Author's Note: It's time once again to mention the helpline for mental health, the completely free service to speak to someone right away if you feel you are struggling. The number is 988. Call it, text it, or go online for a virtual chat. It's not a replacement for moderated care or therapy but you never know who it might help. The small trigger warning for this chapter is based on psychological reactions to trauma. If you are affected by anxiety, depression, grief, panic attacks, PTSD, or any other psychological affliction this reflective subject matter may be upsetting to you. I want to preface this kind of storytelling by explaining that I have experienced my own anxious reactions, flashbacks, etc. so I write somewhat from personal experience. I also have a degree in Psychology. Please feel free to message me with your own experiences. We only get better by ending the stigma! My therapist would be proud that I can point out all the "mental mistakes" that Mikhail makes here. I promise that things will get better for him and Aleksandrya – but I'm not giving anything else away prematurely!

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.

Song Recommendation: "Lost" – Linkin Park (man, this one sums up Mikhail perfectly here 3 R.I.P. Chester Bennington) "Darker Still" – Parkway Drive

Chapter 40: The Mask of the Tortured Ranger

Mikhail trudged quickly through every twist and turn of the bunker, ignoring all the other souls around which became a complete blur to him as he was locked in his own thoughts. So many of them had piled up and he'd managed to restrain them for a little while so nobody could witness his imminent meltdown but the invisible mask was beginning to crack. He had given her this mask once but she was so perceptible to him, even at their first meeting, that she ended up handing it right back. Her modest weight balanced across his shoulders didn't bother him physically but it felt strange. She was so much the same as he remembered her and yet so different. Still just as beautiful and unique but time had separated them and what had she been through? What had the fascists done to her when he didn't even know that Aleksandrya was his own Sasha? Her limbs were dangling lifelessly over him and swayed with the rhythm of his steps. He tightened his grip around her tiny wrist and shifted her higher, swearing that he could hear her soft pained moans each time he had done so. I'm sorry, I know it hurts. We'll be there soon. He was already speaking to her in his head, just like he used to.

The same familiar tornado of film clips, stills, and sounds was swirling in the vortex of his thoughts; memories both good and bad trying to compete for center stage. He couldn't finish any of them, even the ones he really wanted to hold onto were ripped away and then something else would begin. Flashes of them went off like fireworks, like a whole squad of muzzle fire aimed right at him. He was against the wall all over again and felt more and more internal pain with each little spark. The scars from their bullets felt like they were burning and then cooling, he mistook the sweat under his armor for blood. Not again. Go away. He tried to force the images back, not wanting his dark tide of rumination to escape and end up infecting her. She was in bad enough shape already; he didn't need to make it any worse.

Those same goddamn bastards had hold of her all that time, two days' worth of torture. And what had he done to help? Wasted precious time waiting for an entire team to assemble, running off to a bar to meet an informant, and stood around talking to his new junior partner. He had tried not to look at her various inflictions while she lay unconscious in the railcar but it was hard not to see them all. For each wound she had, someone in the Reich deserved to pay for it with their own flesh. An eye for an eye. He'd see to that in due time. Right now, he needed to complete their rescue mission and she desperately needed medical attention. He could feel her feverish warmth radiating down through him and he remembered the crude splint tied around her left leg. At least that was from the building collapse. So that's one less dead Nazi, he re-tallied the scoreboard.

Finally, his turbid pace brought them around the last corner and through the double doors of the medical bay where a team was already waiting with a rolling bed and a multitude of instruments and machines. They waved him over eagerly, but he didn't look at any of them. Maybe I should have gone a little slower, to have more time holding you. He bent forward and one faceless nurse helped to grab Aleksandrya's legs and they placed her on the gurney together. It was so hard to let go of her but the medical team pushed at him because they needed to do their jobs and he was in the way. Looking for one last frozen moment at her bloodied face, he felt something inside him breaking. He wouldn't be able to hold it back for much longer.

"Mischa, she'll be okay," Ulman began to calmly console him as he'd been following close behind them the whole time. But Mikhail didn't want to talk, not to Ulman, not to Artyom, not to anyone. Just himself and the other ghosts.

He pushed past the would-be comedian without a sound and back through the laboratory doors, only looking Colonel Melnik in the face for one fleeting moment as he tore past the rescue squad. At least one person might understand why he was running away. Was he running? Yes. But why? All he wanted to do was stand by her bedside, hold her hand, stroke her hair, and tell her that everything was going to be alright.

"Hey, Zakharovich!" Igor Dukov from Bravo team waved his hand and stepped away from his group. "Great work! Tell us how it went down in there."

"Not now!" Mikhail replied forcefully, without even slowing down, and the younger Ranger's face switched from delight to confusion.

Suddenly remembering that he was still wearing his helmet, he pulled the visor down over his face. There, now hopefully nobody else would even have the chance to make out his identity as he headed right back the way he had just come from. I have to get out of here. There's too many of them. He began to breathe more rapidly, trying not to hyperventilate. Keep it together, just a little longer. He tried to ignore the curious glances and gossiping chatter from everyone as he walked by in haste. Were they talking about him? Did they know about her? Fuck them, they don't know her like I do. None of you could ever understand.

At the top of the bunker, he entered the doorway which led through a series of interconnected corridors. Who knew what all these extra rooms were for, nobody was here when they found D6 anyway. Most of the route had been marked for everyone traveling on foot back towards Polis and Smolenskaya but his feet remembered the way without looking. How many times had he rushed through these thresholds and scurried away to the dark dead-end tunnel on the Filyovskaya line? Well, nobody else ever went there unless they had to, for funerals or anniversaries of funerals. Even then, most of his fellow soldiers were so busy that they rarely had time or energy to travel for something like that. But by himself, he could be there in a matter of minutes, immersed amongst the other dead men who dwelled there.

When the passage straightened out and connected back into the regular Metro tunnels he broke into a run, eating up the crossties just as fast as the trains used to, it seemed. But it was hard to keep up this pace for long. The adrenaline that had fueled his panic and drive to carry her was beginning to abandon him. Whatever was left of it had been used to hold back the veritable tsunami of thoughts and memories, and the dam was about to fail catastrophically. His face was already wet from the emotions he was trying not to give a name to, the visor was fogging up from his rapid breaths. He stumbled but didn't fall, slowing down in the near-complete darkness in the middle of nowhere. Dragging his boots along for another hundred meters, he finally halted and turned to the wall, placing both arms out straight and trying to catch his breath. He tore off his helmet entirely and dropped it carelessly on the gravelly footing of the tracks. He needed air, but there was none.

I can't. I can't.

He turned again, facing out and letting his back crash into the wall, and then his legs finally gave out. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he let his heavy head full of grief and guilt fall into his hands. More tears fell to the ground, dripping slowly at first, clouding the visions cycling behind his eyes. All he could think of was her. His last memory of her - eight years ago. Her terrified silver eyes. The way she struggled against the two men holding her back as she tried to follow him. She tried to stop them. She begged them not to take him. Her high-pitched screams calling his name, fading away from his ears. At least they didn't make her watch. He tried to tell her that it would be okay then, too. He tried to say he loved her one more time. They blindfolded him, what for? And then the muzzle flashes fired again.

He felt as if he was back in that rotting pile, discarded like human garbage into a cesspit of all kinds of refuse somewhere outside of the borders. Nobody bothered to ensure that he was really dead before they left him in darkness, and he had passed out for just a little while, thinking that he would see her again in a moment… on the other side. But something woke itself up, some internal drive that he'd never been able to access intentionally. This recollection was always hazy; his bloodied hands clawing along the soot-stained ground, feeling freezing cold as his blood drained away and soaked through his uniform, and eventually there was a spotlight. Men in dark green military uniforms rushed forward and surrounded him, shouting at each other and lifting him up off the tracks.

Then there was nothing. Nothing for a long while, only vague little snapshots of the hospital in Polis, hearing the little rhythmic beeps that signified his continued existence. But what was he here for? No, I want to go, I want to go with her. Leave me. And then it had all slipped away. He was nobody, for almost three years.

Why was she here? How was she here? What had happened after his execution? She was alive. She had continued to live, too. She had continued to live there. They didn't execute her like they threatened, was it just a threat, then? Was she imprisoned for her association with him? Did she still stay in their little room underneath Chekhovskaya? Could she stand to be there after what happened? How many nights did she spend curled up on their bed alone, crying herself to sleep? Five more years passed even after he remembered everything again, and what was she going through all that time? The Führer… is now her stepfather? So, her mother had moved herself up the ranks, the conniving bitch, how could she do that to Sasha? Did they all live together? Had he ever laid a hand on her in any way? I'll kill him.

But she got out, at long last she'd found a way to make an escape, and Andrei Ivanovich had helped her. He could only picture the man generically, unsure how well they had been acquainted because even though they worked in the same division, it was populated enough that you couldn't possibly know everybody. He'd recovered most of the time he had spent there but was always sure that he couldn't have gotten everything back. And some things really did need to be forgotten, but he didn't get a say in what the universe let him keep and what it had thrown away. All he could do was replay the good memories, try to make them stronger, try to make them stick out more. And when something horrible came up, he had to fight against it and force it into submission, lock it away again. But unfortunately, most of the memories were bad, and he didn't always win. He was so tired.

Then what came next? Okay, back to the timeline. How did she escape? Which tunnels did they take? Did they try to go to Hansa? Through the Red Line? Pushkin connected to the armory, and Chekov went to Polis, Tverskaya to Teatralnaya and Mayakovskaya, but it was always so heavily guarded. He had tried to work this all out with her before, when they were trying to create their own escape plan, but nothing seemed viable. It was too dangerous. Better to stay underneath the thumb of fascism than under its boots. That is, until he'd come home to their little room one night to find a scrap of paper on the floor. The Resistance asked for a lot, but they promised freedom for him and his bride. She was still in the middle of stitching together a wedding dress. Part of a hidden passage had been revealed, and then another clue came as a reward when he completed the next step of the plan. Had she remembered all this and made her escape that way? Had she figured out the rest of the puzzle? Had she done more for the Resistance after he was gone? In that cell just now, she had been wearing one of their symbols: a red shemagh.

Artyom had said that she always wore this scarf, even with her Spartan armor up until her capture. Mikhail had taken it from Damir who had been preparing her for the med bay. If anyone had looked a little closer, they might have noticed the imperfections that signified who that scarf had originally belonged to. It still had a bullet hole in one corner and some of Mikhail's blood woven in with the fibers. She had kept it all this time, and Ivanovich had been sure that she didn't leave the Reich again without it. He must have known about its significance. But somehow, Mikhail still doubted that she would remember him as easily as he had recognized her.

What next? Okay, Artyom said that he met her via Novokuznetskaya, and the Colonel confirmed that fact. His young partner had given quite a bit of information about Aleksandrya and the little clan she had at Avtozavodskaya. Such pride, he recalled Artyom saying that she was in charge of a Revolutionist mercenary group, that she was essentially the station master at Avtozavod, that she accepted and cared for its residents who didn't fit in anywhere else. You're so good to people. He wondered if he might be able to go there someday and see it for himself. But there was just one problem: in all that time and activity, did she still have space in her heart or mind at all for him?

Of course, she had the tattoo, those don't come off. He remembered when she had gotten it, showing it off to him with pride and then trying to help him decide what symbol could represent her, so he could get one too. But she'd had it placed in an inaccessible spot, somewhere she wouldn't readily see it, even mostly hidden from everyone else underneath her beautiful long hair. Did she even remember that she had the marking there? She could have forgotten all about him just as he'd lost everything about her. And he didn't mean to forget, he never would have done so if it were up to him. But she might have chosen to forget him on purpose. In all that time she might have evolved her thoughts in a way that removed all traces of emotion. He knew what it was like to lie to yourself in order to cover up your pain, to try to distance yourself from any strong connection that you no longer had access to. She might have convinced herself over the course of eight years that everything was his fault. She'd grown to resent him for ever getting involved with the Resistance and jeopardizing their happy future. Oh God, she hates me. She must. And he couldn't really blame her for that.

I don't hate you at all, I could never. But I hate myself. You're right, I ruined everything.

She had moved on. She had no other choice. She had someone else now.

Hunter.

He wanted to feel betrayed but in a way he was happy for her. He knew Hunter quite well although it was difficult to say that they were 'close' friends because the stalker never talked much about himself at all. Hunter was strong, intelligent, resourceful, dedicated, loyal, and the veteran Ranger did care quite a bit for people even if he didn't readily display his emotions. He must have truly worried about her to go to such lengths. He kept her secrets, he kept her safe. He was the one who had procured her diplomatic immunity, moved her farther away from the volatile factions and criminal dens she had lived in. And he'd certainly taught her about tactical strategies, taught her enough to prepare her for service with the Order. They had signed a contract. Quantum Entanglement. Hunter loved her, and that was okay.

But now, she was right back in the same predicament. Hunter had made a rash choice to rise up against a hostile entity and likely lost his life to the cause. Everyone was convinced that he had been killed by the mutated creatures that Colonel Melnik and Artyom eventually managed to wipe off the face of the Earth. Did she believe that Hunter was dead, too? Is that why she had come all the way to D6? To accept her widowed status, attend his funeral, inherit his cherished Thread Cutter? Goddamnit, why did Hunter have to do that? Did he leave Aleksandrya behind on purpose? Or did he only go after the Dark Ones to ensure that they didn't invade the entire Metro and eventually consume her as well? Either way, in hindsight it seemed like a fool's errand, and it had been nearly four months since then. If Hunter was still alive somewhere, then why hadn't he come back? Maybe he had had enough of working with the Order, but how could he choose to leave her behind? He better be in a coma somewhere, or else…

He mentally kicked himself because whatever he was feeling about Hunter must be amplified ten thousand times within her heart. That's two of us. We left you. I'm so sorry. And all he wanted to do was get up, stop wallowing in this desolate place, to go back to her with a warm smile and hold her and help her heal. I'm still here, I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I forgot. I'm sorry. The tears would not stop. There was no way she could ever forgive him. And even if by some astronomical miracle she could find it in her heart to absolve his injustices against her, there was no way she had room inside of it for two men. Hunter was going to come back, right? He would come back and take care of her again. He had to. She needed him.

So, Mikhail could stay dead for her. He would avoid her and give her space. She must have managed to forget about him, and coming back into her life at this juncture of turmoil would only make things worse. She had enough pain and grief to deal with without a walking corpse trying to dredge up the sediment of their broken past. It was already unbearable for him trying to process the tidal wave of thoughts and feelings he'd been swept up in for the past hour. No, he wouldn't dare be so selfish as to force her to bear the perilous current along with him. She's been through enough. She doesn't need me to make it worse. She doesn't need me. Nobody needs me.

His watch beeped and it startled him upright, he looked around tensely as if someone had been watching him. There was nothing. He looked at the timepiece: the next watch shift was set to begin in thirty minutes. Maybe he could still be useful somewhere. Standing up slowly, he swiped his sleeves across his face and took some deep breaths. He picked up his helmet from where he'd dropped it, fitted it onto his head, and closed the visor. It was his invisible mask, and no one would be able to see how he really felt. But instead of walking back towards civilization, he continued on his original path, to bury himself in the dead-end tunnel with his brothers. Nobody needs me. I'm just a ghost, and ghosts don't feel anything. I'm sorry, Sasha.

Now that she was awake, they didn't need to monitor her quite as intensely as they had before. The machines were set to make a sound only if there was a problem. They kept the morphine and other medicines flowing steadily into her arm, another blood pack was infused and Artyom was somehow sure it was his. He was all too happy to explain to her who else had donated and helped him watch over her. The mention of Anna and Katya's names finally elicited a smile as she looked over the card that the sniper division had signed and drawn silly notes and figures on. That was her first positive emotion since her return to D6. The rest of the time, she was distant or distracted at best, and nearly inconsolable at worst, but she didn't try to hide any of it from him. She'd reach for his hand every time something awful had arisen.

It seemed like she had a lot on her mind but couldn't give a voice to any of it yet, figuratively or literally. They gave her water and lozenges to help soothe her sore throat but the few things she did say were still strained. It was probably due more to all the emotion lurking behind her words than the physical damage. Artyom was there to listen, to be her shoulder to cry on. And of course, the Colonel would want to know about what she had experienced, but Artyom didn't pressure her for anything. The doctors never explained how the psychological damage from her experience would play out, nor how to handle it, so he could only hope he was doing the right things. Did their medical staff include any kind of psychologists?

Still, her short sentences and gestures began to paint a grim picture of what had transpired in the Second Unit. He had worked out that Varnayev was the sole perpetrator of her torment, that Sturmann hadn't ever turned up like she thought, and that she vaguely recalled Kirill visiting her in secret and trying to make her feel better. He was a friend of mine from a long time ago, she said, he was good friends with my boyfriend Tolya. So, that explained two of the names, Artyom thought to himself. Kirill would draw these cartoon-like animals and sometimes little caricatures of us, of the people we knew. Artyom confirmed with her that it was the same Kirill that he'd met with at the tavern. Light brown hair, huge wide shoulders, kinda condescending? Yes, Ivanovich told us to meet him in Mayakovskaya, me and my unnamed partner. Kirill gave us a coded letter with all the instructions about how to get to you, how to blast the wall to the holding cells, everything. We wouldn't have been able to do it without his help. There was another letter in your hair clip, I think it's for you from him. Wait, it's in my other pair of pants from yesterday. I'm sorry, I'll bring it next time.

Later on in the day, she tried to give him the timeline of what she had experienced, perhaps as repayment for all the details of the rescue mission that he was giving her as carefully as possible without mentioning the forbidden subjects. It hadn't taken the Nazi soldiers very long to get her out of the rubble, they put her in the truck they had been following. Varnayev was taunting her the whole time; she remembered him from the station security forces where he worked alongside Andrei Ivanovich. She passed out a few times but she heard someone call for her as the truck drove away.

"Was it you?"

"No, I didn't say anything," he responded fearfully. Had Hunter called to her? Was the hooded figure really him, if he saw her and knew her name? Then where was he now?

Ivanovich carried her back underground. She didn't see where the entrance was, didn't know where they were. They treated her in the infirmary but really it was just her first taste of brutality.

"It was so bright, I couldn't see anything. It was freezing cold. They took my armor and my clothes, decontaminated me. I tried to fight them and then they sedated me. I don't know how long I was out before I woke up in the Second Unit."

Artyom's stomach turned when she began the worst part of the tale. Seeing the evidence right in front of his eyes like she was the canvas she was painting her own story on was unnerving. She couldn't specify exactly what had caused each marking on her but Artyom didn't want her to be that exact anyway. There were definitely some things that she was leaving unsaid, skipping over and saying part of a sentence in her mind and looking distressed. He kept trying to assure her that she didn't need to say it all, didn't need to relive it like this, but she wanted to tell someone so she wouldn't have to keep it all inside. And he was such a good friend to her, there was no one else she wanted to say it to. At least he could agree to that bit without hesitation.

"This room was dark, hot, and humid, the complete opposite. I was chained up to the wall. Varnayev came in. He gave me a choice."

"A choice?" Artyom asked uneasily.

"He said I had the option to go back to them and play my part in the 'perfect family,' or else… or else they would put me on trial instead."

"For what?" He regretted probing further even though she hadn't answered yet. He was determined not to ask any follow-up questions from here on out.

"When I left, when Andrei and I escaped, I had to… I shot someone. He would have stopped us, would have told on us, would have… if I didn't do it first. I knew him, knew his name and his family, he was an Honor Guard just like… he didn't, Nikita didn't deserve that. I feel bad about it even to this day."

Artyom really did remain silent this time, somehow not surprised by her admission. He got caught up on the Honor Guard bit for a minute, his heart jumping when he thought she was about to say Mikhail's name. Would he know this Nikita she was talking about? Aleks quickly recognized how uncomfortable they both were in the hanging silence, so she went back to the original story.

"Varnayev kept talking, joking, mocking, and suddenly he got really serious like a different personality came out. But then it gets… confusing, mixed together," she closed her eyes and shook her head. "He cut me… choked me… slammed me against the wall… strung me up… he was touching me, he was…" And she let out a squeak behind one hand and looked like she was going to vomit.

"I'm so sorry, Aleks," was all he could say about it, reaching over to rub her shoulder reassuringly. He knew about what she couldn't describe out loud.

"He cut me loose when someone else came in the room, I guess Kirill took over. He came back with water, told me they were trying to contact the Order. Petrovich, the Führer, showed up to ridicule me, to brag, he said he wasn't even going to tell my mother that I was there. He said they have a son, now. I have a half-brother. I don't know if I believe him, but… so, it doesn't matter that I found out the truth about his wife and daughter. Nobody would ever believe me anyway."

"I do," he added in for what it was worth.

"Thanks," she tried to smile but her lips just stayed flat and tense. "They were asking me about D6, Kirill was in the room with us. I don't think I said anything… I don't think I… I really hope I didn't… I… Varnayev was getting upset so I guess… they took me back to the cell and… that's about it."

"So, you didn't hear us blow up the wall right next to you?" He tried to make it sound amusing instead of accusatory but the humor was lost on her as she was still absorbed in the aftermath of her torment.

"I thought I heard something but I couldn't move. Yelling, shooting, and some voices… you, Melnik, Ulman, and… someone was carrying me for a long time."

But Artyom couldn't tell her who it was, convincing himself to say nothing again. She didn't try to ask and didn't give any hint that she might have a guess about it. Artyom was certain that she had heard Mikhail at least subconsciously but she seemed unsure. There was no possible way to prompt her into talking about it without breaking his promise to his partner. Hopefully Katya was close to tracking him down.

When Aleks had nothing more to say, he offered to read the pirate book to her again but decided to begin it anew because she hadn't ever really heard his narration. She laughed at his attempt to mimic the old British way of speaking and his interpretation of an old sea captain's accent which he was sure was way off the mark. The first chapter rambled almost incomprehensively, slow to get the plot going, and there were a lot of terms and places and things spoken about that neither of them could understand. After the second chapter she declared the book 'absolutely terrible' and they shared a mutual laugh over it. He promised to bring something different on his next visit and she invited him to choose one of the books from Hunter's wooden box or to have Katya bring over the Turgenev novel from her barracks room.

After a very bland dinner of sterile freeze-dried hospital food, he began to explain to her that he'd have to leave for the night and she grew predictably anxious again. Artyom tried to argue against the medical staff, professed that he didn't mind sitting with her, but they ended up giving her a sedative and then politely told him when the visitation hours would begin tomorrow. Neither of them had a choice about it, and it was maddening to him that they were purposefully sending her back into a state of purgatory after everyone had been so eager for her awakening. It was important that she get her rest, they said, but after sleeping for several days, hadn't she caught up on that already?

But the more she slept, the less she'd be actively thinking about her experience in the Second Unit. Less silent tears, less hesitant breaths, less pained noises every time she moved. They said she was lucky that her condition wasn't any worse. They said her knee injury was quite serious but thankfully the bones stayed inside her body and it wasn't bad enough to warrant amputation. They said the body armor protected her and reduced the thoracic damage. It had deflected and spread out the impact, so her ribs didn't break and they didn't impale her or completely collapse and suffocate her. Artyom was sorry that he'd asked the doctor to elaborate on the subject. But he knew the medical team was right, he knew there could have been far more dreadful outcomes, and he was smart enough to not tempt fate by ruminating on the alternatives for too long. 'Just be thankful she's here now, being treated, getting better. It will be okay.'

Artyom had an early breakfast, impatient to return to her side and ease her suffering. Nothing much had changed outside the med bay in his absence from normal duty. Ulman asked if he could drop by sometime soon but Artyom knew that the Colonel hadn't changed the visitation list; there was only one other man on it and he was still missing in action. Katya had returned with no results thus far in their quest to locate the elusive Ranger, though she had been able to confirm with Anna that Mikhail had recently fulfilled a patrol duty and then volunteered for a watch at the Church outpost. Why was he there instead of here? Why was he avoiding everybody?

He stood pensively while the hospital sector doors slid open. Nataliya wasn't at the front desk but another kind nurse was. He stated his purpose quickly and she waved him along, already knowing the protocol he was following. As he approached the ICU wing, he recognized that Colonel Melnik was talking to the young Doctor Orlov. He hesitated, not knowing if it was a private discourse or not. But he overheard the Commander inquiring about Aleksandrya's status just as he had with Pyotr initially. The Colonel had been informed that she was awake now, as ordered. He glanced over and acknowledged Artyom's presence, giving a lazy wave that indicated it was okay to join the conversation.

"What about the radiation?" The Colonel returned his attention to the doctor.

"Well, it's hard to tell the exact absorbed dose because we weren't there to witness symptom progression. We'll have to treat what we can see and the rest is revealed in time. There's a latent period before the critical phase rears its head. If the fever was only caused by sepsis and not the radiation then I'd estimate anywhere from one to four grays and my bet is that it's on the lower end since it was reported that she wasn't exposed for too long and the majority of the exposure was from inhalation of particulate matter."

Artyom's head was swimming with the information. Normally he'd be thrilled with the details he didn't need to ask for but unfortunately, he didn't know what most of those words even meant. The Colonel seemed to understand it well enough and didn't seem particularly disturbed by the response, so maybe it wasn't too bad after all?

"We've done a few transfusions, that'll bolster her immune system, and the potassium iodide will help protect her thyroid. So far, the response to treatment has been excellent, I think she'll make a full recovery. Chances of mortality from the exposure are less than ten percent."

"I want zero percent," Melnik said almost absent-mindedly, crossing his arms.

"All in due time, Colonel," the young doctor smiled reassuringly.

"And about the knee injury?"

"She's got a stable tibial plateau fracture from a crushing impact, possible ACL or PCL tear, still too much swelling to give a prognosis pre-op. But there's no indication of patellar-tibiofemoral dislocation so there's some good news."

"What's that in layman's terms, you know I'm not good with all that," Melnik frowned.

"It's an internal fracture of the top of the tibia, likely caused by the falling debris onto the joint and hyperextension. The immobility has to do with the ligaments, most likely the anterior or posterior cruciate— the big ones in the front and back of the knee joint. The kneecap may have also been dislocated from that kind of force but if so, at least the fascists were nice enough to pop it back in for us, so it's not an issue."

"How does all that affect her regaining mobility and whatnot?" The Colonel glanced over at the hall of segregated rooms as if to ensure that Aleks couldn't hear them talking about her.

"After the surgery and with physical therapy, she should recover well enough to ambulate normally."

"So, you mean she'll be able to walk again?" Artyom interjected quietly, trying to understand the jargon.

"Exactly," the doctor nodded his head. The prognosis was improving but there was still a long way to go.

There was a moment of silence while Melnik seemed to be deep in thought, deciding if he had any more questions or if he actually wanted the answers. He glanced over at Artyom, then behind him, and then looked back at the doctor again.

"Has Lieutenant Vorobyov been in here?"

"Zakharovich? No sir, haven't seen him," the doctor looked confused at the query. "Why?"

"Because he should have, by now." Melnik narrowed his eyes suspiciously and sighed as if he was deeply disappointed. "Alright well, thank you for the update. Keep me informed about the surgery and any other major changes."

"Yes, sir, we will," the doctor replied before scurrying off.

The Colonel turned to Artyom again, looking as if he was still absorbing the full weight of the information he had just received. He gave an uncertain kind of sigh and then gestured as he began a request.

"Artyom, if you'll please come with me. I'll need you to... interpret, I guess. It's a delicate sort of thing, but I need to ask her these questions you understand. You'll make her more comfortable. I'm not trying to create another atmosphere of interrogation."

"Yes, sir. I understand. I told her you'd want to know about it at some point. I've heard a lot of it from her but I don't think she remembers much after a certain point, which I guess is good, but..."

"Right. Well, let's get this behind us."

The Colonel gestured again, asking Artyom to lead the way inside so he would be the first thing she saw. Her door was already open so he knocked on the frame as he entered. She perked up at the sound, sitting up in bed fully when she recognized the Commander's imposing form behind Artyom.

"Hello Aleks," Melnik remembered to use her nickname in order to sound less rigid. "How have you been feeling? The doctors tell me you've improved quite a bit."

"I'm doing fine, sir, thank you for asking," Melnik knew it was at least partially a lie. She looked uncomfortable as she shifted her weight and swatted at the IV line. It was a rehearsed answer that she gave too quickly, and she was looking at Artyom as if to ascertain whether or not she was successful.

"Good, well uh, as you've been informed, I'd like to ask you a few questions if that's alright." He couldn't quite look her in the eyes, standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room.

"Yes, I know what you want to know," she sighed and stared at her hands in her lap. "I um, didn't really get the chance to... say anything to them. Right away they... he... I guess that's how I got the skull fracture."

"It's okay, Aleks," Artyom walked all the way over and put a hand on her shoulder. "Do you remember if they asked you anything?"

"Varnayev did a lot of the talking. It was a game to him. By the time he was asking questions, I was already... really..." her arms were shaking as if she was cold. She raised one hand to her neck like she did before. Artyom knew what that meant even though the bruises had faded significantly.

"She couldn't talk very well, sir," he copied Aleks' pantomime.

Melnik seemed to understand what they were both implying and tensed up his face.

"I'm rather certain that I couldn't have given anything important to them. Even when Petrovich came to my cell, I couldn't say much of anything."

"He came to see you? Did he say anything regarding us, the listening post, their plans, anything like that?" Melnik looked intrigued.

"No, sir." Aleks managed a conclusive answer even as she gazed off at the wall, taking in a breath for strength. "He was just gloating, bragging that I was finally in my rightful place."

"I'm sorry," Melnik said quietly.

"I can't remember much, just little flashes. The infirmary. A bright light, Varnayev yelling, touching me, the cell was dark, I think I heard the explosion but I couldn't move. And I remember my friend, Kirill was trying to help."

"That brave young man brought us the information we needed, but it was your security guard companion who engineered it for us."

"Ivanovich," Aleks said mournfully. "I forgive him."

"As you should," Melnik responded readily but then became vague. Artyom had only mentioned Ivanovich and his betrayal during the strategizing conference and Ulman had filled him in on the rest. "It does us no good to hang on to pain and regret."

Artyom was noting the philosophical nature in the Colonel again but couldn't tell if he was referring to anything specific. Even though he needed to ask these hard questions he was still shaken to hear of her experience. Aleks didn't have a reply for what he'd said, and she looked over at Artyom as if to ask him whether this unpleasant interaction was over yet or not.

"Well, if you care to know, the listening post that you and Artyom discovered has been thoroughly sabotaged and we have been keeping an eye on the area and at Mayakovskaya. Follow-up on your evidence that was taken from the sentry they were in contact with has uncovered the name of their motive to find their way into D6: Operation El Dorado. Fitting," Melnik mused about the name for a minute but then began some more reassurance when he saw Aleks' severe expression. "I can assure you that they're nowhere near close to finding us, despite the propaganda that you might have heard. We've curtailed our far-reaching efforts in order to tighten up our defenses, so you can rest at ease here. You have my word on that."

"Oh, that's good," Aleks said uncertainly. Maybe she was nervous that the Colonel had found out about the sentry she had shot. "I… I'm sorry about the… collateral damage."

But Melnik didn't seem to have any idea what she meant by that. Artyom looked at her with a tiny nod, trying to indicate that he hadn't completely sold her out when he made his report about what they had seen on their mission. She reached out to hold his hand again.

"I'll be the first to commend you on your success, and I am prepared to declare your official enlistment if you still desire to remain with us." Melnik stunned both of them with the offer, as neither of them had considered their mission to be very successful. Artyom was squeezing her hand and waiting for her answer but the Colonel continued, abruptly correcting himself. "You don't need to answer right away. You'll need time to recover and I… just hope that you'll consider the offer carefully."

"Yes, I… thank you, sir," Aleks stammered, giving no clue as to what she might decide.

Artyom shook her hand a little, excited just at the news of Colonel Melnik's approval. As a contrast to what he had seen in the Kremlin station hallway, the Commander had drastically changed his stance after learning her true history and seeing what she had been through.

"I know this will seem quite a departure from what we've spoken of so far, and it's likely unnecessary at this point… but if you'll humor me," Melnik crossed his arms uncomfortably. "Hunter said that you would know his name, that was how I was supposed to determine that you were the 'genuine article,' as he said."

"His name is," Aleks looked over at Artyom, he could see the sorrow rising up again. They weren't supposed to talk about Hunter. She corrected herself. "His name was... Ivan Antonovich Zaytsev."

"Right," Melnik confirmed with a tiny nod, seeming to be in a similar world of thought. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Is that what you say to everyone's wives?" She had said it so quietly but Melnik still heard it.

"It's time we had a memorial, give everyone closure on the matter. As commander, the force is looking to me for guidance and I need to set the example, understand? I can't begin to tell you how many other men we've lost since…" The Colonel took in a melancholy breath. "It can wait until you're healed but… I hope you'll say a few words for him."

"Yes, we… I suppose we should," she squeaked out, her eyes glassed over.

"I'm sorry," Melnik said again. That was the most Artyom had ever heard him apologize for anything.

"I'm sorry, too."

"We can work out the details later. For now, I'll leave you to rest. You're in good hands." Melnik was already heading for the door, looking quite disturbed and trying to hide it by turning away.

"Thank you, Colonel, for my life," she called after him.

"You're welcome." He replied without looking back and left the room in methodical steps like a toy soldier.