Author's Note: Traffic statistics are working again as of the new year! Yay! Also, I forgot to mention that the previous chapter where Mikhail and Sasha kiss again has an extra-spicy version that is over on AO3 (Archive of Our Own) and you don't need an account to read anything over there, just search the same story title. I'm quite good at writing romance and erotica, if I do say so myself! I told you things would get better for them :) Hopefully this chapter will be the last of the more depressing flashbacks even though we've switched to everything being mostly from Mikhail's 3rd-person POV from now on. Artyom has played his part, though he'll still be in the story of course. Enjoy!
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: "Blood on My Hands" – Beyond Unbroken, "Wait for Me" – The Raven Age
Chapter Forty-Seven: I Wish I Knew
"Sasha! Don't touch her… she isn't… part of this…" He mumbled the words weakly but nobody was listening, nobody was responding, nobody was threatening. Why was it so hard to speak? Why was it so hard to breathe? Something was beeping and blocking out the thoughts he was trying to organize. "It was all me… only me… let… let her go… please… please!"
"He's coming around a bit!" Someone nearby shouted and then leaned in over him, obscuring some of the bright light overhead. "Hey, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"
"Sasha…" She was all he could worry about. He didn't care where he was but where was she? Shouldn't she be right here? He couldn't hear her crying anymore. Why wasn't she calling his name back to him? She always says it back…
"Three entry wounds, two exit wounds. Mid-caliber, short-range." A different person spoke in a calm tone. Too calm for all the activity in the room. Too calm for all of the chaos in his mind. "Right proximal projectile seems to have ricocheted off the scapula but we can't tell where it ended up."
"We'll call in for an x-ray once he's stabilized. I'd like to avoid a full laparotomy, if anything major was hit he wouldn't have even made it this far," a third too-calm person responded with more medical jargon. How many doctors were here? Were all of them paying attention to him? Did they know what happened to her? Is she in the bed next to this one? He couldn't see.
Beep… beep… beep… It was so slow. Was time slow or was he slow? Misaligned with the carefully-orchestrated melody that kept the tempo of the universe flowing purposefully. Something was horribly out of place. This wasn't supposed to happen.
"What's your name?" the hazy masked face asked insistently.
"My… I'm… Mischa. Mikhail… Zakharovich." Everything felt cold and sharp. There was one more name but he didn't have the strength to tell it to them. And did they want his rank? He wanted to ask them who they were. Why wouldn't they tell him anything?
"Where did you come from? That tunnel is supposed to be blocked off. You were wearing this uniform." Doctor Mask leaned into view but then faded away again as he held out a dark blob.
"I… was…" he wanted to touch the object, maybe connecting with it would help him remember, but his right arm wouldn't obey its usual commands. It hurt to even flex his shoulder. Let's try… the other one…? He raised his left hand and this time his side hurt, lower down somewhere near his last few ribs. What about the rest of him? He tried to look down but only caught a glimpse. They had undressed him but given him a blanket, he could move both bare feet but didn't even want to get up. His body felt so heavy, as if he was stuck to this surface he was lying on. They asked… about my uniform… Who are these people? With great effort, he reached out and grasped onto the damp wool fabric. Why was it damp? He pulled his hand back and held it closer to his face so his eyes could focus; it was stained a deep shade of red. Oh God, is that mine? Or hers? They had asked him a question and the fabric was the answer but these doctors didn't know what it represented. So, he wasn't in the Reich anymore? Say the words for them… maybe they can help… and he managed to whisper, "Reich… Honor Guard."
"Why did they do this to you?" Someone different had spoken but Mikhail couldn't see anyone else. The light was too bright again. Why did they do this? Everything was fine just a minute ago. Wasn't it?
"Doesn't appear that there's any cardiac injury, no pneumothorax, no spinal damage. This kid got really lucky… or the assholes just had bad aim." They laughed. They joked about it. What was funny?
Beep… beep… beep… it continued on in the background. It sounded off in time with the pulsing pain in his chest. It was his heart. He thought they had ripped it out. I still have one? It's still going? But she's supposed to have it… and where is…? I'm supposed to have hers… where is it? Where is it?!
"Sasha!" His bloody hand fell back to the padded surface and gripped at the edge of the table or bed or whatever this was, wanting to get up and start looking for her but he couldn't move. He turned his head left and right but didn't recognize anything. None of this was right. She wasn't anywhere. The beeps accelerated along with the storm of questions and shallow breaths took the place of his voice. He felt dizzy, he felt drained, as though his very soul was slipping away and taking his consciousness along with it.
No, I want to go… I want to go with her… leave me. She was gone. She was dead. She had departed this dimension already and his spirit was trying to follow her. They had to be together. This wasn't right. The bright beams went completely white all around him and then everything went dark.
"Shit, BP is dropping again!" Which of the shapeless figures had cried out? They weren't calm anymore. No more laughing. No more jokes.
"Nataliya, get me two more units of B positive!" A voice from the left.
"Right away, doctor!" A female voice… but not Sasha's.
"Got to be an internal bleed somewhere, just now when he moved. Get the x-ray tech over here now! We don't have time to wait. Hang on, kid! Don't you dare die on me!" Doctor Left tried to encourage him.
But I… I want to. I want to die with her… and go… to the next… life.
"You know I wouldn't ask unless it was of the utmost importance. There's only so much I can do for him; he needs to get out of here. He needs... purpose. I can't trust anybody else with this. Please, Iva— Please, Hunter." Colonel Melnik pleaded as quietly yet forcefully as he could manage, leaning over the desk on both of his hands to steady himself.
"I've heard about this... project of yours. Basket case." Hunter had refused to even sit down, having anticipated this request and trying to find a way to oppose it at all costs. The last thing he needed was a shell-shocked private following him around anxiously.
"You already know the basic story so cut him a break, will you? He may be new to us but the Reich is thorough in their regimentation and he knows his way around a rifle. He's a smart kid and he's ready to learn whatever else he doesn't already know. I've done everything I can, you just need to fill in the blanks. He's got all the basics down and he knows the rules and regs." Melnik explained as quickly as he could, trying to anticipate the things Hunter might ask or to quell what his concerns might be. This particular recruit wasn't the typical teenaged applicant full of noble dreams and not enough fortitude, he already had experience with battle. Far too much experience for his age, unfortunately. But now it was time for him to fight some battles outside of his own mind.
"Fine! Fine. As long as you vetted him yourself... but he better not slow me down." Hunter grumbled as he stopped his pacing, seeing that Melnik wouldn't relent.
"I think you need to slow down. This partnership is good for both of you. I don't want it to be an order, so don't make me ask again." Melnik straightened up and crossed his arms.
"What about all the...?" Hunter gestured about his own head with one hand.
"He only sees the psychologist once a week now, so as long as you check in like you're supposed to..." Melnik glanced at the door, could his protégé hear what was being said?
"But what if..." Hunter hesitated and Melnik knew what he was trying to ask. He was worried that the young Ranger would have a psychotic break while in his company, possibly jeopardizing a mission or compromising his strength in battle. But Hunter had the exact same training about managing post-traumatic stress, and this wouldn't be the first time he'd been assigned to mentor someone who was damaged in some way.
"If it happens, you can handle it. I know you've got it in you. I know you give more of a shit than you show." Melnik paused and tried to sound less harsh and accusatory. "I think you'll grow to like him pretty quick once you see what he's capable of. He has the potential to do great things for our cause."
"Alright." Hunter conceded with a heavy sigh but no further pushback, he acknowledged the candid tone that the Colonel had used and identified the sincerity. "Where's he at? I'm due at the Kalininskaya Confederation this evening. We need to leave within the hour."
"He's ready to go as soon as you are." Melnik didn't answer specifically but came out from behind the desk and led the way into the short hall outside the office. He went only a few steps to where a young man with short blonde hair was leaning against the wall, looking sullen but straightening up as the men came over to him. Had he heard any of their conversation? Hunter suddenly felt bad about the way he had spoken about this recruit's situation in his frustration. "Mikhail, this is your new partner. The one I was telling you about."
The young man didn't respond with words, only giving a slight nod and turning his lifeless gaze to Hunter who began looking him over thoroughly with squinted suspicious eyes.
"Hunter is the best field agent we have. He's my second in command and I trust him with my life, so you can trust him with yours. Alright?"
Mikhail gave his slight nod again.
"Doesn't he talk?" Hunter growled with annoyance. It was going to be tough to work with someone who couldn't verbalize anything.
"Not much." Melnik reported flatly. "But he'll open up as you keep working together. Right?" He looked back at Mikhail and put a hand on his shoulder in an encouraging manner but the young man didn't nod this time.
"Can you at least manage a 'yes' and a 'no,' kid?" Hunter still wasn't fully sure what he was dealing with.
"Yes, sir." Mikhail said softly.
"You don't need the 'sir.' And as far as you know, I don't have a rank, anyway." Hunter instructed firmly, glancing at Melnik as a signal not to override his statement and tell this recruit that he was a Lieutenant Colonel. "So, what shall I call you, then? I know you aren't a kid, so forgive me for that..."
Mikhail didn't reply, seeming to be in concerned thought about the query, looking over at Melnik again for assistance.
"For now, how about his callsign? Then you've each got an odd self-inflicted moniker." Melnik submitted thoughtfully and looked at both men to assess their receptiveness.
"I don't have to explain myself," Hunter began to mutter, looking at Mikhail again who didn't seem to have any question about calling his new partner whatever everybody else did.
"He doesn't either. The asylum takes care of that, anyway," Melnik leaned back and crossed his arms comfortably, giving a smile as he seemed to expect an instantaneous bond to form between these two. "I don't want anyone from the Reich to find out about him. So, just call him Sparrow."
"That good with you?" Hunter kept glaring at Mikhail but tried not to seem hostile. He just didn't like superfluous conversation, and this one was already taking far too long.
Mikhail nodded but then remembered what he'd been told by his new senior partner. "Yes."
"What have you got there?" Hunter made a vague gesture at the leather strap over Mikhail's shoulder. That kind of talk was more his speed. "You pick it out yourself or did the old man here give it to you?"
"Both," Melnik answered quickly but then his smile dropped away as Hunter began admonishing.
"Dammit, Slavik," he scolded harshly. "Let the Sparrow speak for himself." And then he looked over at the young man expectantly for the requested response. Would his new junior say more than just a few words?
"I chose it. From the armory. Simonov, 1952, Tula Arsenal stamped. Everything matches 'cept the suppressor." Mikhail seemed to understand what he was being asked, taking the rifle off his shoulder and presenting it in perfect parade form as he gave out the specifics. Melnik had indeed taught him a lot already, or had those practiced poses come from the Reich?
"Solid, reliable. Function over form. Smart." Hunter gave a similarly structured response. "How's your aim?"
"Fine." Mikhail continued to display an expression just as dead as his voice. What had this kid really been through? Hunter had only been told the basic facts but hadn't bothered or dared to imagine any of it in detail until now. He was trying to come up with a more specific question, because he didn't know how to interpret that short answer, but Melnik cut back into the conversation, overeager to show off the skills of the recruit he was so desperately trying to convince Hunter to like.
"He's not the bragging type but he could beat the girls any day. Probably even better than you."
"We'll see how you do on the way," Hunter shrugged and ignored the personal jab. Might as well give the kid the benefit of the doubt, innocent until proven useless. He raised a finger to the ceiling and asked, "You ever been up top before?"
Mikhail shook his head in the negative but there wasn't any fear in his eyes. Hunter looked at Melnik for a long second without saying anything and the Colonel didn't have any smart additions to submit this time.
"First time for everything..." Hunter displayed a sly smile, unsure himself why he wasn't annoyed that he'd have to teach this young man everything about the surface. Suddenly the prospect of a blank canvas recruit was alluring but he wouldn't give Melnik his complete satisfaction right away. "You shaved this morning?"
"Yes…" Mikhail left off the 'sir' uncomfortably as if his mouth was still saying it without the sound.
"Good, that helps you get a tight seal on the gas mask, and where we're going..." Hunter trailed off without giving any clues, then he began to walk away slowly after giving Melnik a hard pat on the shoulder. "Say your peace, Colonel. You've got ten minutes while I suit up and reload." And he left the young man and old man in the office hall.
"There's more than meets the eye," Melnik mused quietly to Mikhail as he watched Hunter go, then returned his gaze to his fractured protégé. "You're in good hands, trust me on that. I don't have the time or the freedom that I wish I did and... well, you don't want to be stuck here on guard duty forever. And this way there's less chance that someone might recognize you."
"Yes, sir." Mikhail didn't look Melnik in the eye but he nodded again.
"Anything you need? Questions?"
"No, sir."
"Just remember to have trust in yourself." Melnik put a hand on the young Rangers shoulder again but ended up drawing him in for a hug. Somehow, he felt like he was saying goodbye, or at least passing the torch of paternal protection off to Hunter. "You can do this."
Mikhail only nodded once more, barely returning the reassuring embrace and hoping nobody was watching them. Of course, after everything that had gone on in the last few months since he had gotten his memories back, he had come to think of Melnik as a father figure. And this odd temporary goodbye felt reminiscent of when his real father dropped him off for his first day of grade school.
"Sasha!" He reached his hand out towards her but there was nothing there. Her terrified face flooded with tears disappeared as they dragged him around the corner. But she kept calling for him, kept pleading, kept fighting. Her own piercing shrieks of his name still echoed in his ears as he awoke from the same old nightmare once again, gasping and groaning as his mind gradually returned to reality.
This wasn't Darwin station, it wasn't Wagner or Schiller. It wasn't even Polis or Smolenskaya. Here it was completely dark and vacant but the limited confines of his single-person barracks room at least afforded him some privacy from these distressing and abasing outbursts. Thankfully the walls of the bunker were thick reinforced concrete and the doors were insulated steel so nobody could have heard him cry out.
He had been dreaming of her more often lately, though it wasn't always the worst of the memories that played on repeat. Last week he'd had a much more pleasant vision of meeting her again somewhere but it was far too brief and the liminal metaphysical space had appeared hazy and muted almost to complete silence. She was standing in a decorative and bright station hall, wearing her favorite blue floral-patterned dress, smiling blissfully, and looking right at him with those sparkling silver eyes full of hope. Her enticing pale pink lips parted and made familiar movements but there was no sound to match up with them. What was she trying to tell him? After replaying it as many times as he could once it ended, he still couldn't figure it out. He assumed this imaginary film to be a manifestation of his most desperate desires, or maybe the universe was trying to show him what he would see the moment he crossed over to the other side. At least they both subscribed to that kind of belief, so he knew he would meet her again someday. Hopefully, in a place far away from here, in a parallel dimension where the world didn't obliterate itself.
As much as he ruminated on these possible longings and about the life after this one, he was never reckless on his missions. Yet, he approached each hostile situation with a sort of consenting indifference, and whatever was meant to happen would happen. He wasn't eager to die for a second time but he definitely wasn't living. Suicide had only been tempting for the first few months after he had recovered his lost memories in a precipitous and devastating flood. Enacting his own form of execution had quickly lost its appeal as the reticent guilt prevailed over the multitude of adjoining emotions. He felt as though he needed to remain in this harsh reality and keep remembering her, keep evoking her, as a way to atone for everything he had done wrong. A paltry self-inflicted penance to pay for the life he had taken from her.
"Mischa, we're going to be late for the morning briefing!" Arseniy pounded on his door forcefully, finalizing the construction of this wretched plane of existence.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!" Mikhail replied angrily as he tore off the blanket and turned on the lamp beside the bed. Unpleasant as the visual reminder was, he was still annoyed that the dream and the reflective aftermath of it had been interrupted. And why couldn't it have been a nice dream? Or one of those dreams?
He was quick to dress, always having a clean uniform laid out in case of emergencies. And those were becoming more frequent as the strength and numbers of their regiment dwindled and news was spreading about the discovery of the bunker. New recruits were in short supply but so were veterans, and nearly five years of loyal service had rewarded him with a promotion earlier this year. It was an enjoyable event for only that first day before the additional responsibilities that came with the new title were added to the substantial burden he already carried. Another plank tacked on to his cross to bear.
Arseniy had squatted down against the wall outside his room, tracing little circles in the powdery dirt on the floor and humming a quiet tune to himself. Mikhail hadn't been assigned to this particular partner for too long, his previous junior affiliate had recently become a senior himself and had his own naïve disciple to deal with. But at least now they could commiserate on the irritating aspects of their subordinates. His current novice partner wasn't so bad, really, but Arseniy was too talkative and a bit senseless, and his marksmanship still needed serious improvement. But maybe that wasn't really a fair assessment, because Mikhail was accurate enough at any range to rival the women in the sniper division.
Familiarity with firearms hadn't been so meticulous in the Reich; the station security forces entailed close-range indoor encounters where having good aim wasn't important and discharging any kind of weapon within the station halls had almost never occurred anyway. The select few men of the Honor Guard only carried a mostly ceremonial handgun because their intimidating and ingratiating presence was usually its own deterrent. But Mikhail had always been fascinated with weaponry; it was built into his bloodline which consisted of stalwart military men going all the way back to the Stone Age, he'd been told. The senior partner he had served under when he first joined the Order had given him the rest of the information that the Reich neglected to teach. Hunter was an excellent instructor in that department, having both the know-how and the arsenal to utilize. So, it hadn't taken very long for Mikhail to reach his same level of expertise, and since Hunter's disappearance almost four months ago, the list of well-trained veterans grew ever shorter.
He could already tell that this was going to be a difficult day, it always proved to be especially arduous after having that stupid nightmare. It was like a curse that purposefully distracted him and kept his mind precariously balanced on the partition that separated this damned subway system from the ethereal space that contained his harrowing past. He pulled out a cigarette and his lighter as they left the barracks and tried with each bitter inhale to clear his mind and prepare for work.
"Did you hear about that new chick that just showed up? Hunter's secret girlfriend or whatever," Arseniy asked with an excited smile.
"You know I don't give a shit for rumors," Mikhail grumbled quietly. Of course, he'd heard the inquisitive whispers sweep through the bunker all day yesterday but never cared to pay much attention to such childish speculations.
Everyone loved to think that the Order was a strict and impartial outfit that was populated by hardhearted warriors focused only on the mission, but their elite force was still comprised of ordinary human beings and they loved to gossip and conjecture just as much as a women's sewing circle. And this was especially true when there was a new recruit or unexpected visitor. As far as he'd heard in passing, this mysterious new girl was a competent type, capable enough to have come to D6 for the purpose of enlistment and not simply arriving as a frail grieving military wife. The majority of opinions revolved around her unspecified affiliation with Hunter and why he had never told anyone about her. Anyway, Mikhail decided, if she passed the initial investigations and merit field assessment then he'd probably meet her eventually, and he didn't want the ridiculous chatter to contaminate his perception of anyone before he encountered them. It wasn't fair to either party to be introduced with prejudice.
"But the Colonel let her into D6 without even meeting her before, she's got to be important," Arseniy persisted. "Maybe she knows where Hunter is, or what happened to him."
"Leave it alone. It's gotta be hard enough already for her to be here without you and everyone else spreading shit you know nothing about." Mikhail honestly felt bad for this woman, as he already knew what it was like to be whispered about with nosy strangers trying to guess your life story. He never spoke of his own account to anybody, only giving rudimentary facts of his background to those who deserved the explanation. Even the handful of other Rangers who had originated from the Reich were excluded from the specifics. It was almost sad that he probably trusted them even less than anyone else because you could never be sure who might be a double agent. If the fascists found out that he was still begrudgingly hanging on to existence then his tragic life would be in jeopardy once again. He wasn't done paying his reparations to Sasha yet, and he would not allow the Nazis to have the satisfaction of finishing the task they had botched eight years ago.
"Well, I heard she's fine as hell, too. Yevgeniy was telling me about her, she was talking about all kinds of stuff with a group of guys in the mess hall. I guess she was originally from the Reich, just like you!" Arseniy prodded him expectantly.
"A bunch of us are from there, so what?" Mikhail rolled his eyes and ignored the other comments, again trying to stave off any information that could become a preconception.
"Alright, jeez! I'm just trying to make conversation. Maybe you used to know her or somethin' I dunno." Arseniy grumbled and waved a hand in front of his face to chase away the cigarette smoke.
"Well don't. We have work to do. And you know my memory sucks," he was always ready to remind people of that fact because it worked like a suit of armor that he could use to deflect all kinds of insipid inquiries.
"I don't think anybody could forget someone like her."
Mikhail simply rolled his eyes and kept walking towards the command center, hopefully whatever mission they were assigned to today would occupy his mind and push all the dumb ideas and awful memories out of the way.
"Are you still mad that I got the car stuck in the mud last week?" Why was Arseniy still trying to talk to him? Would he ever shut the hell up?
"I hope you had your fun, 'cause that's the last time I let you drive." Hopefully that sounded stern enough to convey that the conversation was over.
"Dammit," Arseniy grumbled but didn't seem too surprised that his partner wasn't happy with him. At least he finally stopped talking after that, and Mikhail could savor a moment of peace before the day turned into certain chaos.
A group of the most experienced and higher-ranking members of the Order were on their way to the Kremlin, and Mikhail had only heard a few details of what awaited them there. Once again, he wasn't going carelessly but if the unknown entity asked for his life, he would give it. Maybe then it would be worth something, to protect someone else like he couldn't protect Sasha. But when they were nearing the end of the lengthy hall an adjutant ran up behind their group and asked for the Colonel insistently, handing the Commander a small strip of paper before disappearing again. Everyone halted upon the delivery and Melnik briefly explained that there was an emergency that needed his attention. It happened often enough that nobody was overly anxious about the report. Something was always going wrong somewhere and the Colonel could hardly go on a mission these days without being called off or pulled aside for something else.
Some of the other Rangers chatted amongst themselves and looked over their gear as they waited. Tokarev tried to ask Mikhail what he thought about the impending intrusion but he didn't answer, just shrugged apathetically and gazed off in thought again. But soon they heard footsteps approaching and everyone turned their eyes to see what would derive of the urgent report of this newcomer. The young man who emerged from the darkness was familiar. Mikhail hadn't spoken to him before but everyone knew the tale of the young man who'd come from Exhibition station after Hunter had disappeared in that region. Whether he was really a heroic 'Savior' or not, Artyom had helped the Order find D6 and then bravely went to exterminate the mutant race of Dark Ones that had plagued the Northern quadrant… the mutants that had likely killed their most experienced veteran.
Artyom spilled out the narrative of the disastrous merit mission with a nervous countenance, his fearful eyes pleading for assistance from anybody. He practically begged the Colonel to go after Aleksandrya before he resorted to hollering and even accusing the Commander of carelessness. Mikhail had never seen anyone shout so passionately at the Colonel like that and get away with it for this long, but Artyom continued to profess how important and genuine this woman was, how she related to Hunter, and why they had to go after her quickly. So, most of the rumors floating around had been true, Hunter did have a clandestine sweetheart that he'd never mentioned before. But Melnik seemed to know all about it, known enough about her to have allowed her into D6 and to head straight into a field assessment without being fully vetted first. What made her so special?
Artyom's name had come up several times along with the whispers about Aleksandrya. Again, Mikhail had tried not to hear it but it was impossible to ignore such an emotional display regarding her in this narrow corridor. Maybe he should have listened to the rumors, maybe she was important, important for more than just the reason she had come to D6. Some of the Rangers murmured to each other about the information gained from the reconnaissance above Mayakovskaya; the situation with the Nazis was always tense but hearing about a nearby listening post began to paint a very grim picture of another stirring conflict. Aleksandrya had history with the Reich, everyone had known that already, but now there was a new element to it. Why did she leave? How did she escape? Was she a fugitive? A political dissident? Had she been part of the Resistance? Artyom then explained that she was related to someone with a high rank – perhaps the Führer himself. But Yevgeniy Petrovich was still in charge of the regime and Mikhail knew that he didn't have any children of his own, except for the one he was rumored to keep secret.
As the other Rangers were commanded to continue on to the Kremlin, Mikhail began to sort out if anything Artyom had said would help to construct this new mission. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd dropped everything to assist with a more serious task. Melnik selected him from the lineup because of his own involvement with the Reich and with the Resistance. The Colonel set the tone for this new pressing operation, and a case of diplomatic asylum was at stake. Above all else, it was certain that the villains of the Second Unit would waste no time in trying to levy this poor injured woman for information regarding the bunker. There were more than a few reasons to mount a swift recovery effort.
It wasn't until he and Artyom were on the monorail that he dared to ask for more details about Aleksandrya. It seemed that he had no choice in trying to repel prejudgments any longer. Once the floodgates had been opened, Artyom kept talking about her for the entire ride back to D6; how he'd met her, about her escape from the fascists three years or so ago, about the station she currently lived in, and her clan of comrades who protected and operated it. This woman's list of accomplishments was certainly extensive and remarkable. How come no one had heard about her before? She was supposedly in league with the Revolutionists but it probably had more to do with Artyom's final alarming and most-recent finding of her background: she was the Führer's stepdaughter. Well, no wonder she had run away from the Reich and tried to remain obscure. And Hunter apparently hadn't kept this secret about her because he was possibly embarrassed or weakened by the prospect of a romantic relationship; no, now it made more sense, he had been protecting her identity. And Varnayev was involved in all this, too. Mikhail tried not to express his horror and disgust when Artyom stated the name but hearing it always brought the dreadful memories of his past along with it. This Aleksandrya was in a lot of trouble if she had recognized Varnayev, if he had recognized her. Lastly, what was the reasoning behind her companion Andrei Ivanovich who appeared to betray her and return to serve the fascists? It all seemed so coincidental, a lot was happening all at once, something strange was constructing itself around this woman and Mikhail had to figure out what.
He left his new junior partner in the med bay while he stowed their weapons and began to subtly summon some people to meet in the conference room to discuss and plan the upcoming rescue mission. Vladimir gave an unsettling expression when Mikhail handed in the Vintorez and stated that it belonged to Artyom. The armorer scratched his head, asking if he was sure about that, because he knew who it had originally belonged to and whom it had been passed down to, and Artyom wasn't the beneficiary of this bequest. Still, Mikhail insisted and Vladimir shrugged and noted it down before placing it in Artyom's assigned locker.
When he reentered the main hall, he caught sight of Arseniy heading towards the barracks and called out to him.
"Senya!" he waved energetically to summon him.
"Mischa? I thought you were going to—?" the young man displayed confusion as he walked over hurriedly.
"Never mind about that, we've got a situation. I need you to round up as many of these guys as you can find in the next hour," he looked at his watch. "Have everyone rally in the conference room and sit tight until I get there."
"What's it all about?"
"I can't say what, it's classified. You've got your orders, now get going!" he commanded sternly as he handed the list of names to Arseniy and set off on his own search for the required personnel.
The rescue operation had gone more smoothly than any of them could have hoped for. Ivanovich's detailed encoded instructions had proven vital, so they wouldn't have to question his allegiance any longer. Whatever the reason was that he returned to his prior position had nothing to do with Aleksandrya or her clan it seemed. Ulman and Artyom had fulfilled their roles in the jailbreak brilliantly and they had gotten Aleksandrya out of there without any injury from the frenzied firefight in the smoke-filled cell block.
Knowing that Kirill the courier was on the opposing side yet aligned with their cause had instilled a certain sense of ease in their team. Mikhail wished they could go back and thank him more liberally, commend him on his success and courage in working with the Resistance. He could only dream that his own insurgency had gone half as well as this, fantasize that it was Sasha they were liberating from the Second Unit. Although, the satisfaction of emancipating anyone from that cursed dungeon so blatantly was already lighting up a well-deserved sense of pride and of justice.
Mikhail was the last to climb up into the railcar and he called out that everyone was aboard while keeping his eyes on the rear, aiming his Simonov at the little crawlspace at the bottom of the debris pile just in case anyone decided to come after them.
It would probably take the fascists a while to understand what had transpired, waiting for the dust to clear before realizing that one of their most important prisoners had been abducted. It was a shame that they couldn't have gotten any other people out of that dungeon but the Order wasn't prepared to justify that kind of invasion. At least with this specific captive, the motive of her rescue was clear to both sides. Even still, Melnik would probably have a hell of a time explaining this to whoever demanded the reasoning. The Führer would undoubtedly inquire as to his stepdaughter's whereabouts but was there another reason that they wanted her back so badly? Or did they only think that she had knowledge about the bunker?
"Shit! Zakharovich, get the light for me, quickly!" Damir called out loudly, remaining frozen in place with his arms tense and something in his hands.
Mikhail turned and instantly located the object as it rolled towards him. He put the Second Unit and the Fourth Reich in general back into the recesses of his mind; nobody was following them. The hard part was over, and now came the recovery period. He only slightly began to permit his curiosity about Aleksandrya as he made his way over to the makeshift little trauma ward and shined the light on Damir's hands so he could continue with his evaluation and treatment. Well, at least I finally get a look at the girl who's causing so much trouble… He glanced down at the enigmatic Aleksandrya as he held the light higher to illuminate the general area. He did a double-take, then blinked a few times, an echo of last week's dream of Sasha in the station hall flashed in his mind and he looked at her again more closely.
"…the fuck?" His voice came out as an astounded whisper even though he thought it was all in his head. "It can't—"
He moved the light closer, angling it back and forth while performing his own evaluation. Aleksandrya looked exactly the same as Sasha; similar in age, pale flawless skin, long wavy auburn hair, the structure of her delicate face even though it was swollen and bruised. Were her closed eyes silver? Ulman leaned over to check on the triage and he seemed to understand the situation immediately.
"Mischa?" Ulman prompted gently, "You know her?"
"I… I uh, I think…" Mikhail shook his head disbelievingly. Sasha had been her diminutive name but it still fit. He hadn't ever recalled her other names, and it was likely that it had been changed due to the political asylum.
"You think?" Artyom interjected curiously.
"I… yeah, we were… acquainted." Mikhail removed his helmet and leaned closer to Aleksandrya to see her better. The doubt was rapidly fading and he understood that he must be reacting this way for a reason. But there was only one way he could think of to tell if it was really her.
"You mean you dated her," Ulman blurted out in a tone of voice that was half a joke and half condemnation.
If the confirmation was there, then Ulman would be right but Mikhail couldn't answer either of their accusations yet, shifting forward onto his knees and reaching his free hand towards her with hesitation. Was it Sasha? Was he really about to touch her again? Would his hand phase through her like it often did in his dreams? Was this whole hectic day just a hallucination? It was quickly turning into a nightmare as random words from all of the conversations and speculations about her popped up and disappeared just as fast.
He gently turned her face away from him; she was real, she was tangible, she was burning with fever, but did she have the telltale marking? If not, then how would he explain himself? He slowly swept her tangled hair back, praying to no specific God in no specific way, just wanting a clear and immediate answer. Artyom lifted her head up a bit with his free hand and everyone else watched in awed and intrigued silence. With another sweep of his trembling fingers, he revealed the evidence on the back of her neck as clear as day. A small dark grey symbol almost hidden in her hairline. My God… It's really you… How?
"It's a… bird?" Ulman raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to try and get a better view.
"It's… a sparrow," Mikhail confirmed quietly, closing his eyes tightly to hold back the tears.
"Well, apparently you know her well enough for her to have your name tattooed on her neck!" Ulman began to laugh but it had a tone of discomfort. "Damn, she's got good taste in men, eh?"
"Everything alright?" Colonel Melnik inquired with a knowing concern in his voice, sensing the shift in the atmosphere and recognizing the initial warning signs that Mikhail was about to devolve into another breakdown.
"She's beginning to stabilize, sir, but it's not looking good right now," Damir replied as he had pressed the stethoscope to her chest again. Oh God, she's really messed up. Is she dying? I can't handle that… Please Sasha, hold on.
"We're almost there," The Colonel reported reassuringly but had suspicion in his voice.
"Voronin?" Artyom asked, it was the wrong species.
"Vorobyov." Mikhail handed the flashlight off to Artyom absent-mindedly, his gaze fixed on Sasha as he readjusted her head more comfortably. He wasn't even sure how he was able to give concise verbal answers to anyone right now. The shock of this coincidence must have temporarily overloaded him. Everything seemed stuck even though the railcar was flying along the tracks. Although she lay unconscious, she could still make time slow down for him.
"So, are you about to tell me that the Sasha on your arm isn't your mom's name?" Ulman asked and gestured at his own arm.
"My mom's name was Odessa."
"That explains a lot," Ulman said sarcastically.
"Well, what's the story?" Artyom asked calmly.
"It… wasn't serious or anything—" Mikhail began, trying to deflect these questions while he processed everything he had heard about her all over again. He wished that everyone else would just disappear so he could sort this out.
"Bullshit," Ulman started but then didn't add anything else. Artyom or Melnik must have signaled him to shut up.
"Okay. We were… together. It was… we just had, I dunno, common ground. A mutual distaste for our given duties." That was vague enough, and he didn't even know how to explain it. He never had to before.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Artyom pried with his nose wrinkled up. He had never told his new junior partner anything about his past, and not much about himself in general, and he usually didn't. Even Arseniy didn't know the story. But he couldn't avoid talking about it now. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
"I was in the Honor Guard, a subdivision of the station security forces. We were the poster boys of the Reich, keeping the peace in the stations and looking good while doing it. Supposed to be the model citizen of our race… intimidating people and inspiring them at the same time. It was a lot of pressure." For most of his service, it hadn't felt like such a difficult job; though he had grown increasingly disillusioned as time dragged on. Meeting Sasha catalyzed his whole outlook, and she had always desperately desired to get away from the atrocious regime of the Fourth Reich, so he soon began to share her dream of escaping so that they could have a more peaceful life together.
"Why didn't you say you knew her before?" Artyom asked nervously.
"I-I didn't know… I didn't see her until now. I thought… well, how could I ever imagine—just think of the odds!" Mikhail broke his gaze away from her finally. There was no way he was about to explain that he thought she had been killed eight years ago, and that he was responsible for it. He caught sight of Ulman's raised eyebrow which was pressing for further details but only felt the need to defend himself somehow. "She's been at D6 for what? Three days? I was on patrol - because some of us actually do some work once in a while!"
Ulman rolled his eyes and gave up trying to ask anything further. Colonel Melnik began to take more interest after that outburst, nudging Ulman to man the controls so he could come over to help however he could. The Commander squatted down next to Damir and narrowed his eyes like he normally did when taking in sensitive information. Mikhail was grateful for his presence but also humiliated. He'd probably be making a bigger fool of himself were it not for the supportive look on Melnik's face, because he did know the whole story and he had helped with these panic attacks so many times before.
"I couldn't remember her full name and back then everybody called her Sasha like normal." Her patronymic and original surname were never important and she hated her mother so much that she wouldn't elaborate on it. Anyway, Mikhail had quickly become more concerned with converting her into Mrs. Vorobyov. "This was almost ten fuckin' years ago! And before her mother apparently married a dictator!" He clenched and unclenched his hands, pressed his fingers over his eyes to try to stop all the images flashing by, and then placed both fists on the floor and took several ragged breaths. He had to calm down, he had to stay in control, he couldn't let anybody see this. Especially not her. He was suddenly thankful that she was unconscious but also wondered how she might be reacting to him. Would she even remember him at all?
"It's alright, Mikhail, nobody is blaming you for anything," Melnik said calmly, holding a hand out reassuringly. But all Mikhail could do was look at her, count her injuries, and keep accusing himself. Why didn't they get her back sooner? Why was she out on that mission? What did they do to her in the Second Unit? Who was responsible for her pain? Why didn't they kill her? Why didn't they kill her back then and why hadn't they done so just now?
"C'mon Zakharovich, stay with me. I don't need two patients right now. Breathe," Damir spoke supportively, holding his stethoscope to Mikhail's neck and staring at his watch to count the rapid heartbeats that were blocking out the other sounds. "Breathe."
Artyom looked on with curious concern, glancing between Aleksandrya and his agitated partner, he was worried about them both. Mikhail did his best to measure his breathing the way he had been taught to, the way he had to every time shit like this came back to haunt him. But this was beyond his wildest imaginations, he had no way to prepare for this kind of thing. The usual tricks weren't helping.
After a few hazy minutes, Mikhail's pulse levelled out and Damir withdrew, turning his attention back to Aleksandrya and grabbing a thin metal tool to remove the candle wax from her ears. The medic unwound the red shemagh from her neck and then passed it to Mikhail because Artyom's hands were full. He took the item with reverence, understanding exactly what it represented. So, she kept working with the Resistance? Or was it just Ivanovich and Kirill? He looked down, rubbing the material between his fingers and noticing an unusual feature. It had a bullet hole in one corner and a blood stain. Is this…? The one he was wearing that day? She kept it all this time? He held it against his chest as he let himself hope for a brief moment before tucking it into one of the straps on his armor.
"So?" Artyom started asking questions carefully again. "How did you meet?"
"She… repaired my uniform once. I was on duty the night before a big ceremony and I tore a seam in my trousers," He sat back on his heels and closed his eyes. This story was easy to talk about, it was one of the few happy memories he had retrieved, often playing it in his head during quiet times and trying to transport himself back to that night even for just a little while. It had come back so clearly that he could write a book about it.
"No way," Ulman laughed from up at the controls, pointing an accusatory finger towards him.
Mikhail felt his face flush and he scrunched up the bridge of his nose indignantly. Fucking Comedian.
"Shut up! You want the story or not?" He growled back, mostly annoyed that his inner cinematic had been interrupted. But his anger dissipated when his eyes returned to Sasha again. Could she hear any of this? Why wouldn't she wake up? No, maybe it was better that she was unconscious. She had been through enough torture in the Second Unit, she didn't need to feel all of this, too.
"Do you… think she remembers you?" Artyom asked softly.
"I don't know… it was so long ago." He wondered about the same thing, almost hoping that she had forgotten. He couldn't finish the idea one way or the other, so he switched back to telling the story. "No, she… I-I don't know… but the night we met, I was freaking out because it was late and if I showed up with a fucked-up uniform it'd be a week of extra duty. A guy can only clean so many weapons in a day!"
"I dunno, I kinda enjoy it," Ulman mumbled from the front of the railcar but looked on intently. Melnik waved a hand at him as a cue to stop interjecting. Finally. Thank you, sir.
"I ran down to the workshop thinking I could somehow patch it up myself but she happened to be there. She was really nice about it and we talked while she worked. She said she always came in for the late shifts because she didn't like to be at home when her mother was there with some officer or other. How was I supposed to know what that would turn out to mean?" Mikhail looked around, expecting one of the men to chastise him but they only returned looks of sympathy. "I'd go and visit her in the shop... a lot. We both despised the fascist society, and that's bordering treason already just by talking about it. She just wanted to get away from her family as much as possible, so… we… could rely on each other to be honest."
"If you were together, why didn't you take her with you when you left?" Damir asked somberly.
Mikhail looked over at Melnik, who remained quiet. Should he answer this question with the truth? He really wanted to be done talking, done explaining this to anyone. The Commander only gave a vague gesture and widened his eyes, implying that the decision was up to him. Melnik would never give up these secrets unless Mikhail spoke about it first. How could he answer without saying what really happened? Don't think about the wall…
"I… got cut off from her." That wasn't too specific yet still implied how quickly everything had gone wrong. "There was… I had my opportunity to break free and I took it. It wasn't planned out or organized in any way." He closed his eyes one more time, feeling the weight of regret that their involvement in the Resistance had ended in tragedy. He hadn't been able to secure their escape. But… she was here now. He had just carried her out of the Second Unit. The impossible fantasy had turned out to be true. So, in a way, he had finally fulfilled his promise to her. They were free. He took one of her hands in both of his own tenderly, wanting to draw her in close and hug her and hold onto her for the rest of eternity. "But I guess now, I have done it after all."
He cried quietly for several minutes, locking his gaze onto her abused face and ignoring everything else around him. Melnik gave him a pat on the shoulder but neglected to say anything, probably giving more voiceless commands to the other men to secure silence for this reflection. Ulman muttered something muffled and then the wheels of the railcar squeaked and brought them to a halt. Without a word or a moment of hesitation, he leaned forward and pulled Sasha's hand that he had been holding. Artyom held her in a sitting position while Mikhail slung his rifle across his back and wrapped the IV bag up in the red shemagh.
Just as he was about to lift her, he stopped to look at everyone solemnly. He needed to make it clear that they were not to interfere in this situation until he had sorted out all of his thoughts, memories, and feelings. But who knew how long that might take. It was possible that she didn't even remember him – because he had forgotten so much for so long. And maybe it was better that way.
"Please, don't say anything about me. It's only going to make it worse for her."
"What?" Artyom questioned nervously.
"Please. She's been through enough already." Mikhail insisted with clenched fists and couldn't look anyone in the eyes. He could only hope that Sasha hadn't heard him talking, and as worried as he was about her condition, he still prayed that she wouldn't wake up yet.
"We swear it," Colonel Melnik was the first to pledge, setting the example for everyone else to follow whether they liked it or understood it or not.
"Okay… I swear," Ulman added in his oath softly and Mikhail actually trusted him to keep it.
"I'll be too busy, anyway," Damir gave a slight shrug as he was finishing up his notes but then offered a thumbs up as his promise.
"But, what about…?" Artyom began thinking out loud again but managed to stop himself as everyone else had already made their vows. "Okay… I won't say anything."
"Thank you." Mikhail appreciated the sworn statements quietly as he managed to don the invisible mask once again. Then he lifted Sasha onto his shoulders just like he had carried her out from the Second Unit. And he didn't say another word as he marched quickly back towards the bunker. Please hold on, Sasha. Don't you dare die on me.
"No! Sasha!" He bolted upright, unintentionally tearing himself from her grasp. "Fuck… fuck," he said with every shaky exhale.
"Mischa, I'm here, I'm right here," she confirmed softly, sitting up and returning her arms to him, rubbing at one of the bullet scars before he could. She knew exactly what he had just been dreaming about.
"Fuck…" was all he could repeat again, unable to settle into her comforting hold, and shaking his head to try and clear away the images. The dim halls of Tverskaya turned into the dark room in the ICU.
"It's okay," she kissed his cheek and rested her head on his shoulder.
"I'm..." He was about to apologize again. What for this time? She wasn't even startled or upset that he had woken her with his screaming. Why did he keep expecting her to be angry with him?
"It's okay," she confirmed again, and finally he could return her embrace, grabbing one arm with both hands as if it was his anchor to reality. Don't leave me ever again.
"Sash," he breathed out the anxiety and bit his lip to keep from saying anything stupid. She wouldn't accept apologies.
"I'm right here. I love you. I'm still here and so are you." She pushed at him a little bit as if to say, 'Lie back down with me.'
"Thank... you," he didn't know what else to say as he complied with her directive. Nobody had ever really been there before when he dreamt of this. It was strange, it was a little embarrassing, but her body was so warm. He would rather have her see this than go through it alone again. He had comforted her the previous night when she'd had her own nightmare about it. Maybe this is how they'd eventually get past the past. 'Now you can be there for her when she relives it, and she'll be there for you. You'll get through it together, okay?' Artyom was right when he said it.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked quietly, sensing his mind wandering instead of falling back asleep.
"I don't know if I should." He wanted to be over it already but the shots were still ringing in his ears. He was afraid to close his eyes and find himself right back in Tverskaya.
"It's okay, I want to hear whatever you want to say." She tucked herself under his arm.
"I just... they... they took away everything. Why? Why did it have to be like that?" He stared at the ceiling as if the answer was up there.
"I don't know. They're just... they were jealous that we were happy. They couldn't allow that."
"M-maybe," that was actually a decent explanation. He hadn't considered that before. She was so smart and so thoughtful. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Hey, what did I say?" She sat up and made him look at her, her eyes were so deep and truthful. "I don't blame you for anything. I mean it."
"I missed you so much." The emotions came back but at least he was in the present time again. He turned and buried his face in her neck, kissing it and then wrapping his arms around her. There were no tears, he was all out, and so was she.
"I missed you too, every day." She ran her fingers through his hair repeatedly, she knew how that could soothe him.
He still wanted to apologize but knew she'd just scold him. Maybe he could replace, 'I'm sorry' with something else. It would take more thought, right now all he wanted was to hold her and kiss her and fall back asleep beside her. He stroked her face while he connected with her lips, she moaned quietly and his spine tingled. If only they had a little more energy and a little less anxiety, he would take it further than this. Maybe tomorrow.
She scratched his cheek, he could really use a shave and he was way overdue for a shower. Eventually he was able to disconnect from the kiss but wouldn't let her drift, keeping his forehead touching hers as they settled down and he thought of what to say.
"I love you, I love you, I love you." He decided the phrase was the new 'I'm sorry.' He would keep expressing the good things instead of trying to constantly bandage over the bad things.
"I love you too, silly," she smiled and closed her eyes in complete bliss as she placed a hand over his heart. "Have a good dream this time."
He kept staring at her adorable peaceful face until his own eyes surrendered and he said to both of them, "I'm already having it."