Lost Count

Pursuit

Rage bubbled and boiled over like a pot of stew left unattended. It was seething, unable to be quenched or masked in any way. There was no coming back from this. This kind of anger was deep and writhing, something that was unnatural for Artyom's usual calm nature. But then again, he had never experienced something quite like this before.

He'd never been hurt so deeply by another human being.

It seemed to be perfect, which should've been the first thing to tip Artyom off that something was wrong. Pavel had brought him to the Teatre and told him he could spare enough time to watch a show before they left. The chair he sat in at the front of the rows was unlike anything he'd ever had the pleasure of sitting in. A little musty, and a little stale, but it was amazing. And the performances were like something out of a dream, allowing him to imagine for just a moment that he was living atop the surface. That he was attending a show with his good friend before a night out. Pavel even invited him to dinner and drinks before they had to leave, saying that they might as well drink to the fact that they had made it this far. He told him that he would help him, lead him to Polis and his fellow Rangers.

He told him that they were Musketeers, that Artyom was his D'artagnan. Artyom had never read the book, it was one of those that hadn't been seen yet at his home station of VDNKh, but the enthusiasm on Pavel's face whenever he talked about it was enough for him to completely (mindlessly) agree and become excited as well. And the way Pavel said it, putting a caring emphasis on the syllables that made Artyom feel... Important. He found that he liked the nickname; it was something to focus on in the dark tunnels and dank service rooms. It was something that he and Pavel shared, something that crossed the borders of Red and Spartan. Something that showed there was a chance for peace between them.

How stupid of him.

And now here he was, wading through water and garbage and corpses and who knows what else on his way to Venice. The goal of his journey. Where Pavel was headed. The force of his anger was the only thing keeping him going at this point, else he'd have let the sadness of the betrayal take him. The horde of nosalises at the underground dock threatened to overwhelm him for a moment, their jaws snapping and strong arms nearly ripping him apart were it not for his quick feet. But his rage was stronger. And that rage hadn't abated ever since Pavel uttered those damning words of his.

"So, my friend. That's how it goes."

He called Artyom a friend right up until the moment he was arrested and hauled away, drugged by the very man he then trusted with his life.

Artyom should've known there was something wrong with those drinks, but by the time he realized Pavel was unaffected by the strong brew, it was already too late. He remembered looking into the bottom of the cup confusedly as his vision blurred and extremities became harder and harder to control. There was a trace of something lining the bottom rim that he knew wasn't any sort of dredged leftovers of the alcohol. And as he looked up at Pavel with the cup held loosely to the side, brows upturned and mouth dropping open as he realized what had just happened, he thought he could see something recognizable in the other man's gaze. Pavel had looked down at him with something in his eyes, something almost akin to regret, before he schooled his expression into one of smug success. He brought his hand to his head in a cheeky two-finger salute as Artyom's temples pounded incessantly. It was getting hard to focus, and Pavel's face swam in and out of his view.

It was then that the anger reared the first sign of its ugly head, just climbing up onto the edges of Artyom's thoughts as he clung to awareness with all his strength.

He tried to push himself out of his chair, tried to get up on shaky legs. He attempted to support his arms on the table, feeling the slightly scratchy cloth of the cover beneath his fingertips. The soldiers behind Pavel stiffened into alert, hands tightening on their guns as they began moving around behind Artyom. But everything seemed to move at half pace, their feet scraping across the floor in almost imperceptible movements. Artyom's lips moved silently to the syllables of unknown words, tongue thick and mouth suddenly dry. He was able to make a noise in the back of his sore throat, the beginnings of a word.

"Pa--"

But his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed onto the table, sending dishes clattering and losing consciousness right when his head made contact.

As he was pushed and shoved through the ranks of soldiers Pavel wouldn't stop talking, going on and on about how he should join them, how Artyom could still save himself if he just assimilated into the ranks of the communists. The way he spoke gave away the fact that he had thought about this in detail, probably planned it from the start. That made Artyom wonder.

Did he plan this from the very beginning?

And the worst part about this whole situation was that Artyom couldn't even find Pavel at fault. He had made his choice, his priorities, and made it clear that he was a soldier first and foremost. Artyom had done much worse in the name of his own orders and ideology. Much, much worse.

That didn't mean he wasn't angry.

That didn't mean he wasn't furious.

Venice was close now, hidden behind sharp corners and through flooded tunnels. Artyom kept his rage under control during the journey there, as an unclear head could be a vital factor to one's own destruction in the Metro. Before now, he'd let it completely overtake him, run rampant through his mind until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. But Artyom learned, he grew and matured. He wasn't the naïve child that he was when he set off on his mission given by Hunter; a year had passed since then. And he had already done so much.

He man who drove the boat through the waters, Fedor, gave some good insight as to what was going on in the underground city. "The shrimp aren't usually this agitated, those damned Reds came through earlier and stirred them all up. That's what I'd wager," he puffed away on his homemade cigarette as Artyom's head whipped around to face him. Fedor smiled knowingly and kept his other hand steady on the steering lever. "You interested in them Reds, Ranger?" Artyom gave a curt nod and tightened his hands on his duplet, turning back to face the front. "Hunting them down? You looked pretty angry there for a second."

Those words awoke something in Artyom. Fedor was right, he was hunting these men down on a wild chase that they weren't even aware of. And he was angry. "By the way, young man. I never got your name. Haven't even gotten a single word out of you yet!" Artyom mumbled his reply, and Fedor strained forward to hear his quiet voice. "Artyom, huh? Well, Artyom, you're lucky I came around when I did. And I'm damn lucky that I picked you up, else we'd both be at the bottom of these here rivers."

Artyom honestly couldn't agree more.