Lost Count

Awake

Pavel awoke alone with a sharp gasp. For a moment he thought that what had transpired was all just a dream. Where the hell am I? Then pain became known to him; his left shoulder and leg both throbbed and stung sorely. Pavel groaned as he sat up, a sharp ache in his neck making itself known. He had been asleep at a wrong angle, and now his body was making him regret it.

It took him a moment to remember what had happened; everything got blurred at about the time when Artyom started pursuing him up the stairs. It was hard to even remember what he had said at the time. The memories slowly trickled back into his brain, like someone was meticulously (sadistically) drip-feeding him. Yelling at Artyom, getting shot, shooting him (how could he have done that how dare he), Artyom standing over him with his knife in hand.

Artyom falling to his knees on top of Pavel, grabbing his shoulders and--

--shaking him roughly. Pavel's throat was tight and sore when he thought of that moment. For just a second he had thought that maybe--

Pavel lurched forward when he remembered the creature afterwards, the thing invading his mind and dragging out his innermost thoughts to the surface of his brain. Now Artyom knew everything. Pavel's heart sunk down to his stomach as he thought about what had transpired. What memories had been relived. He knew; there was no doubt. Knew about--

All of the plans of his superiors. Artyom was probably on his way to D6 now, in order to defend it against the assault no doubt coming. Maybe he'd go to Polis first, try to alert Miller. No use. There was absolutely no chance of his success; there were simply not enough Spartans to defend the bunker from the vast forces of the Red Line.

Artyom might even already be dead by now.

That... Wasn't something Pavel wanted to think about.

He checked his watch, still slightly envious of Artyom's even now. 5:04 am. The fight at the Square had taken place a few hours prior. Pavel sat up fully, bracing his good arm up against the desk in order to stand on shaky legs. That's when he noticed his wounds weren't hurting nearly as much as they should've been. In fact, he should've been dead by now. A single untreated gunshot wound was pretty much certain death both on the surface and in the Metro. Much less two. So why wasn't he?

His jacket was unzipped and opened at the front, a slight chill penetrating the heavy fabric. When Pavel stood up his pack and belt fell to the ground, buckles clattering on the stone floor. He looked down at himself in surprise. Pavel most certainly didn't do this to himself. His left pant leg was also bunched up uncomfortably around his thigh, like someone had stuffed his pants. He looked down and felt around the injury under his trousers, inquisitive fingers meeting bandages. They were wrapped tightly, tucked and folded neatly. A check to his shoulder met the same result under his dark shirt. The bullet wound was right next to the Kevlar of his bulletproof vest; if Artyom had aimed just a little bit to the right he would've hit the protection instead.

Although Pavel didn't know which outcome he would've preferred.

He sighed deeply, and then he finally noticed that his breathing wasn't restricted and harsh like before. His mask was also not as broken, not shattered at the right corner. It had been replaced. This gas mask wasn't perfect, what with a large crack down the center of its visor. But it wasn't broken. And that was good enough for Pavel. There were a few extra filters on the ground next to him, as well as some painkillers and a roll of bandages.

Artyom...

There wasn't a doubt about it. It was Artyom who had spared him, who had saved him. Why he chose to, Pavel had no idea. They were enemies, on opposite sides of an entire war! It wasn't a total surprise to Pavel; Artyom had always been sentimental. Freeing those prisoners when they first met. Always writing in that damned journal. Opting to never kill unless necessary.

Except Pavel had made it necessary.

He wanted Artyom to kill him. Anything would have been better than the other outcomes. Or rather, the only other outcome. Pavel didn't even want to think about what else could've happened, didn't want to think of the life draining from Artyom's (green) eyes as he lay on the ground. Didn't want to think of a fatal gunshot in the center of the man's chest...

But something had happened that Pavel never expected. Something that he had never accounted for. Artyom had flipped the script, done the impossible. Again.

Pavel chuckled under his breath as he zipped up his jacket and painstakingly refastened his belt, slinging his pack over his good shoulder. A soft grunt left his clenched jaw as he brushed against the sore injury. He'd have to get it looked at by an actual doctor down in the Metro. Where, he had a vague idea; there were a few independent stations that would be able to treat him.

For there was no returning to the Red Line now, not after failing Korbut twice.

Maybe he won't know that Artyom got past me... Pavel thought, putting a small amount of weight on his bad leg and hissing in pain. I can spin a story. 'The crazed man killed my squad and I barely managed to stop him.'

Now Pavel was going to be miserable, trying to sort everything out. It would've been easier if Artyom had just killed him. Even if he was able to convince Korbut that he hadn't failed him, that lie would hang over his head for the rest of his short life. It wouldn't be able to stay secret for long, not if Artyom's body was found in D6. Pavel found himself sick to his stomach thinking about what Artyom would look like dead in the aftermath of the battle. Maybe his corpse would be so damaged they wouldn't be able to tell it was him.

But there was another part of Pavel that couldn't even imagine Artyom dying in such a way.

Why would Artyom even spare him? He could understand leaving him to bleed out, or letting the creature turn his head inside out. Or even slitting my throat with the knife that I gave him.

But treating him? Leaving him supplies without a word?

Pavel didn't know what to make of that.