Lost Count

Burned

Pavel had a migraine when he awoke. His arms were cramped and the rope securing his wrists burned.  The room was dark, and there was no one else around him. His head was pounding, he was nauseous, and he had no idea where he was. The current situation was bad, indeed. Pavel thought back to the last time he was in a similar position, on his knees with his hands bound. The day he met Artyom.

Artyom.

Artyom!

Artyom was gone. Pavel was alone. There was no sign of the men who captured them, who tricked his friend and brutalized them both. It was hard to think straight. His head just would not stop pounding. He wriggled his hands. The rope holding them was much tighter than the work of the Nazi's. After a few minutes of struggle, Pavel let out a harsh sigh. His legs were falling asleep, and he probably didn't have much longer before someone came back to check on him. After some careful maneuvering, he was able to stand. The wall behind him was cold to the touch, and he leaned his feverish cheek against it with a shaky exhale.

There was a table in the corner. A rusty stool was pushed under it, one of the legs broken and lopsided. A smirk crossed Pavel's lips at the sight. These people were a bit more stupid than he expected. With a short glance at the door, which remained shut, he made his way over to the table and pulled out the stool with his foot. It fell over and he kicked it so that the broken leg was facing up. Falling to his knees, he situated the rope securing his wrists under the jagged edge, keeping one eye on the door as he began sawing.

The rope gave way after some moments, and Pavel rubbed the chaffed skin. Alright. Inventory check. He had:

Nothing.

They took his pack, his guns, his knife, even his damn hat. An angry hiss escaped him as he took in just how much he was missing. His heavy coat and gloves were also gone, leaving him in his thin undershirt and pants; at least he still had his boots. A quick jiggle of the doorknob revealed it to be locked, and another cursory glance over the room only proved that it was pretty much barren. No wire. No small objects. Nothing sharp. This would be a challenge.

But Pavel was nothing if not resourceful.

~*~

It was laughably easy to infiltrate the bastards' hideout. They weren't even hiding, and if one knew where the tracks led then that was already one step down. And the base was so large that keeping it secure would already be a challenge.

Not to mention this was Artyom. He had no qualms about crawling around in vents, through pipes, and just about anything. Shadows were rampant for him to hide in, and he made quick work of any who came close to discovering him. They were left unconscious and disarmed within the very shadows that he used to his advantage. Artyom had even met an older man, Yermak, who promised to help him in exchange for freedom. But first Artyom had to find Pavel.

Before all of this had happened, he felt like his torment would finally end. To either be replaced with happiness or a whole new kind of torture. Pavel was holding his heart right there, cradling it in his hands without realizing the slightest squeeze would kill Artyom. He was about to truly know the extent of his feelings, free to do with them what he will. No one else had ever laid their hands on Artyom's journal until now.

And then the whole world went to shit. Again.

Artyom had to find his pack. Had to find his journal.

His guns would be a nice addition as well, as they had gotten him out of many scrapes before. They were reliable and well cared for. The revolver that Sukhoi gave him when he came of age, his trusty Valve that he got when he joined the Rangers, and his old Kalash. The worn wooden handle that was still used to another owner's hand. It never fit right, but Artyom couldn't bring himself to sell it or trash it. It was too important, too personal. A symbol of his first journey. And while he doubted the damned thing would ever bow to him, would ever forget the previous man it belonged to, it didn't matter. Because Artyom would never forget either.