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Mojave Roulette (Metro 2033/Fallout: New Vegas)

Chapter 1: Russian Luck

Kamzil118

Active member
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"War... war never changes."

"If it's hostile, kill it."

The Metro tunnels were quiet and dark, but it was home to its Russian inhabitants despite the mutants and their occasional attacks. It was a harsh life, true, but the surface offered little protection for humanity to survive. As much as many prideful citizens of the Metro held their pride in being better than monsters, it was simply a lie. Humanity was forced to live like rats, scouring the surface and frontier stations to survive and thrive.

Despite being decades after the bombs fell, there was one fact that remained with humanity, war. It was bound to happen in the stations aligning to their political beliefs. The communists and the fascists becoming eternal enemies for life while the capitalists made money off their wars. The only sensible people were the independent stations that stayed away from these conflicts, but they were too few, assimilated by the Nazis or the Reds, or simply dead.

Such was life in the tunnels, but there is one station that has survived all these years. The Polis Station and it's Rangers. While the normal independent station would be killed by mutants or coerced into joining a faction, Polis was respected for its authority to broker peace in the Metro and fight creatures that threatened the last bastion of humanity as a hole. They were the white cells that fought off the monsters that tried to purge the last remains of humanity.

It was time to stop thinking, otherwise the rest of the guards would have yelled at him. Artyom, stood against the wall of sandbags and bricks, accompanying the older men guarding the northern frontier against any stray mutants. The young man was at the front of an extensive defensive line should there be two or more packs trying to break through.

Artyom felt a hand press onto his shoulder. "You should take a seat and relax." An older man commented. Glancing over his shoulder, Artyom saw a bald old man take his seat underneath the lightbulb with his custom Kalash resting in his lap. After adjusting his cap, he looked up to him. "Boy, you should know that we have tin cans out there for a reason." He said. "The mutants are too stupid to avoid them."

Taking his words to heart, he sat across from the older man. "Bourbon, how can you be so comfortable when an attack could occur at any moment?" Artyom asked, concerned about the safety of his station. "Isn't it a bit risky?"

Bourbon dragged a bag out from behind his chair and began to drag it over to his side. "Yeah, but so is running off to Polis all by yourself." He replied. "Had I not known you would be Sukhoi's boy, I would have let you go. Alas, here we are guarding your station."

"Aren't you worried about the threat of the Dark Ones? The Invisible Watchers? They could attack us at any moment."

The man produced a bottle from his bag. "If I had to choose between these 'Invisible Watchers' or my debt collectors, I would choose the mutants. At the very least, they won't suck my money out of my pocket every time I pass by." He said jokingly. "Besides, maybe if I stick around they might leave Exhibition alone."

Artyom lowered his head before he looked to his makeshift machine gun. It was not aesthetically pleasing, but it would do as his own weapon. He had been tasked to send a message to Polis Station about the threat of the Dark Ones, but the situation had changed. His step-father had told the guards to never let him out of Exhibition for his quest while the threat was still out there. Artyom couldn't blame him, he didn't want to lose his adoptive son to the dangers of the Metro just like how his mother was eaten alive by rats as they swarmed his former station. As he thought about it, he could never recall the name of his station or the face of his mother.

Then he smelled the scent of alcohol in the air. "Take a sip, it should pass the time while we are on guard duty." The young man hesitantly reached for the bottle as he began to take a sip. "Kid, I want to make a deal with you before I leave." He began. "It is something important."

After removing the bottle from his mouth, feeling the burning sensation in his throat, Artyom looked to the man with questions. What does he plan to do?

"Do you remember when I taught you how to survive on the surface?" He nodded. "Good, when you get older I want you to remember those lessons I taught you and you will learn how to survive."

"Bourbon, where is this going?"

"By the time I return to Riga, there will be Hanza debt collectors looking for me and they'll probably confiscate everything I own to pay off my debts." He answered before bringing his assault rifle out. "I'll let you have this gun, but don't tell Sukhoi I gave you this. It's between me and you." Then Bourbon looked towards the front of the defenses and turned his gaze towards the extra layers of guard posts far away. "Only go to the surface when you really need to. Otherwise, I want you to stay in your home and be safe. I don't want you to go on that mission of yours and getting yourself killed trying to get a message to Polis."

"Why not? A Polis Ranger told me to do it before he went up north." Replied Artyom.

Bourbon's expression went blank. "Artyom, you'll find yourself on a road you'll never expect and you will have one hell of a ride." He explained as he passed the weapon over to him. "Here, it's yours."

In exchange for this gift, Artyom handed the bottle of vodka back to the man named after a drink only to get his hands onto the pre-war weapon. The Kalashnikov or the Kalash for short, was a prized weapon in the Metro. It was one of the few things of the past that had survived the harsh reality that was brought by the evidence of nuclear bombs. Artyom aimed down the sights of the Kalash towards the north tunnel, knowing that if he fired a shot it would have at least fired off in the direction he was guarding.

Despite being gifted such a weapon, Artyom's eyes noticed a figure off in the distance. "Oh, my head." Bourbon commented, catching the young man's attention.

Artyom quickly glanced over to Bourbon's body just to find him sleeping in a coma. He had seen these signs before when he was heading towards Riga Station, but this time he had to wake him up. As he rose from his seat, he glanced over to the front of his station's defenses, but was met with three of those strange figures. This time, they were standing before him. He didn't know when to be horrified or brave in the eyes of these creatures, but Artyom saw their strange features.

Theses mutants were tall and skinny. With their lengthy hands, their arms could reach out for something a normal human couldn't reach, but it's eyes were what concerned Artyom. The large eyes of the Dark Ones were looking at him, in his soul, without hesitation. The stories of men's souls being broken at a whim were enough to terrify the young man about what thoughts went through their heads.

Then a voice echoed into his mind. 'He is the one…' All three Dark Ones reached their hand out towards him, but the voice seemed to soothe him despite its intention. 'He has come to destroy us… No… He will be the ones to save us…' Why were they talking to him in such a manner? Why were these creatures not maliciously trying to kill him just like his neighbors or his friends? 'Send him…' A strange feeling came over the young man as he felt stiff and terrified of their presence. What where they trying to do? 'Do not be afraid… it is the best alternative…'

. . .​

There was a bright blue light that shimmered before his eyes, catching Artyom off-guard. He had to close it, it was too bright for his eyes to handle before his hand covered his eyes. The light was too much for him, what were the Dark Ones trying to do. Then he felt his body violently brushed aside from below before he felt like he was falling, but it was only for a moment.

When his feet hit the ground, he felt the harsh feeling of his boots sinking in. However, there was one issue that concerned him. Why was the temperature warm? Moscow was not known for its warm climate, based upon the information he learned in the books. Artyom opened his eyes before removing his hand to see what had happened. Yet, his curiosity would have to wait on another time as five men were standing in front of him.

However, there was one who was different from the other, looking at him with a checkered suit with a sidearm in hand. "What in the… You know what, nevermind." The stranger said as he directed the barrel of his pistol towards Artyom. "Sorry kid, but I can't let you walk away with a beating heart."

The young man raised his hands, but it was too late. The man's gun fired and the last thing he saw was the two flashes from his pistol as his body slammed into the dirt.

"Bury this one. We can't leave a trace." The stranger ordered as he heard the dirt crunch past him, but Artyom felt the Kalash slipping out of his hand. "A Kalashnikov, what's this thing doing here. Let me bring this baby with me, I guess tonight is worth the cost."

Author's Note: I decided to repost this story from SB just to see people's reaction to this.
 
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Chapter 2: Bite the Bullet
Pain… that was all Artyom could remember. He had been scratched by mutants, felt their teeth gnaw at his body, and their claws holding onto him. However, it was nothing compared to getting shot. As time went on, Artyom noticed the pain in his head was slowly aching. Despite this small moment of peace, the young man wondered what did he deserve in life to deal with this? He should have been with his station, fighting the Dark Ones from overrunning his home and killing the defenders to the last man.
Then the thought of the Dark Ones occurred to him, why did they simply take the risk to come and meet him? These thoughts were strange because of how foreign the entity was at trying to meet with him. Artyom hoped there would be answers to this, clear answers, but in the world of the dying such answers were few and clean. A small cool breeze began to touch his face, demanding his attention. He opened his eyes, but with a simple hope that he would be having a dream of the strange events before he even woke up and lived his normal life.

Yet, it was never meant to be. When his eyes were brought back into the world, Artyom watched the ceiling's fan rotating above him. This is what he had to wake up to in the morning. Strange, he never had anything like this in the Metro and Sukhoi wouldn't have spent men or engineers to install a ceiling fan above him.

As he turned his head, Artyom watched from his cot and saw that he was in a room few people were ever given. In the Metro, a normal man would have been lucky to have a shack, but this room was different. The large space that was given for an old bald man walking around suggested either this man was rich or had plenty of time to make this much space for himself. "It's okay, I'll see what I can do to get you patched up." The older man commented as he worked on the body of a woman resting in her cot. "Just sleep and I'll see if I can fix this problem.

The young man looked around for a quick moment, only to take the opportunity to sit up from his resting place. As he sat up from his cot, Artyom felt a strange sensation going through his head. It could have possibly been the morphine to drown out his pain or the bullet wounds in his head. He would have to look in a mirror.

The doctor stopped working on his patient only to remove his instruments and turn around. "Oh, you're awake." He began before slipping his bloodied gloves off. When he walked over to Artyom, he took a quick seat beside the Russian. "Hey, don't move too quickly. You're still recovering from those wounds so take it easy." A small groan slipped from the lips of his patient. "Young man, just lay back down and rest. I'll see if I can get around to you."

. . .​

After the strange doctor was finished helping his second patient, he was content with a few words. "That gal is going to need plenty of time recovering before she could be on her feet again, but she'll be fine." Then he took a seat beside Artyom's cot. "Okay, young man. Sit up for me so I can make a quick look and see how you are doing."

The young man did as he was told, sitting up to the man with the medical expertise. He groaned at the aching in his head. "Where am I?" Artyom wondered, curious to learn about his surroundings.

"Take it slow, you've been in a coma and I just want to see how you'll do since I took those bullets out of your noggin." The man answered as he gave out his hand. "Name's Doc Mitchell, I'm the town's doctor. Welcome to Goodsprings. What's your name?"
"Artyom." He said. "My name is Artyom." Then he slowly reached out to shake his hand. "What happened to me?"

"You got shot. Thankfully, I was able to extract those nine millimeters from your head before they could do any more damage. Hopefully, you will be fine." There was a small moment of silence between both people. "Strange, you have a funny accent. I haven't heard of it before, but I do believe that it's far from here."

"Doctor, do you know where I am?"

Doc Mitchell leaned back in his seat with his eyes gazing upon him like a hawk. "Seeing that you're not from Goodsprings and you don't look like you're from around here, all I can tell you is that you are in the Mojave Wasteland. If you want to know more, the Mojave has a bit of California, Utah, Nevada, and Arizona if we go by old-world states." The older man explained to him.

At the mention of these names, Artyom grew confused as he began to think for a logical explanation. He looked back deep into his memories, recalling such names that were mentioned before, but he could only recall his childhood. In this moment, he remembered how one of the countries outside of Moscow was split into states, but one he could remember was California. Yet, this man mentioned that he was within California. "Wait a minute, I'm in America?" Artyom questioned. He nodded his head at the thought. "No, it's impossible. I shouldn't be here."

The doctor raised his hands in goodwill. "Hey, calm down. Explain yourself. Maybe you can tell me what's going on with you. It might be you recovering from that wound of yours."

"You don't understand, I am not from around here."

"It's okay, I'll listen to you. Just tell me what's up."

"Doctor, I'm not from this place. I'm from Moscow Metro." When Artyom's words mentioned his familiar home, the bald man's eyes lit up. Perhaps he was surprised as well at this revelation.

"You're from Russia. Weird, I never thought we would ever find people from that part of the world." Mitchell said to himself. "Say, what is a kid like you doing here?"

Then he recalled his last memories. "All I can remember is that I was doing guard duty in my home station until some mutants came up to me and… I don't even know."

The doctor leaned forward as his chin rested upon his hand. "It sounds so far-fetched, but I've heard of worse. I believe you."

Artyom was surprised. Someone believed his story, one that was filled with enough nonsense to be called a madman, but this man took the chance to tell him that he was telling the truth. "Why? What makes you think you can believe my story?"

"It's your accent. It's not normal around these parts and people might say you'll be talking funny if I let you out of here." A groan escaped from the woman behind the doctor. "Okay, I better get you off your feet before I get back to patching her up." Then Mitchell rose to his feet and began to walk onto the far side of the room. This time, he stood beside a strange machine with letters and numbers.

The numbers were easy to understand, but the words were difficult to decipher. It was strange, but as Artyom blinked his eyes, the words made sense to him. He didn't know why, but this strange language was somehow making sense to him.
"See if you can walk over here, I want to see if you'll be able to walk."

The young man slipped off his cot and took a slow step. However, his feet were struggling to maintain a balance in his body as he walked over to the doctor. It was strange to think that his legs would be failing him at such a moment. Then his left leg succumbed to his own weight. Mitchell was quick to come to his aide, but Artyom raised his hand up. "Don't, I want to do this myself." He commented. Pushing himself off the wooden flooring, Artyom rose from the ground and continued his path.
When he finally reached the doctor and the strange machine beside him, he spoke. "That is some fine walking for a man walking out of the grave." Doc Mitchell commented. "I think you can carry yourself well."

"Doctor, do you know what happened to me?" He wondered.

"Other than getting shot? I don't know, but I did see a few odd fellows slip into town." He pointed towards his patient. "Turns out they had business with her, but somehow you got caught up in this debacle as well. Do you remember anything?"
Artyom shook his head. "Nyet, I don't know a thing other than a man in a checkered suit."

Mitchell's facial expression turned sour. "I knew you would say that and I somehow knew it had to do with them. Are you going to do know?"

Yes, what was Artyom going to do? He was in the middle of nowhere with no one to help him out and a place unlike his own. Other than the doctor, Artyom felt he had no purpose in life. Despite these facts, there was a memory calling out to him. There shouldn't be a reason for him to remember that moment where he was shot by the stranger, but his mind thought about it.

A Kalashnikov, what's this thing doing here? Let me bring this baby with me, I guess tonight is worth the cost.

Those words from that stranger made his blood boil. That man stole his Kalash, a weapon gifted to him by someone he trusted. Perhaps there was a purpose? At the very least it was something to look forward to after taking a shot to the head, but his mind settled in on the matter as Artyom thought about hunting that man and killing him. Strange, that was a policy for a Polis Ranger if someone took a life from their ranks. If only Hunter was here to think about his thoughts.

"Hey, you look red as a tomato." Mitchell commented. "Mind you explain this to me?"

"You said there was a man in a checkered shirt that passed through here, right?" Artyom asked. "Do you know where to find him?"

"I don't know. I just heard we had newcomers in town, but I wasn't there at the time. However, you can head over to Prospector's Saloon and talk to Trudy. She might know where those fellows went. After all, she knows what usually goes on in the town. Why do you ask?"

There was a tense feeling of rage within him. "Someone stole something from me, I plan to take it back."

"If that's the case I should worry about my other patient." Mitchell said. "I think you'll be fine enough, but before you leave I think I should hand this back to you. I didn't want this stuff to get in the way when I was performing a procedure on you." His hand reached out from behind his back with a familiar weapon in hand. "I don't know what the hell this is, but I guess it's a weapon you know about."

"Bastard." Artyom replied.

"What did you say to me?" The doctor demanded. "I just took the time to get you back together and this is what you say to me."

"No, this is a Bastard gun." He explained. "It's a bastard to use, hence why it's called a Bastard gun."

Mitchell took a look at the weapon with curiosity. "Oh… that makes plenty of sense. Sorry for overreacting."

Artyom began to laugh. "No worries, doctor. You're not the first person to act like that when I have this around. Thanks for keeping this, it's the only weapon I'm familiar with."

"Well, I guess it's time I hand this to you since I won't be using it anymore."

"Doctor, what are you talking about."

"You see, I have this thing called a Pip-Boy. I don't use it as much, but I think you'll need it more than I do. Especially since you're new around here and don't have a map of the Mojave." Out from behind his back, Doctor Mitchell revealed a strange wrist machine with a small computer screen attached. This device not only caught Artyom's attention, but piqued his curiosity.

When Artyom was immediately given the strange device, he inspected the machine with curiosity. "What does it do?" He wondered. "I never had anything like this back in Moscow." His fingers began to press buttons as the screens changed before his very eyes.

"Like I said, it's called a Pip-Boy. It's your own mini-computer attached to your wrist. Play around with it, you can figure it out along the way."

"I guess I have to thank you for saving me and helping me get on my why. How can I thank you?"

"For me, just stay alive and be healthy. That is all I am asking form you."

A smile escaped from Artyom's lips. "Still, I have to thank you for doing this for me."

"No problem." The doctor replied as he walked away from the young man. "I better get back to work, my patient needs me."

Strange, such actions in the Metro would get a man killed. However, this was not the Metro and this concept was rather strange for Artyom. Life was always harsh to him and now there was a chance of kindness coming his way. What were the possibilities of such things happening to him?

The Russian began to walk over to the nearest exit and as he unlocked the door, he felt a wave of hot air fly into his face. However, his eyes succumbed to the light as he raised his hand to defy the sun. In this moment, Artyom's gaze fell upon the remains of the town that had survived the bombs just to learn he was no longer in Moscow anymore.

Author's Note: If anyone is still curious about the woman on the cot, she is the courier. However, she won't make much of an impact to the story.
 
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