Out on the fiftieth meter outpost, the light was dim, no noise. The flamethrower sat on a bipod, barely enough fuel left for another tunnel dousing if the surface creatures attacked. The new guy, Sasha, kept twitching and looking off into the darkness at every little creak and whine that came from the decaying tunnel. There weren't enough explosives to collapse it, otherwise it would have been done months ago. The hundredth meter post wasn't there anymore, and whoever was left in command on the station didn't want to stretch forces thin. When the flamers and machine guns were out, it would be an opportune time to evacuate. But then... where? Moving an entire station was far too difficult, even if there weren't as many people to worry about in this case. There was another sudden sound, this time of a predatory creature grunting and scarpering after seeing the fire and the humans sat around it. Sasha couldn't control himself and stood up, spun around with his metro-made 'bastard' sub-machine gun aimed shakily into the pitch black. He just stood there, shivering for seconds.

"Sasha. Want to trade places?" Raisa sighed, to which the slightly younger male nodded quickly at. He couldn't have his back to that tunnel any longer, no fucking way. Raisa however had sat through this so many times she'd lost count. They weren't as much in danger as the newbie thought. He would get used to it, or the tunnel fear would win. Moving her mug of mushroom tea over to where Sasha had previously sat, Raisa settled down with her back to that same black void.

"I'll watch your back. Sokov. Okay? I won't let anything creep up..." Sasha gulped as he sat again, keeping the live weapon on his lap. At least he knew trigger discipline.

Raisa rolled her eyes and grinned slightly at him, "That's what I was doing for you. Relax, but pay attention. It grows on you," she replied with a more quiet and calm tone. The two older men chuckled as the kids swapped seats. One of them was quite aged, and went by the name of Boris, he was apparently a military officer before Metro Command fell apart. He'd been a mentor as Raisa aspired to become a guard. The other was middle-aged, Stepan, a renowned trader once - now charged with 'defending what's left of this craphole'. Not that he had a problem with protecting his loved ones.

The three more experienced tunnel fighters tried to lighten the mood a little with some small talk of the station's happenings. News of the rest of the metro was very rare now. For the next five or so minutes until the end of the shift, all was quiet in the darkness. When the time came, and the four got ready to head back into the station to be replaced, there was an uneasy feeling in the air. Strolling back and shaking hands with the four replacements as they passed felt... odd. They all looked a bit paranoid too. Did something happen back in the station...?

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"For fucks sake! Commander! Look at this! Tell me what this is!"

"I-It's a dead lurker-"

"A lurker that managed to slaughter a small child before your people shot it! A lurker in our station! This is a safe haven!"

Boris, Sasha and Raisa approached the confrontation happening in the middle of the station platform. The guard captain was being screamed at by the station chief, and at their feet was a dead mutant with four spindly limbs, two big black eyes and pale, shrivelled skin. The mutants had been getting bolder, but... how? There were always armed personnel on the station and in its tunnels. Perhaps the creature made an entrance of its own. And that meant it could be followed by others. Who knows how many breaches they could create, how many they already had?

The Captain waved the four off, letting them do as they willed for the moment. Sasha was glad to be back on the station, and visibly calmed. Boris patrolled, though with a snack and a drink. Stepan went straight for the communal fire, where many of the station's weary inhabitants sat together, sharing, trading.

Raisa simply strolled over to her tent, took her jacket off, grabbed a book and laid down on the dirty mattress she had for a bed. Reading pre-war books really flared her imagination as to what everything was like, once. Everything she read referred to a better world, one with far easier lifestyles and luxuries that had long disappeared from the metro by now.

How could humans be so careless with all they had built on the surface...?

(I'm going to be gone for a week. Hopefully, it won't have died by then, but here's my post.)

Malta looked about, the smuggler come adventurer come bootlegger come stalker on the surface, near Sevastopolskaya, or Lone, the ruined sight of apartment buildings hit by the blast a usual sight to see here. Tomas clambered over a fence, breathing heavily through his gas mask, as he raised his Bastard, looking around. He had another 25 minutes, and there were infrequent stalker posts across the surface, that he could raid and grab filters from. The mutants weren't that active today, as the slush buckled under his boots, as he moved into an alley, a little moisture in his gas mask as he looked about. Today, he was headed for Sevastopolskaya, and he guessed he had another couple of minutes walking to get to their surface entrance, before taking a look around inside. And he had business to make with a few people there, as well as getting a delivery. Things to sort out, he reminded himself. The tunnels were too infested of late, and he didn't mind the surface as much as others. There were few radioactive pockets, and the ones that he knew of he could avoid in this area, so he he was content with that. Pushing over a low wall, he saw a pair of mutants run past, as he kept his head down, letting them go. Breathing, he moved forward, Malta moving into the shell of an apartment, as he saw flashlights up ahead.

Getting down, he stayed behind the wall of one of the rooms on the second floor, the sound of some sort of men passing by. He could hear them talking. No radios, they were yelling at each other. This was going to get noisy. Checking his Bastard, he just waited. They were searching each and every room, they were going through this place. He could go around, or stop these fuckers. Malta guessed this was a stalker team, looking for things. It wouldn't matter if they were affiliated with anyone. Malta knew on the surface, it was kill or be killed, if you were Red Line or Reich or Ranger or VDNKh. It wasn't a concern. He kept himself aback, as he heard the door move in the room he was in.

The man entered, wearing a gas mask also, and winterized equipment, searching with his revolver, a weapon that Tomas reminded himself was perhaps a little inadequate for this type of work. And that Tomas now was in a position to take the man down. He didn't waste his time. Knife out, he felt the man turn and yell, as he slashed it into his throat, the man trying to get himself ready as Tomas kicked him down and stabbed him twice, kicking off the man's gas mask. His collegue ran down the corridor, with a combat stance and his weapon raised, yelling back. Tomas cocked the Bastard, and moved to the door, spraying around the corner.

The noise of a body dropping was an indication. Dead. He peeked round, and pulled his mask off, grabbing the filter out of it and keeping it for safe keeping for his own usage. Malta looted whatever else he could, what little they had. He didn't need any more weight, but he had a few items that Malta could sell, a few bits and pieces that could fetch a penny down in the Metro. A few books, some Tolstoy, remarkably. Scrap metal, it wasn't much, but Tomas took what was best out of the lot. Malta moved back down to the other man, and did the same, finding his set practically useless. Looking around, he exhaled, looking at his watch, keeping an eye out. Murder was no longer a problem. He didn't like it, but they would have shot on sight. And nobody would now care that they were as dead as a doornail, as he continued onto Sevastopolskaya.

"Hey you! Passport!" The four men approaching the one hundred meter checkpoint of Kitai-Gorod looked up sharply, looking at the seven men sitting beside a fire, just behind the fire, a big 7.62x54mm machine gun. The seven men of the checkpoint all stand up. Big strong armored men. Helmets and shemags on their heads. One of the men, with a big double barrled shotgun on his shoulder. This thing isn't one of the Armory or Market made Duplets. This is an honest to god before the war shotgun. All sleek, with long steel barrels and wooden butt. The four men in the tunnel all raise their hands slowly. All of them decked down with big heavily laden backpack and bags. Merchants by the looks of them. They have weapons, but the seven Kitai-Gorod men are not so worried. Three of the bandits step forward and begin to go through the bags of the four traders by the looks of it. Out come horns of ammo, food, water, drinks, flasks of vodka and other beverages of choice. Items that these four out of the tunnel intended to trade here at the station or beyond, but all of this seems to be pay for the guards here. As one of the bandits gets to the last man he suddenly bolts, back down the way he came.

Stanislav sighed and leveled his shotgun. But held up at the last moment. He grinned instead, "Naw, not gonna waste ammo on that one. All alone down the line, if the Darkness don't get him, something else will. Nosalies, Watcher maybe. Who the hell cares. He dies either way." The other bandits all laugh in agreement and send the remaining three down the line, ignoring their protests that almost a third of their wares have been taken as "toll". Stanislav the big man with the shot gun grabs himself some bread, and a few beakers of vodka and sits back down.

As he does he hears the telltale growl of something, then a hiss and a scream of fear. Stanislav laughs, "See? What'd I tell you." A howl, like something calling other things to arms can be heard followed a few moments later by the scream of someone being taken down by several large hungry predators.

Stanislav makes no faces, he just cracks open one of the beakers and takes a good pull from the contents, "Ah, mushroom vodka. The good stuff. Likely from VDNKh. Just like that bag of tea. The really good stuff." He laughed loudly. One of the men stoking the fire, no one paying attenion that maybe 200 meters down the line, someone is being feasted upon.

"Uh, hey? Sokov?" a familiar voice crept into the tent. As Raisa lowered her book, she saw Sasha nodding at her and waiting for a reply of some sort. Shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly, she nodded back and rolled her hand out to a bundle of sheets her younger friend could take a seat on.

"You may enter, sir. Please wipe your feet on the doormat, the butler will take your coat," Raisa said with a straight face, as if she were completely immersed in the novels scene. Sasha grinned at her, crouched under the opening flap and moved inside, his head brushing against the 'ceiling' of the tent. At least it wasn't as bad as some of the station. The worst off only had sleeping bags, or little more than warm sheets. This was cozy, and it gave Raisa some privacy - to sight, anyway. The young man sat down on the sheets and made himself comfortable, then just watched until Raisa flicked the page of her book and put a scrap of paper in between the next two, saving her place when she shut it. "So, what's the occasion?"

"I figured I should know all the other guards better," Sasha replied confidently. Almost too confidently. Maybe he'd rehearsed before he entered?

Raisa raised a brow at him and shrugged, "So you came here first, did you? No visit to Boris, the old veteran you really should be listening to and watching closely? Curious," she said, still acting with neutrality as she dimmed the dirty lamp between the two.

"Oh, I.. feel more comfortable. With you. I mean-. You know? Same age group and stuff," Sasha chuckled nervously. Raisa finally beamed a smile at him and shook her head, chuckling quietly. The two sat in silence for a short while. Raisa wasn't going to ask him what was on his mind. If he had any real questions he'd ask them.

"It's... The tunnel shit, I swear it's closing in on me all the time when we're on du-" Sasha started to tell quietly, but Raisa fell forwards suddenly with her hand over his mouth. The puzzled look he gave her quickly fell away as he heard the low growl of something just outside the tent. A four-legged silhouette stalked past, paying no mind to whomever was inside. That was no dog. That was a damned nosalis. Sasha tapped Raisa on the arm a few times to let her know he wasn't going to freak out. Letting go of Sasha, the blonde silently reached for her weapon while her friend pulled out a worn metro-made handgun from inside his jacket. The silhouette reached the entrance of the tent, then backed away - toward the communal fire where the majority of the station were. Another shadow, a nosalis on two legs creeping by the tent. This was bad! If they yelled to warn the others, they would sign their own death warrants and be ripped apart by the predatory mutants.

But, regardless of what Raisa and Sasha could have done, the station alarm fired and gunfire could be heard across the whole platform... Now there was no choice but to start moving.

Raisa knew this was it. The state of the guard posts were already bad. If the mutants could simply bypass those checkpoints, Kuzminki Station was no longer safe for any human to stay at. With that in mind, she opted to grab all of her gear before exiting the tent, AK primed and ready. Sasha followed her out, watching her back as she led him to the north west tunnel. Evidently, the tunnel leading to the next station wasn't the one teeming with mutants. It wasn't a difficult decision to leave now while they had a chance. There were bandits at Tekstil'schiki, but anywhere would be better than this. Raisa didn't say a word regarding the others, and Sasha didn't care about anything but getting out of there. He couldn't stop looking back... Every burst from a gun, every scream had him on edge...

Kuzminki, or 'Lone Station' to some, had been waiting for this moment. It was inevitable. The few survivors would scatter, and most of the guards would die defending the non-combatants.