Chapter Text
Pavel had awoken with Artyom’s name upon his lips.
White light surrounded him on all sides, a far cry from the walls of inky black hands that clung to his flesh. Blearily, he wondered if he escaped the clutches of hell just to find himself at the doors of heaven. The searing pain that shot through his body made him think otherwise.
A powerful gust of wind rattled what was left of the windows lining the room. The major attempted to make sense of his scattered memories as he breathed in the surface air filtered by his gas mask.
He froze. His gas mask?
Suddenly, his eyes widened in alarm and his hand flew to the rubber mask. Stumbling up the stairs, he had already used the last of his filters. Even if he had been spared by the Spartan, evident from the lack of a slit throat. Pavel should’ve never opened his eyes again.
Pavel turned his head to the side, as much as his aching body would let him. From a fragment of broken glass he caught a glimpse of the Spartan logo plastered on the filter, as well as bandages peeking from exposed skin. His throat became impossibly tight with shame and guilt. This wasn’t just pity, this was forgiveness.
Somewhere in the back of his skeptic mind, Pavel knew those events that took place in that paralyzing red room were as true as his pulse beating steadily despite the odds. That dark creature and its strange powers were real, as were Artyom’s hands pulling him away from the jaws of doom. Pavel couldn't help but chuckle at the irony, puffs of air swirling with dust in the morning light. How funny that his salvation came from his death.
After what was an eternity within a few minutes, Pavel rose from the ground, taking care not to undo Artyom’s handiwork. Methodically, he brushed off his gun and reloaded the rounds. He had undoubtedly failed his mission, although he had no intention of ever leaving the square alive in the first place. In a twisted way, Artyom had only stalled his imminent end.
But at the end of the day, Pavel was a soldier. And like every good soldier, he would return back to the frontlines as long as he continued to breathe, as long as red ran through his veins. So he carried himself through the decay and rubble. Among the lifeless bodies that littered across the building, he alone left a dead man walking.
Korbut was dead.
The siege of D6 was a complete failure. Every subordinate loyal to Korbut and his cause was either dead as well or driven into the tunnels. Pavel processed this fact in the same numbing way a grenade left aftershocks, tucking waves of disorientation into the crevices of his mind. There was simply no time to be conflicted.
The entire Red Line was plunged into a fit of chaos as the remaining authority juggled between damage control and tending to its people, people who still needed food and protection. Whispers of the battle traveled between the panicked citizens, of the fabled Dark Ones appearing before the soldiers. Some said it was a bloodbath. Others said the creatures had simply warded off the men with their psychic powers.
Pavel had little use for those stories, information could not fill anyone’s stomachs now. Arriving at the station, his body had kicked into automatic gear and headed straight for work. The local authorities were visibly wary of his position as a major under Korbut. They relented, finally, after Pavel had repeatedly assured his loyalties lied with the Red line and not with a dead man. Afterall, people were still displaced, vulnerable, and hungry- and they could use all the help they could get.
For a while, Pavel’s days were filled with various tasks, whether it be distributing rations or escorting refugees across stations. His assignments proved helpful in giving time to sort out the mess in his head. The foundations of his beliefs were shaken from his unsuccessful missions, Korbut’s demise, and every resounding failure. Face to face with the aftermath of his compliance, it was easy to believe the ends justified the means when he was a mindless soldier. Now, Pavel could only wonder if the blood on his hands was worth it. His idols were gone. The illusions of revolution were shattered, alongside rose colored glass he held fast to.
More than anything, Artyom consumed his thoughts.
Where was he now? Did he perish in the battle at D6? Pavel’s stomach lurched heavily at the mere idea. For someone so undeserving like himself to be alive while Artyom was not was unthinkable. While he longed for any sign that Artyom was okay, Pavel kept the dream of reuniting with him only within his fantasies. Artyom may have spared his life, but he had no right to seek him out. Not after what he had done.
So Pavel stayed within the confines of the station, working tirelessly each day in an attempt to right his wrongs. But the Red line could only go on biding time for so long. In the absence of a larger directive, the question of “What next?” hung over everyone’s heads like a noose. Then, a ray of hope flickered to life, shining from a lone flashlight through the darkness of the metro. No one knew what to make of Leonid’s abrupt appearance when he returned to the Red line, supposedly after being exiled by his father on accounts of treason.
In a surprising display of strength, Leonid revivified the Red line with his ideals of unity and equality through peace. His determination rivaled that of his fathers, the shadows of his meekness now cast away by light. Efforts were concentrated on humanitarian aid for those who suffered from the devastation by Korbut's hand, rallying the people's favor for the new leader. In the distance, a glimmer of respite shone upon the horizon.
It seemed that finally the Red line was past its dusk of uncertainty and was now heading towards a better place for everyone in the metro. Here, in the midst of hope, Pavel felt more lost than ever.