Twenty years have passed since the bombs fell upon Moscow. The population of the city was a shadow of its former self where an estimated fifty-thousand fled into the safety of the Metro tunnel system. Yet, it was not enough to preserve their lives due to the rise of factions fighting each other for control of the Metro. In the aftermath of the Red Line-Hansa War, the population dropped to forty thousand souls, and expending ammunition and resources that would have been better used against the mutants.

At Exhibition Station, a young sentry found a bit of irony that humans would prioritize killing each other instead of the mutants that threatened humanity as a whole. There were sightings of a new species of mutants in the northern territories, but those claims were dismissed by most of the Metro. Artyom hoped there would be volunteers lining up to save his home, but his stepfather brought the realities of pragmatism and made him realize that no one was coming to help them. The station was going to be fighting this threat alone.

The son of the station commander arrived at the four-hundredth mark - the furthest and first line of defense against the mutants that threatened them. He reached for his makeshift sub-machine gun that was slung over his shoulder as he arrived at the defensive line. Most armed guards throughout the Metro were either too old or too young for sentry duty, but Exhibition Station was an exception as it was one of the few stations that had the luxury of having actual soldiers. Most of them were Soviet marines with others from the airborne; however, Artyom did not comprehend what they were other than being important back in those ancient days.

He started to walk upon the ramparts to find the men taking positions around sandbags and wooden palisades with walls of stakes in the front. His stepfather, Sukhoi, did not wish for him to join the defenders, but the station's necessity for defense took priority. There was also a political issue to be had since it would look terrible on him to keep his son from fighting when others would do the fighting in his stead. Artyom could not blame him for being so reluctant, he was a good man placed under a lot of stress that no one would want. It was a blessing that he had people who could watch out for him in his stead.

The young man took up positions on the right side of the defensive position, where several men had set up a fire pit and were cooking tea right above the flames. It was a good thing that they were brewing some, fear had a tendency to fog the mind in terror, but Exhibition tea had the magic to magically dispel the curse. Even a moment of clarity can be enough in a life-and-death situation.

It was no coincidence that Artyom took that particular position just for the tea. In fact, there was someone special to him, who fought on his station's behalf and was the senior leader amongst the defenders. He found an empty chair beside him and took his seat, but like a child, he wanted to see what his thoughts were about the current situation and whether his other fatherly figure could salvage the situation from complete defeat. "Good morning, Hunter, how is sentry duty?"

The older man smiled as he raised his armored visor above his eyes and turned towards him. He was unlike the rest of the people here, Hunter was a Polis Ranger from the Spartan Order and had a vast amount of experience as a former soldier and stalker. Whenever others were around him, they let off this gravitas of inspiration and fear, understanding that this was someone who earned recognition. For Artyom, he was just a close family friend. "Fine and usual," Hunter answered, "Your 'undead' is something else. I thought it would be more like the tunnel trash that we have fought before, but this is completely different."

"Is there a way for us to actually stop them? I mean, the other stations have their ways." Artyom replied, using his intimate knowledge of the history of the Metro.

"Be careful with what you hear, young man, not everything can be applicable here," Hunter stated, "For the past couple of days, they seem to be keeping their distance, and based on what I've heard it's quite a change from the typical situation your comrades had with the Dark Ones."

He shivered at the mention of their name as not only did they inspire fear in his heart, but it felt like he was summoning a demon from the depths of Hell. Even the men around them had turned their heads to see if some act of retribution would fall upon them. Then he thought about something to do to kill his boredom. "I wish I had brought one of my books or took down my postcards to show it to everyone."

"It's just sentry duty. It will not kill you, even if it is the most agonizing duty to have."

"How do you do it?"

"Simple," The Polis Ranger replied, "I try not to think about it and think of something else or talk to others to relax, but it differs from person to person."

Artyom glanced over to the dark edges of the northern tunnel, where the searchlights could barely reach it. Some traps were carefully built by the engineers to maximize as much damage as they could, which ranged from spikes from the ceilings to minefields. Yet, they were designed and placed to delay the Dark Ones as much as possible the moment the sentries heard of the clattering cries of rusty aluminum cans. "If only we had more equipment to use for the defenses."

"Well, we will have to make do with what we got here. I won't lie to you, Artyom, this is a daunting task, but it couldn't get any worse than this."

There was a moment of silence that filled the sentry positions when they heard the strung up cans clatter in the distance. Was it another attack by the Dark Ones? Where were they? Artyom glanced at his experienced friend to see his eyes alerted by the noise and focused on the situation before them. "Hunter, is it them?"

"I don't know," He answered, "Get ready to alert the others the moment something happens."

The young man brought out his Bastard gun, a Frankenstein of weapon parts that the weaponsmiths were somehow able to create. Yet, it was better than nothing as he rested its barrel upon the sandbags for stability. He was also thankful that the station's armory had the luxury of giving him some pre-war body armor, giving him some form of protection.

Men were becoming unnerved by the silence, which was then followed up by the crackling of broken glass. Something was coming and they were all scared. The station had been fighting the Dark Ones for quite some time, allowing survivors to try and understand their methods of approach. Whatever was approaching the defenses, it was far from the descriptions of guards and soldiers that were able to describe the feats of the mutants. In their hour of greatest need, Hunter took the mantle of responsibility and struck down a mighty blow to the terror in the ranks. "Comrades, to your stations!"

There was an inhumane cry as muscular human-like beings appeared out of thin air and charged them. Thankfully, the defenders were ready for such surprises as the first lines of explosives went off within the initial assault. Artyom watched as their mangled bodies littered the tunnel floor by the force behind the shrapnel mines. These mutants were different due to their methods, but the concerns for details faded away as the blue-skinned creatures chose to force their way through the minefields.

"On my command!" Hunter screamed at the top of his lungs, "Don't break orders!"

Artyom placed his finger on his trigger and obeyed him at this moment. Hunter had experienced many fights so he trusted him to keep him alive. As he tried to keep his patience in check, the young man looked around to see the nervous faces of his peers and former marines trying to keep a poker face of whatever this was. The longer they were to hold fire, the more they became impatient with men swearing underneath their breaths.

"Open fire!"

The entire defensive line did so with gusto. Machine guns, shotguns, rifles, pistols, all forms of firearms had found themselves unleashing their fury upon their opposition. Bullets peppered the mutants without mercy, but they were not deterred by the firepower that was presented to them. Instead, they continued to press forward, replying back with firearms of their own some having more danger than others.

A man on his left had found himself struck by one of the bullets, tearing his shoulder through force alone as he fell back and cried out in pain. Artyom stopped firing for a moment and looked to his aid, but the man looked up at him and began to take his helmet off. "Artyom, take my helmet. You're going to need this more than me." The young man did as he said before he watched him die under his watch, who succumbed to an eternal slumber.

After the helmet was slipped on, the son of the station commander returned to his post and fired his Bastard, a mixture of being terrified and vengeful at the same time. He had lost another one of his neighbors to this duty and he hoped to avenge him. More of these blue-skinned monsters showed up, some carrying heavy machine guns while others brought in melee weapons made up of steel and parts. The only thing that kept them from crashing into their lines was the heavily fortified position on the left side of the tunnel, where the Dushka resided. The heavy-caliber bullets tore apart those who stayed in the open or hid behind thin wooden boards.

When Artyom finished firing his magazine into the enemy, he could feel the build-up of heat within his weapon as he slipped a fresh one into place. Then he glanced at Hunter, just to find him slipping down behind the sandbags and loading a new magazine into his weapon. "Damn these mutants, they're getting smart."

He wanted his thoughts on the matter now that Exhibition might be up against a new threat. "I have never seen or heard of these mutants before."

"It's a good thing Sukhoi called me when he needed to. I suppose he's right when he said your people were not just fighting the tunnel trash."

The two had heard someone cry out amongst the defenses. "Rocket grenade, take cover!"

The young man did not know what he meant by that and as he raised his head over the sandbags to return fire, he saw through his helmeted visor and watched a strange orange light that screamed into their defensive line. A moment later, it was the last sight he saw.

Something grabbed onto him and he felt his body being dragged. Artyom did not know who it was, but the hand that was holding him was strong. He heard screaming and shouting wake him up he slowly opened his eyes to find that he was alive. "Fall back, get the wounded out of here!" A soldier cried out as gunfire intensified. What was happening?

Hunter was standing in front of him with his back turned, he glanced towards the others who stood beside him as they slowly stepped back with their weapons raised. Then the mutants were climbing over their sandbag wall as the defenders let out a ruthless hailstorm of bullets in their general direction. "Get Artyom out of here!"

Bursts of automatic fire, shotgun blasts, and the defiant shots of revolvers were poured into the enemy as Artyom saw a breach in the middle of the defenses with bodies littered around it. Is that what a simple rocket grenade could do? He would never find the answer as he reached for his Bastard gun hanging from his body. Now that the barrel cooled down, he decided to raise his weapon and join his fellows in the fight as he was dragged away.

One of the mutants charged forward with a fire ax and shouted at the top of its lungs. "We are strong! Human weak!"

Hunter pulled out a knife from his arm and threw it into its head. "So much for strength."

Cheers arose from the men as the sounds of mechanical workings occurred from behind. "Time to bite the bullet, bitches! The panzer has arrived!"

"Ladna, follow the tank and we'll win this day. Ura!"

"Ura!" The standing defenders bellowed out as they followed the Polis Ranger into battle with a tank supporting their counter-offensive. Meanwhile, Artyom was dragged away from their sight and was slowly being helped back into the confines of the station.

A victory was achieved in Exhibition Station, where the defenders were hailed as heroes and its citizens welcomed them with gifts, whether it was having better rations with a side of pork or drinks on the house by the local bartender. Sukhoi welcomed the change in atmosphere and was glad that his people were happy. He pondered if they now had a chance against the threat that lingered in the north.

The door to his office was opened as he looked up from his papers and saw his friend enter with a smile on his face. "Hunter, I am glad that you are alive. How are things going on at the front?"

The armored soldier approached him and took a seat in one of the open chairs. "When you sent the message to Polis, I almost thought you were insane. It appears that I am wrong, but it's a good thing I came down here to check on you and Artyom. Polis needs to send people to this station."

"Do you think so?" The older man asked, curious about his friend's response, "One day we were fighting creatures that shred the minds of my people and now we're fighting mutants with guns."

"Artyom noticed that as well. After we drove them off, it seemed like I drove these mutants into the Dark Ones."

"What did they do?"

He shook his head. "I got some volunteers to help me push these ugly bastards further and beyond the eight-hundredth mark. The mutants somehow managed to ambush us and… I don't know why, but the Dark Ones helped us kill them."

The news shocked the station commander. "The Dark Ones helped you, why?"

Hunter pulled out a cigarette from his breast pocket. "I do not know, but they waved a hand at me as if they were trying to converse with us. It's very hard to explain, but they pointed at the mutants and pointed somewhere before they disappeared. They seem like they know where the big bastards came from."

"I am not going to lie, this is far too complex for me to handle. One day, they're attacking my station and the next they're helping us. This doesn't make any sense.'

"You are right on that one. Well, you and your people got some pretty nifty equipment from the loot. There are some guns that I'll have to bring back to Polis for examination, but there is plenty of firepower to be had against the creatures. Speaking of which, how did you manage to get a tank?"

Sukhoi smiled and lowered his head. "I knew that someone was going to ask that question. The station commanders of Alekseyevskaya, Rizhskaya, and I decided to form an alliance and pool our resources together. So this gave me some equipment to make one tank while Rizhskaya can avoid annexation by Hanza."

"So, politics as usual," Hunter commented, "Why am I even surprised?"

He understood what he meant by that. The man was a soldier, not a politician. It was out of his area of understanding and it was about time he asked the important questions. "How's my boy? Did he try to become a hero?"

The Polis Ranger shook his head. "No, he was surprisingly good at protecting himself. One of the mutants fired a rocket and he was knocked out by it, but I believe he will be fine."

"Good, I am glad he's safe. You have no idea how much I berated myself for letting him join you in the defense."

"Yes, he does look up to me. I suppose he does not understand the weight of being a Ranger and the worry of a parent."

Sukhoi decided to have a decent moment with his comrade as he reached for his drawers and pulled out two fine glasses. "There was a moment I would celebrate a victory and this seemed like the best time to do it."

"You're offering?" Hunter wondered, "What is the occasion?"

Then he reached into another drawer and pulled out a black bottle from his desk. "One of my stalkers discovered an excellent case of alcohol in good condition and uncontaminated by the bombs. You have no idea how much military-grade ammo I had to spend on this. Now, which one should we have?"

Finished on 4/26/2020

Author's Note: This a rewrite to one of my fics, Mojave Roulette, I decided to invest some time into making it better as there were so many problems with the previous iteration that I had to tackle them myself which resulted in making a new story. So we'll see if I stumble into the same pitfalls as before or vastly improve them. You can also thank the Fallout TV Show for returning my muse to a story I more or less abandoned and had five rewritten chapters sitting somewhere gathering dust.