The fire flooded unbound, no dam could contain the wave of destruction that surged towards Artyom, but he didn’t expect to get out of this. He’d loosed the armageddon on himself, and his foes. Korbut deserved no less than complete annihilation, and to end him? To save the Metro? That’s all that Artyom had ever wanted to do. Ever since Expedition, he'd only wanted to save his people.
And he got his wish.
It was in the encroaching wall of flame that Artyom saw his demise, and he wondered about the afterlife. Khan had said that there was none left, that it had died with all of the rest of the world. And Khan had been right about so much, he’d been right about everything in the end. So, did that mean he’d be no more than those silhouettes in the tunnels? A ghost stuck in this world? Or had heaven found a Metro all its own, to hide away from the destruction.
The explosion reached Artyom, at last, and knocked him to the floor. The searing fire scoured his skin and bone, inconceivable pain wracked his body, he was resigned to his fate long before this, he knew he’d die here. Some part of him always knew.
So, Artyom’s story in the Metro came to an end in the blackness. His line would live on through Anna, but he would not be there to see it. But it wasn’t the end to his story all told. There’s forces beyond us, Artyom learned that at the River of Fate, and he would be reminded here. Because, at the end of the day, there’s always a need for heroes.
The sky was bright. It was too bright. That is the sole thought that Artyom was completely confident in. He breathed through his gas mask as he stared up at the sky and he pulled his clipboard up to look once more at the compass that rested in its top left corner. But the needle simply spun in a hectic circle, it hadn’t held still since he woke up, he wished it would, if only so he could get some instruction, some direction, some idea of what was where.
Just below it was a blank sheet of paper, Artyom had been tempted to write something there as well. An end goal of some kind. But he didn’t have one. He didn’t even know where he was now. He let the clipboard fall to his side again and he looked back up at the still-too-bright sky, unsure what he was supposed to do now. There had always been direction, ever since the day Hunter sent him on his quest, there had always been an definitive goal. But here… he didn’t know what to do.
It was in the breathing of his gas mask that he decided on something. He would either need filters or to find a new way underground. He checked his watch and saw that the filter had long since run out. With a fury in his movements, Artyom pulled a filter from his outfit and fumbled to replace it. He unscrewed the old one, but just as he were about to put the new one in he stopped.
He stopped still, his breath unfiltered. Cautiously, he drew deeper and deeper breaths. They didn’t taste like poison, they didn’t choke his lungs with ash and death, they simply… came and went. He reached with shaky hands to the back of his mask, and pulled it off ever so slowly. He breathed the air, clean and fresh, just as it had been before the bombs fell. Artyom fell to his knees in shock and wonder, then gazed up at the clear blue above him.
He was overcome with emotion, he felt tears coming to his eyes, and they fell easily down his cheeks. He simply stared at the sky with disbelief, with unbridled relief. For the first time in a long time he felt unburdened, he felt free of all the unfathomable fates that had depended on his actions, all the expectations, and fear, and panic.
He felt happy.
And then, it all came rushing back. A monstrous roar shook the woods, and Artyom’s gaze snapped in the direction it had come from. Instantly the memoirs of the metro refilled his form. His pistol was pulled easily from it’s spot on his waist. His hand hovered over the throwing knives on his belt, he double checked the placement of his medkits.
His feet made slow progress towards the sound. It had been a roar of combat, a roar of attack and predatory acts. It was a roar that Artyom had heard many times, from many different monsters, and he followed it now, hoping that whatever prey it had found would be able to help him to find his way out of… out of wherever he was.
The roar rocked the trees, and Artyom peeked ahead of his position, hoping to find some information from the cover of the foliage. What he saw was a monster, it wasn’t like the Nosalises of the Metro, not the Watchers or the Demons either. And far, far from what the Dark Ones were. This creature was mindless and angry, there was no hesitancy, no desire for self preservation, only death and the desire to bring it wherever it went.
This was Artyom’s first meeting with a timber wolf, and he did not like what he saw. He saw a large pack of the monsters forming a circle around what prey they had found. He couldn’t remember what they were called. His mother had told him once, long long ago. Horses, he thought, but smaller. He was called back to the battle by the instincts that the Rangers had worked into his muscles and as his mind shifted from the distant memories of forgotten childhood to the battle that was brewing all too close Artyom found he had already drawn his Bastard Gun from its sling.
He glanced briefly at the gun, and then at the wooden monsters that were circling around their prey. The prey, in turn, began to grow more and more panicked. Artyom grabbed a clip of bright ammunition from his belt and replaced the current set of bullets with them, hesitating for a moment before hitting the top of the gun closed and locking the magazine in place.
He leveled it at the monsters, but Artyom didn’t quite know why he did it. He gazed through the scope at the monsters as they swarmed but his finger rested at the side of the gun, and not on the trigger itself. He watched the wooden creatures circle endlessly, and the victims of their trap spin around in frantic fear as they tried to keep their eyes on them.
It was a tactic that they shared with Watchers. It was intimidating to say the least. And, as one of their targets fell onto its stomach, Artyom knew it was working. But, even as the circle began to tighten on the small horses, it was not the similarities between the monsters he knew and the monsters he just met that made him ready his gun. It was the sound of muffled tears that made his finger come to rest on the trigger.
One of the trio, an orange one, approached the crying form of her friend. And it was then that the monsters sprung to action. One of the creatures sunk it’s teeth into the orange one’s leg before darting off, hamstringing the poor foal and leaving her unable to run, even if she’d wanted to.
She struggled to stand, to turn, to do anything, but found her crippling all too complete from the bite. She fought her own forced ineptitude and failed. Time and time again. Then, with emotions that crushed her sound thoughts, she started to cry as well, in anger and helplessness. The third was quick to follow suit, finally facing a truth that had been leering at them from the shadows. Tears and clenched eyes. Artyom gazed on with a desire welling inside himself. But still, the desire for self-preservation fought him. He knew that he would be wasting countless bullets on these monsters. He would be extremely poor if he engaged, and it stayed his better judgement.
The trap tightened, the monsters stopped their circling, they approached with slow and precise steps. Eager, at last, to feast. A filly cried in a familiar tongue, she pled for help. She pled for someone to help. The monsters lunged as if the shouts were the cue that they had been waiting for. But, little did they know, it had served as a cue for Artyom as well. Bullets streaked the sky in a brilliant wave of incandescence, the monsters were knocked aside with flames sparking from their wounds, and the fillies cowered in fear of the unknown.
Artyom fired with his legendary accuracy, each bullet found a mark, knocking thirty of the creatures from the fight. Those who remained turned to the source of their ambush and attacked their new target. Artyom had already reloaded another clip by then. They rushed him, and more of them were lost. Some of them came to a better decision and ran away, others continued the attack, only to once again meet deadly flaming ammunition.
The lucky few that reached their target were given only brief moments to attack him, as if he were reloading the clips before the previous had already run out. And the ones that did manage to group together and launch an attack to stagger the gunman found their work undone just as quickly as it had been dealt. A small syringe being used and tossed away, empty, onto the forest floor.
They were all dealt with in kind by the trained eye of the Ranger. His aim as true as it had ever been. And as the last one fell, the no-longer prey found the courage to raise their gazes. They were greeted with a strange visage. It was a two-legged creature that emerged from the forest, and as it moved closer they moved away, or tried to.
The yellow one and the white one managed it, of course. But the orange one was left to feebly try and limp away. Her friends ran close to help her when they remembered her wound, but were called off by the stranger before they could lift her from the ground. “Wait.” He said simply, drawing the gaze of each of them.
Artyom reached into his backpack and pulled a small pack of gauze from inside. He held it out to them. “I mean no harm. Your friend is hurt. I want to help.” His words were said with certainty and purpose, and he stooped low to their level before he began to approach. He moved forward slowly, the gauze held in front of him the whole time. “I just want to bandage the wounds, then we can get her to a hospital or a medical facility.”
He took another step. He could tell that the truth was edging off their worried fear. “Were you the one who scared away the timber wolves?” Asked the orange one on the ground.
“Yes, I-” Artyom found his words interrupted by a shout.
“Watch out!” Cried the yellow one suddenly, pointing behind Artyom with her hoof. Artyom grabbed a throwing knife from his belt and spun in one sudden movement. He saw a timber wolf running at him and tossed the knife as best he could at the monster. It hit the forehead of the beast, but was deflected aside by its wooden skin.
It launched itself into the air, teeth snarling and sharp. Artyom dropped to a crouch and drew a new blade from his belt. As the timber wolf soared overhead, Artyom grasped the handle of his blade tightly and buried it into the chest of the creature, dragging it in opposition of its momentum, and cutting a large slash down its stomach.
Once it hit the ground at the end of its jump, it didn’t get up again.
Artyom took a breath in relief before he turned back to his conversation partners. “Sorry.” he said, abandoning his slow approach but retaining his crouched position. He approached at a steady pace before dropping into a sitting pose in front of the orange one. He moved his hands slowly and grasped her leg carefully, but she still cringed from the jolt.
It was only going to get worse from here, so Artyom sought to get her mind off of the problem. “What’s your name?” He asked simply. Beginning the wrapping around her wound.
“Scoot-Argh!” She cried in pain. Artyom ceased his act for a moment while he waited for her breath to turn steady once again. Not wanting to torment her if he could avoid it. “I’m Scootaloo.” She said, her tone almost respectful. Thankful.
“I’m Sweetie Belle!” Cried the white one with a voice crack.
“And Ah’m Applebloom!” said the orange one with a grin. A grin that quickly fell away. “What about ya’ll? What’s your name?” The three looked to the biped as he bound the wound.
He was silent for a moment in concentration before he looked up at them. “I’m Artyom. And I’m glad I was here to help.”
