Sergei led the general into the dimly lit room. The faint, flickering glow of oil lamps reflected off the cracked tiles and weathered walls. Sergeant Major Cole and Private Jenna remained by the doorway, standing guard, while Nikolai stepped out after a nod from Ilya to distribute the supplies among the station's people.
General Ward settled onto the old chair in front of the desk while Sergei remained standing at the side, ready to translate.
"I appreciate you meeting with us," the general began, his voice steady despite the weight of unfamiliar territory.
Sergei quickly translated.
«Я благодарю вас за встречу с нами.»
Ilya leaned back, studying the stranger with a keen, measuring stare.
«Имя?»
("Name?")
"Jacob Ward, commander of the Minutemen."
Sergei relayed the words.
«Джейкоб Уорд, командир Минитменов.»
«Илья, командующий этой станцией.»
("Ilya, commander of this station.")
A moment of silence passed before Ilya spoke again, his expression firm.
«Какие у вас намерения здесь, в Метро?»
("What are your intentions here in the Metro?")
Sergei translated.
"We came because dangerous creatures have started appearing in the Commonwealth. Sergei and Nikolai told us about the Metro, and we needed to see for ourselves what's happening down here."
After Sergei finished translating, Ilya let out a breath and nodded slowly, his sharp eyes never leaving the general.
«Он хорошо обращался с вами?»
("He treated you well?")
"He did," Sergei assured him.
«Он даже дал нам деньги — крышки от бутылок. Благодаря ему мы купили еду, воду и даже немного газировки».
("He even gave us money — bottle caps. Thanks to him, we bought the 3food, water, and even some of those soda's.")
Ilya's gaze softened, his lips twitching at the corners as if holding back a small, tired smile. His eyes flicked down at the desk, then back up.
«Это... интересно. Может быть, впервые за долгое время у нас появился шанс изменить что-то к лучшему.»
("This… is interesting. Maybe, for the first time in a long while, we have a chance to change something for the better.")
Sergei relayed the words, and the general nodded.
"Glad to hear it," Ward replied.
«Рад это слышать.»
Sergei translated it smoothly, and Ilya gave a slow nod in return.
The general glanced around the dim room, noting the sputtering oil lamp, the gaunt faces of the people outside, and the overall worn, weary look of the station. He gestured to the lamp, then towards the entrance. "Your people look sick, your power's barely running."
Sergei translated.
«Ваши люди выглядят больными, электричества почти нет.»
Ilya gave a short sigh.
«Мы кое-как выживаем. Электричество вырабатываем с помощью велосипедов, и всё уходит на освещение периметра снаружи. Еды и лекарств катастрофически не хватает. Соседние две станции тоже держатся из последних сил.»
("We survive as best we can. We produce electricity by pedaling bicycles, and it's all spent lighting the perimeter outside. There's barely any food or medicine. The two neighboring stations aren't doing any better.")
Sergei translated, the weight in his voice clear even without the words.
Ward's brow furrowed. "And the other stations — how far are they? Could you trade?"
Sergei passed the question on.
«А как насчёт других станций? Далеко? Можно ли торговать?»
Ilya rubbed a hand across his beard, weary.
«Эти три станции — край Метро. Отсюда только один путь ведёт к остальной сети. Проблема в том, что некоторые туннели затоплены, а в других слишком высокий уровень радиации. Торговля невозможна.»
("Our three stations are the edge of the Metro. Only one path leads to the rest of the network. The problem is, some tunnels are flooded, and others are too irradiated. Trade is impossible.")
Sergei translated, and the general leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.
"In the Commonwealth," Ward said, "we have power generators. We have medicine for radiation sickness."
Sergei quickly passed on the words.
«В Содружестве у нас есть генераторы, и есть лекарства от лучевой болезни.»
Ilya's eyes narrowed slightly, considering the possibilities. He was no fool. He knew nothing came free in this world.
After a pause, he leaned forward.
«В этой жизни ничего не даётся даром. Что ты хочешь взамен?»
("In this life, nothing comes for free. What do you want in return?")
Sergei translated faithfully.
Ward didn't flinch, but a small, knowing smile touched the corners of his lips. He'd expected that. No honest leader gave away resources without reason. And he respected the man more for asking outright.
Ward leaned forward slightly, his voice steady and measured.
"Yes , this isn't charity," he began, Sergei translating every word. « да ,Это не благотворительность.»
"There's a system we've built back in the Commonwealth — every settlement contributes something, depending on what they can do. Food, weapons, machines… in return, they get what they can't make themselves, delivered by our caravans. And the Minutemen protect those routes, keep the raiders and creatures off them."
Sergei relayed the words carefully.
"I won't lie — building a power generator is no small thing. It takes men, tools, and resources. But if you're willing to cooperate… if your people can secure and guard this passage between the Metro and our Commonwealth, and act as our eyes and ears here — report dangers, strange activity, anything we should know — we could make it worth your while."
Sergei translated, and Ilya's expression stayed hard, but a thoughtful light came to his eyes.
"Further down the line," Ward continued, "if your people have skills — mechanics, salvagers, anyone who can work — we can provide tools and blueprints for you to start producing goods . In exchange, you'll get medicine, food, proper weapons, and a fair share of anything that passes through here."
Sergei passed on every word.
Ilya let out a low hum, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.
«То есть, если я правильно вас понял... вы предлагаете нам стать чем-то вроде форпоста на границе вашего Содружества и Метро. Охранять проход, докладывать о том, что происходит, и по возможности — наладить производство. Взамен — еда, лекарства, генератор, оружие и безопасность торговли.»
("So if I understand you right… you're offering for us to become something like an outpost at the border between your Commonwealth and the Metro. Guard the passage, report on what happens, and if possible — set up production. In exchange — food, medicine, a generator, weapons, and trade security.")
Sergei nodded, confirming.
Ward gave a single firm nod. "That's the idea."
«Вот именно.»
Ilya was silent for a moment longer, then gave a weary chuckle, shaking his head.
«Чёрт… после всего, что мы здесь пережили… впервые за годы кто-то предлагает что-то лучшее, чем просто ждать смерти.»
("Damn… after everything we've lived through down here… first time in years someone's offered something better than waiting to die.")
He extended a hand across the desk.
«Ладно. Договорились, генерал.»
("Alright. Deal, General.")
Ward shook it without hesitation.
Sergei couldn't help but grin.
Ilya's expression grew more serious as he glanced toward an old rotary-style telephone mounted on the wall, a tangle of mismatched wires running along the ceiling and out into the darkness of the tunnel.
«Я думаю, что стоит позвать остальных. Это дело касается всех нас.»
("I think it's worth calling the others. This concerns all of us.")
Sergei turned to Ward.
"He says he wants to contact the other two stations' leaders — set up a meeting between them and you."
Ward gave an approving nod. "Good thinking. The more people we can bring in on this, the better chance it works for everyone."
Ilya motioned to the phone.
«Мы давно уже между собой так общаемся. Курьеров посылать опасно. А так быстрее, безопаснее.»
("We've been communicating like this for years. Sending couriers is dangerous . This way's faster, safer.")
Sergei translated, and Ward raised a brow in interest, leaning back slightly in his chair.
"A working line down here? Impressive. And it still holds up?"
«Держится… пока ещё держится.»
("It holds… for now.")
Ilya explained, through Sergei, how after the early chaos following the war, the three fringe stations realized they couldn't survive alone. With flooding, and mutants lurking between them, constant messengers were too risky. So, they scavenged old military field telephones and civilian handsets, ran patched-together cables through maintenance shafts and tunnels, and built a rough but reliable connection between their stations.
Ward scratched his chin, visibly intrigued.
"That's resourceful. Back home, we've had to rebuild communications too — but seeing a setup like this, still running… it's a damn fine idea."
«Я свяжусь с ними. Лучше, если они услышат всё сразу. Поставим всё на стол.»
("I'll get them on the line. Better they hear this all at once. Put everything on the table.")
Sergei relayed the message, and Ward gave a firm nod.
"Looking forward to meeting them."
Ward spoke to Sergei.
"Tell him — if this works, and they're willing, we'll extend the same arrangement to them. No one left behind."
Sergei smiled slightly at that before translating.
Ilya didn't say anything at first, but a small, tired grin pulled at one corner of his mouth.
«Посмотрим, генерал. Надежда умирает последней.»
("We'll see, General. Hope dies last.")
Ilya reached for the old rotary phone, the worn plastic cool under his fingers. The cable snaked away into the gloom. He carefully spun the dial, the soft ticking filling the room as Sergei and General Ward waited in silence. The line crackled and hissed before a voice finally answered.
"Это Илья. Слушай — Сергей и Николай вернулись. И… они привели американцев."
("It's Ilya. Listen — Sergei and Nikolai are back. And… they brought Americans.")
A pause, the faint murmur on the other end barely audible.
"Да, я серьёзно. У них есть еда, вода, медикаменты. Они хотят поговорить."
("Yes, I'm serious. They've got food, water, medicine. They want to talk.")
Another pause.
"Я видел всё сам. Это не ловушка."
("I've seen it myself. It's not a trap.")
More crackling.
"Давай так — завтра, в полдень, на Домодедовской. Она между нами, ближе и безопаснее."
("Let's do this — tomorrow, noon, at Domodedovskaya. It's between us, closer and safer.")
A faint response came through, and Ilya nodded.
"Отлично. До завтра."
("Good. Until tomorrow.")
He replaced the receiver and immediately dialed the second number. More soft clicks, then another voice answered.
"Это Илья. Сергей и Николай живы. И привели американцев."
("It's Ilya. Sergei and Nikolai are alive. And they brought Americans.")
Another sharp reply crackled through.
"Нет. Это не ловушка. Я сам видел, что у них есть. Такие припасы я не видел лет двадцать."
("No. Not a trick. I've seen what they carry. Supplies I haven't seen in twenty years.")
A pause.
"Встретимся завтра в полдень на Домодедовской. Всем удобно.."
("We'll meet tomorrow at noon, at Domodedovskaya. Convenient for everyone.")
Another faint answer came, and Ilya gave a brief nod.
"Договорились. Увидимся."
("Agreed. See you then.")
He hung up and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
"Они придут," he told Sergei and General Ward. "Domodedovskaya. Tomorrow, noon. Until then — you'll stay here. Guests of the station."
Ward nodded with a faint smile.
"Glad to hear it," Ward said, and Sergei translated.
Ilya allowed a small, tired smile as he gestured to the door.
"Мы не богаты, но еду и кров найдём."
("We're not wealthy, but we'll find food and shelter for you.")
As the conversation eased, General Ward glanced around the dim room and spoke to Sergei.
"How do you tell day from night down here?"
Sergei translated, and Ilya gave a faint, knowing smile.
"Мы починили несколько старых часов. Договорились, что день у нас длится шестнадцать часов, а ночь — восемь."
("We fixed some old clocks. Decided our 'day' lasts sixteen hours, and 'night' is eight.")
Sergei relayed the words, and Ward raised his brows in genuine admiration.
"Impressive. Adaptation at its best."
Before the conversation could drift too far, Ilya leaned forward slightly.
"А как насчёт тех трёх снаружи? Им ведь лучше быть внутри."
("And what about the three outside? Better they come in.")
Sergei translated, and before Ward could answer, Sergei added with a gesture,
"Another issue is the power armor. Too heavy."
Ward gave a small, thoughtful nod.
"We'll think of something." He pushed his chair back and stood. "I should go speak with them."
Sergei translated, and Ilya nodded, offering his hand again.
"Спасибо. Надеюсь, всё получится."
("Thank you. I hope this works out.")
Ward grasped the offered hand firmly, gave a small nod, and made his way to the door. Sergei lingered for a moment, exchanging a few words with Ilya, then followed.
Outside, Sergeant Major Cole and Private Jenna straightened as Ward emerged. He waved them at ease.
"Everything's fine. The meeting went well. We'll have a bigger one tomorrow with the other station's leaders."
The two exchanged glances, visibly relieved.
"Sir… any idea how they tell time down here?" Jenna asked quietly.
Ward gave a wry grin.
"I'll brief you all later. It's… creative." He gestured down the corridor "Let's check on the others. See what we can do about that armor."
They moved through the station corridor, catching sight of Nikolai distributing food, water bottles, and even a couple of Nuka-Cola bottles to the wary people. The reactions were a mix of astonishment and quiet gratitude, though tension still lingered in the air.
Down at the checkpoint, Corporal Dean stood leaning against the side of the power armor frame while Morales and Booth kept a relaxed but alert watch. A few guards remained nearby, visibly wary but no longer on edge.
Ward approached and spoke.
"We've come to an agreement. We'll be staying here until the meeting tomorrow. Unfortunately… the armor stays here."
Dean grimaced but nodded.
"Understood, sir."
"Move it closer to the tunnel wall. Power it down, pull the fusion core, stow it in your pack. You three, will return here after resting."
"Yes, sir."
Dean carefully guided the heavy frame toward the tunnel wall, the servos humming. He disengaged the locking clamps, stepped out, and slid the fusion core free, placing it carefully into his backpack.
Ward turned to Sergei.
"Tell their guards not to touch it."
Sergei relayed the order sharply.
"Никому не трогать броню. Это приказ."
("No one touches the armor. That's an order.")
The nearby guards nodded curtly.
With that, the group made their way back toward the station proper, a few scattered eyes following them as they passed. The air was still heavy with wariness — but something else now too. Hope.
After entering the station, Sergei led General Ward and his team deeper into the shadows of the tunnels. They passed makeshift tents stitched from ragged clothes, old rusted passenger carts long stripped of seats and repurposed as living quarters. Clothes hung between support beams, the dim light of oil lamps casting flickering shadows over faces weathered by years of survival.
Eventually, Sergei brought them to a large open cart near the center of the station. Inside were several bunk beds pushed against the walls, a simple table, and a worn carpet covering the metal floor. Oil lamps hung from hooks, casting a warm orange glow across the space. The interior was simple but clean — and clearly lived in.
General Ward stepped forward, looking around. "This place… someone lives here?"
Sergei translated, and Ilya, waiting just outside, gave a small nod.
«Да. Это мой дом. Здесь я живу с семьёй.»
("Yes. This is my home. I live here with my family.")
Ward frowned slightly. "That's very generous, but—"
Ilya cut him off before Sergei could finish the translation.
«Не волнуйтесь. Моя семья сегодня остановилась у друзей. С учётом важности завтрашней встречи — так будет лучше.»
("Don't worry. My family is staying with friends tonight. Considering the importance of tomorrow's meeting — this is for the best.")
Sergei translated, and Ward nodded respectfully. "Thank you. We'll treat it with care."
Ilya gave a curt nod and turned to leave, accompanied by Sergei and another armed man. Once the door was closed, the Americans removed their gear and settled in.
Ward unfastened the collar of his coat and turned to the others. "Now that we're settled... here's the situation. I spoke with Ilya. We've come to an agreement — we're bringing the Commonwealth's system here. A proper generator, medical supplies, maybe even light arms. In return, they'll guard the passage, maintain communication, and support trade."
The others listened closely.
"Tomorrow, we're meeting the leaders of the other two stations. If they agree, this entire edge of the Metro could become a stable hub. We're not just helping them. This creates a secure route for us too."
Private Jenna frowned slightly. "Sir… how do they even know when it's morning or night down here?"
Ward gave a dry smile. "They don't. Not exactly. Sergei said they repaired some old clocks. Sixteen hours of 'day,' eight of 'night.' That's how they keep rhythm."
Corporal Dean leaned forward. "And the power armor, sir? We're leaving it just out there?"
"Dean," Ward replied, firm but calm. "You know as well as I do — without a fusion core, it's a glorified statue. No one's moving it."
Dean sighed, nodded. "Still doesn't sit right."
"After we rest," Ward continued, "you, Morales, and Booth head back to the checkpoint. Keep watch over the entrance with the power armor operational."
"Understood, sir."
Ward looked around the car one more time, then rolled out his coat like a blanket and dropped to one of the bunks.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow's important."
--- Morning ---
They were woken by the sound of the sliding door opening. Sergei stepped inside.
"Доброе утро. Время вставать."
("Good morning. Time to get up.")
The Americans stirred, their bodies still weary. To them, it felt like the middle of the night — the dim lighting unchanged. No sunrises down here.
"Feels the same as last night," Cole grumbled, pulling on her gear.
They gathered their equipment, checked weapons, and shouldered their packs. Dean, Morales, and Booth headed back toward the checkpoint. The power armor stood exactly where they'd left it, untouched. Dean relaxed visibly.
"Told you," Morales smirked.
Meanwhile, General Ward, Sergeant Major Cole, and Private Jenna followed Sergei in the opposite direction. Reaching a sturdy steel door — much like the one at the checkpoint they arrived through.
On the other side waited Ilya, accompanied by four armed men, tense but composed.
Sergei gestured for them to move.
Beyond the door stood a hand-powered railcar — one of those old, two-person pump carts once used for track maintenance. Attached to it was a larger flatbed cart, clearly meant for transporting either cargo or people through the tunnels.
Sergei spoke as he climbed aboard.
"До Домодедовской путь займёт минут сорок. Держитесь крепче."
("It'll take about forty minutes to reach Domodedovskaya. Hold on tight.")
Ward glanced at his people, then at the simple, worn-out machinery. He gave a nod.
"Let's move."
They boarded the railcar, the handles creaked as two of Ilya's men took positions to work the pump, and with a rusty screech, the railcar began its slow, steady journey into the dark.
----------------
They departed in silence. The railcar creaked along the old tracks, every turn of the wheels echoing into the black emptiness of the Metro. Ilya took point at the front lever while one of his men manned the other side. Sergei remained close to General Ward, who motioned for Sergeant Major Cole and Private Jenna to keep their weapons ready. Flashlights cut thin beams through the choking darkness, flickering against crumbling concrete walls and rusted signs long forgotten.
For twenty minutes, nothing but silence and the rhythmic grind of metal against metal.
Then, a sound.
Soft, clicking. Skittering.
Somewhere along the tunnel ceiling.
The beam of Ilya's flashlight darted upward. Sergei stiffened, his face tightening.
"What is th-?" Ward started, but Sergei held up a hand, his expression grave.
He leaned in, voice low. "Spiders. We call them spiderbugs."
He swept his flashlight along the tunnel wall — and there, curling against the ceiling's rough surface, were grotesque forms. Limbs like barbed wire, armored bodies, and long, segmented tails ending in curved stingers.
General Ward's expression hardened. Sergeant Major Cole's eyes narrowed. Private Jenna let out a sharp breath, raising her rifle.
Sergei continued, "They hate light. But they're fast… and hungry."
No further words were needed. All three Americans raised their weapons. General Ward flicked the power cell on his laser rifle to full charge, the weapon humming with lethal readiness.
The railcar pressed forward. The clicking intensified.
Then — one of the creatures leapt from the darkness, aiming straight for them.
Private Jenna's reflexes were sharp. A burst of gunfire echoed, the creature slamming into the tunnel wall with a wet hiss.
That was the signal. Dozens more surged from the walls.
"Contact!" Ward shouted, his voice carrying through the narrow tunnel.
Ilya and his other man gritted their teeth, unable to let go of the levers. Sergei fired at the ceiling, light and bullets slicing through the gloom.
The spiderbugs came in waves, claws scraping metal, tails whipping through the air.
General Ward and Cole held the front line, laser bolts and rifle fire tearing into the creatures. The first time Ward fired, his rifle's crimson beam seared through a cluster of spiderbugs, reducing them to smoldering husks. Ilya's men, momentarily stunned by the unfamiliar weapon's flash and power, faltered.
A spiderbug lunged at them — Ward was faster. Another precise shot. Then another. A cluster of three creatures incinerated in less than five seconds.
"С ума сойти…" one of Ilya's men muttered, shaking off his shock.
Sergei didn't need to translate the meaning. It was clear.
Private Jenna covered the rear with Sergei, trading short, controlled bursts. The tight tunnel amplified every shot, every shriek of the dying creatures.
After what felt like endless minutes, the railcar's lights caught the distant glimmer of lanterns. The mouth of the station ahead.
The creatures recoiled from the approaching glow, their eyes flashing once before vanishing back into the darkness.
Silence returned.
Everyone held still, breath ragged, waiting for another attack that didn't come.
General Ward lowered his rifle, sweat streaking his brow. "Everyone intact?"
"All good," Cole confirmed, voice gruff.
"Fine here," Jenna called from the back.
Ilya and his man slowed the railcar to a stop at the station's edge, the flickering lights of Domodedovskaya casting long shadows. They exchanged weary, grateful glances.
"Never a dull moment in your tunnels," Ward muttered, stepping off the cart.
Sergei gave a dry, humorless grin.
---------------
The railcar coasted to a halt, its rusted wheels scraping against the metal track as the tunnel widened into the platform of Domodedovskaya Station. The flickering light from makeshift lanterns revealed a place as grim and weathered as the one they had left behind — old train cars converted into homes, tents made from tarps and scavenged cloth, piles of old crates and salvaged supplies stacked against the walls.
But what stood out was the presence of armed guards — rough men and women in mismatched clothing, their weapons a patchwork of old Kalashnikovs, hunting rifles, and improvised blades. They watched the approaching railcar in tense silence.
Ilya raised a hand in greeting, calling out in Russian.
«Это Илья! Всё в порядке!»
("It's Ilya! All's well!")
The guards lowered their weapons, though the wariness in their eyes remained.
At the center of the platform, two figures stood waiting. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick beard streaked with grey, wearing a faded greatcoat. The second, a wiry woman in her forties with sharp eyes, a battered military cap, and a pistol at her side.
Ilya hopped off the railcar, exchanging quick, clipped greetings with the two. Sergei did the same, then motioned for General Ward, Sergeant Major Cole, and Private Jenna to step forward.
The Americans approached, weapons slung, their faces calm but alert.
General Ward straightened, nodding politely.
Sergei handled the introductions.
«Это генерал Уорд, лидер Минитменов. Это сержант-майор Коул. И рядовая Дженна.»
("This is General Ward, leader of the Minutemen. This is Sergeant Major Cole. And Private Jenna.")
The tall bearded man stepped forward, offering a firm handshake.
«Михаил.»
("Mikhail.")
The woman followed.
«Галина.»
("Galina ")
Sergei translated, then turned to Ward. "They're the leaders of the other two stations."
Ward nodded respectfully to each in turn. "Appreciate you meeting us on short notice."
Sergei relayed the message. Mikhail grunted, but there was a hint of a smirk.
«В наших условиях короткое уведомление — это как неделя.»
("Around here, short notice means a week.")
The tension eased just a little.
Ilya spoke then, gesturing toward a cleared area nearby where a battered table and a few mismatched chairs waited beneath a cluster of oil lamps.
«Пойдём. Поговорим там.»
("Come. We'll talk there.")
Sergei translated.
As they walked toward the improvised meeting spot, the general glanced around, taking in the signs of life: children peeking from behind curtains, old men tending to a flickering stove, women mending clothes, a group of guards dragging away the fresh corpses of a few mutant rats. It wasn't prosperity — it was survival. Barely.
But it was a start.
Ward leaned in to Sergei. "These people… they're tougher than I expected."
Sergei allowed himself a thin smile.
"There are no weak people in the Metro."
They reached the table, settling into their seats, oil lamps casting long, swaying shadows.
The negotiations would begin soon.
And the future of three stations — perhaps more — would be decided in the old, cracked heart of Moscow's underground.