Lost Count

Radio

Artyom's shoulders heaved as he trekked over the dangerous terrain. His gas mask was cracked, filters nearly failing. He had been separated from his fellow Rangers, their little search party being broken up by a group of Watchmen. Artyom had been left alone to fend for himself in the dilapidated buildings and deserted squares.

He was sent above ground with a handful of other Rangers in order to explore and scout out a high-rise that was rumored to have housed a possible Nazi outpost. Why the Nazis were above ground, that was anyone's guess. Artyom had no idea why they would ever crawl out of their little holes that they had dug for themselves. They had made it to the building and checked to see if anyone was left before entering. It had been deserted, trapped and armed, but deserted. Traps were nothing to any Spartan Ranger; they were something to look out for and easily disarm.

After they had ransacked the building and left nothing of value (the commander grabbing anything of note in regards to information) they left and began their journey back home. Only, they were ambushed by some Watchmen that had been stalking them for quite some time. The party was scattered and sent off in different directions. Artyom ended up alone and unable to get his bearings well. There were no landmarks or distinguishing features to be seen, just deserted and blown-out buildings.

Artyom crossed an old intersection, filled with cars that no longer ran. They had all been stripped of their useful components, hoods opened to reveal gaping holes where engines and other mechanics should have been. There was an apartment building off to the side with its doors blown open and charred black. He didn't want to get anywhere near there, so he went to the other side of the cracked street and walked parallel with it.

His ears were perked, straining for any noise that could belong to mutants or the other members of his group. Artyom doubted they were anywhere nearby but still kept a watch out for the familiar sight of another Spartan. His portable radio hadn't stopped spitting static since he got separated from them. He had hoped that maybe they would send out a signal to stay in contact, but no such signals had sounded out yet; perhaps he was too far away.

Artyom stayed alert of his surroundings for a while, checking open doorways and stepping carefully around piles of broken glass. Then came the realization that he was truly alone. No one was there to watch him; no one was there to judge him. The feeling of elation swelled within his chest at the thought. A wild smile crossed his face under his gas mask.

He stared up at the sky and ended up pulling off his backpack, dragging it to an overshadowed alcove between two buildings. After checking to make sure there was nothing dangerous there, he crouched down and opened his pack, pulling out his well-loved journal. Surely there would be some astounding subject matter for him to draw here! He flipped through the many pages, some added in and different in color from the rest. The whole thing was a combination of old notes and repurposed papers. Some were lined, others weren't; some had words already written by unknown authors.

Artyom found himself fond of the 'Fuck this fucking place. There's no damn sun.' scribbled up in the right hand corner of a page he had found in an old service room. Whoever penned it must've had the same desire that he had, Artyom thought. He chuckled to himself and continued flipping through pages upon pages of his records, passing drawings and entries that he had written what felt like years ago. Some were written that long ago, and some were only done last week.

One of his papers was sticking up, the corner dogeared slightly from being bent while in his pack. Artyom furrowed his brow and went to that part of his journal in order to reposition that particular piece. It was a drawing, done months ago and rough around the edges. Artyom's chest constricted slightly once he saw what exactly it was he had done.