening her hair with his other hand.

"You're still burning."

She murmured quietly again, trying to pick her head up and pry her eyes open to identify the concerned visitor. Kirill leaned down and wrapped one burly arm around her upper legs and lifted her a few inches to take the strain off her arms. Aleks exhaled a thankful sigh and he then reached up with his other arm and pressed his canteen to her lips. She didn't react right away, a trickle of water running down her chin before she understood to drink.

"I don't know if you even remember me. Kirill Nikolaevich. I was friends with Tolya."

He slowly tilted the container more and more until she turned her head away and coughed for air.

"Tolya…" Aleks repeated after a moment, blinking her eyes and trying to see clearly enough to recognize the stranger and match it to her memories. "Kirill… used to… draw… cartoons."

"Right, you remember!" Kirill grinned and squeezed her affectionately. "Well, you'll be out of here soon, okay? Ivanovich is trying to contact your Rangers right now."

"Ivanovich," Aleks moaned mournfully, "No…"

"I'm sorry I can't help you more but they can't find out I'm part of the resistance."

"Kirill… Tol-yaaa," Aleks recited again lethargically, her eyelids slowly falling to a close just like a hermetic door.

"I've got to let go now. I have to get back to my post before they notice." Kirill slowly lowered her back down and released her, hearing her squeak and strain as her arms took on her weight again. "I'm sorry Aleks, just hold on a little longer."

"Artyom." She said the unfamiliar name again solemnly. Maybe that's who was coming to rescue her. He would find out just as soon as Ivanovich contacted the Order, but first, he had his regular work to do.

That strong boy was giving her water again, supporting her head and giving her brief respites between unquenchable gulps. She'd forgotten their historical association already, and his name, but was thankful for his tender conduct. Everything that happened in this unspeakable place was drawn into a void where her heart used to be. Her nerves had been disconnected one by one as the diverse assortment of instruments and body parts were used against her. The pain of her initial and acquired injuries didn't transmit anymore. Each enraged bark and growl from her subjugator made her mind drift further away. There weren't even words anymore, only a collection of unwelcome noises that swirled around her like the red mist in the room.

Varnayev had taken notice of it, too, and had switched his tactics drastically. He now allowed her to sit in one of the chairs but consistently walked in circles around her like a shark encompassing its prey. Sometimes he pressed his face right against hers and tried to connect with her eyes as if to read her thoughts. She stared back vacantly, the void absorbed his analytical gaze too, and all the horrible passions behind it. At times he stroked her hair or her back, giving a false sense of benevolence and encouragement, but of course that wasn't going to convince her to trust him after all he had done. There was a stark and apparent contrast between the simulated sincerity of Varnayev and the compassionate behavior of his assistant.

"Kirill!" Aleks whispered enthusiastically, she remembered again.

Varnayev stopped dead in the middle of his current discourse and shot a fierce look over at the brawny young man suspiciously.

"So, she knows your name now? Fine then, you ask her," the Obersturmführer decreed in a growl and retreated to the back of the room.

The light-haired and pleasantly attractive assistant took up his commander's position in the chair in front of her. He looked over his shoulder at the officer uneasily and earned a grunted reassurance. Sighing quietly, he took both of Aleks' hands in his warm substantial grasp and leaned forward.

"Aleks, can you tell me where you were before we found you?" he asked in a temperate voice that didn't befit his broad frame. "Did you come from the bunker?"

"Mhm," Aleks moaned listlessly, her stare going right through him.

"How do you get there? Is there a separate tunnel?" Kirill didn't even really want to ask; he didn't want the authoritarian leadership to have any of this information.

"Mhm," she cooed again.

"Is it… connected to our tunnels somewhere?" He thought of how to string his questions together, not even really knowing what to ask because he generally tuned out Varnayev in the same way his unfortunate subjects did.

"No."

"Can you… walk there somehow, then?" He glanced back at Varnayev again who gestured at him encouragingly.

"No," she stated languidly.

"How do you get there?"

"No!" Aleks tensed up and began to pull her hands away.

"God damnit," Varnayev hissed from behind Kirill's back. "Fuck this, we're done for today. She isn't even paying attention."

Kirill didn't say anything else, tugging on her hands to uplift her from the chair before she could protest. He was silently thanking every god he could think of in his head, relieved that Aleks hadn't given any productive responses. Varnayev put his hat back on and turned to open the door. They treaded the usual route together, depositing her back into the last cell on the right. Kirill didn't string her up this time and Varnayev didn't protest about it either. He set Aleks on the floor of the cage, deftly arranging her so that she lay on her side but convincing himself not to fuss any further lest he attract suspicion from the officer that he was attached to her in any way. The men backed out of the cell and Kirill clamped on the lock before turning to leave.

"I will be back for you, my pet, and we shall indeed finish what we started," Varnayev threatened quietly, but with the same strange inflections. "There's still so much we have to talk about."

Kirill paused to listen just in case the officer would give away any of his impending plans.

"And there's even a chance that Führer might allow me to keep you. If you tell us what we want to know that is. In fact, we may be able to turn your campaign into something positive. You still have a chance to regain your status."

Aleks didn't reply or make any sound, perhaps already asleep or in a catatonic state of denial. Varnayev gave up trying to tell her anything else and tore off past Kirill with a sulking grunt capping off his presence.

'You're the one who took her voice away, idiot,' Kirill grumbled to himself. He couldn't and didn't want to imagine the officer's possible preposition becoming reality. There's no way Aleks, the real Aleks, would comply with such a deal. They'd have to completely exterminate her spirit if they wanted her to resume her role in the fascist society, and then she wouldn't even be herself anymore. There would be the ghostly sentience of some manufactured personality inhabiting his friend's body, and that would be a worse fate than if they executed her. She hadn't said anything noteworthy about her time on the outside, and he had just seen a little bit of her tenacious fire when she pulled her hands away from him. She must be able to comprehend what was going on, and still would not yield, and he felt pride and appreciation for it.

"Clean the place up and then get lost," Varnayev's voice echoed from around the corner.

"Yes, sir!" Kirill said excitedly. Then he would go and see if there were any updates from Ivanovich.

He mused about the security sergeant for the rest of his shift. He hadn't really known the man at all before news of the astonishing scandal began to circulate. They were told at the next assembly that someone important had fled the Reich and murdered a patrolman as they made their escape. Kirill never would have believed that Aleksandrya was involved in the event or that she had finally fulfilled her fantastical ambitions to abscond from her deplorable relatives. At least, not in that violent and desperate manner. It was at least a month before further details of the incident were divulged in an effort to locate the treasonous deserters and bring them to justice. People of all stations ruminated on the information, gossiping and speculating on the whereabouts and ultimate fate of the mutinous pair. And, in secret behind closed doors, they took sides.

Those who felt sympathetic to Oberscharführer Andrei Ivanovich Petrikov and to the Führer's stepdaughter Aleksandrya Adrianovna Dmitriyev soon found themselves contacted by anonymous members of the surreptitious resistance that worked against the fascist leadership. Kirill had cautiously enlisted in this covert collective shortly after the extraordinary incident which involved his childhood associate. Most of what the role entailed had to do with espionage, facilitating refugees, and initiating prison breaks. All without becoming suspect to the officers. Nobody knew who was involved or in charge except for a few small groups of friends who had decided to confide in each other about their membership. There were no leaders, no meetings, no discernable hierarchy, no one to contact. Missives arrived in the middle of the night, shoved under your door, or slipped into your pocket without detection. 'Burn after reading, we will know that your task has been completed to satisfaction,' was the general directive. Sometimes it was scarier to think of who might be running this underground railroad than to think of the power of The Führer or his vile underlings and admirers. Frightening as it was, Kirill was thankful that there was some sect of their population who was not complacent to sit by and watch the remainder of the world burn. One small flame of hope still lit the way to a promised salvation for people of the Reich, and those who knew about it would protect and hold onto it at all costs.

Kirill once again removed the padlock from her cell and opened the door, but he was not the first to step inside. Andrei Ivanovich squeezed into the limited space and grabbed Aleksandrya around the waist for a short moment, looking her over and trying to hide his emotions. He knew that the two infamous figures weren't related, but she had referred to the security sergeant as her father-figure on more than a few occasions even before their escape and it was evident that Ivanovich was glad to fulfill that role for her.

Without wasting any time, Kirill began to prepare her just how he had been instructed earlier. He poured some water from his canteen over one of the red woven cloths he had been given, and then went about tying it around her neck. He tried to be as gentle as possible because she hadn't opened her eyes and he wanted her to understand that he wasn't one of the officers. She muttered something voiceless, either from the sensation of their activity or from the cool damp fabric against her skin. It was meant to try and bring down her fever that had been raging since she first arrived, probably from radiation or an infection. Varnayev had promised once that she could return to the infirmary for treatment but of course that promise hinged on Aleksandrya giving up the information he wanted from her. Kirill had tried to point out the futility of interrogating someone who was too ill and broken to even speak but Varnayev firmly reminded him to mind his own business.

Ivanovich took a folded piece of paper from his pocket along with a black plastic hair clip. He placed the paper inside the jaws of the clip and then pulled some of her hair back with it. Kirill watched with curiosity for a moment, wondering about the note. Maybe it was the sergeant's way of saying goodbye after the fact, because Aleks was barely conscious anyway.

"So they can see her face," the Oberscharführer explained when he turned around and saw Kirill's inquisitive expression. "Thank you for your help."

"Of course," Kirill didn't know how to take the compliment, its not as though it took any convincing to recruit his assistance. In fact, it was Kirill who approached Ivanovich first, though he had been entirely afraid that the fascist loyalty of the Oberscharführer had returned along with him.

"You remember how to get there?" The sergeant asked as he was pressing some candle wax into Aleksandrya's ears. "The tavern?"

"Uh, yeah, I heard a few of the prison guards saying they would head there after dinner so I said I'd go with. It'll be less suspicious than trying to go alone."

"Hmm," Ivanovich nodded to agree. "Well, good luck. They should get here before the scum can finish breakfast. Remember to shoot at the ceiling."

"Fingers crossed," Kirill copied the colloquialism with his hands, taking one last look at Aleks and saying a prayer for them both. Tying the other red scarf he was given around his own neck, he led the way out of the cell block and Ivanovich followed him all the way back to Pushkinskaya in silence. Once there, the Oberscharführer gave him an encouraging pat on the back before making his departure. It was time to go to Mayakovskaya to meet with The Order.