Metro 2034

They bound their hands and ripped his gasmask from his head. Only then they let him talk. All that time the brigadier was standing next to him completely silent. He had sunken back into his strange stiffness and let them take away his weapons without resisting them and they brought him into the cell for their investigation.

Even though they had let Homer go he accompanied him to the cell. Hunter entered, sat next to him on the bed, raised his head and whispered: “You have to find someone for me. His name is Melnik. Bring him to me. I am going to wait…”

The old man nodded his head and quickly turned around. He wanted to make his way through the guards when he suddenly heard hunter yelling: “Homer!”

The old man had a surprised look on his face; Hunter had never called him by his name before.

He returned, stepped to the weak iron door and looked at the brigadier asking.

He had put his giant arms around his body as if he was shivering and mumbled with a weak, toneless voice.

“Hurry!”

The door opened and a soldier took a hesitant look into it, it was the same one how had beaten the musician before. A kick brought him into the cell so that he almost landed on the ground. When he was standing again he looked around unsure.

In the door a tall and thin officer was standing who was wearing glasses. On his shoulders were a few stars. The grey getting dark blond hair was combed back. “Go on you idiot.” He groaned.

“I… Me.” Sobbed the guard.

“Go on!”

“I wanted to excuse what I’ve done. And you… I can’t.”

“Ten more days.”

“Beat me.” Said the soldier and retread from his look.

“Ah, Albert Michailovitsch!” Yelled the musician and blinked into the direction of the officer. “I was beginning to think that would never come.”

The man who he was speaking to had a slight smile on his face. “Good evening. I am here to see that justice is done. Go on, do whatever you want.”

Leonid rose from the ground and stretched his back.

“I have to protect my hands. I think you can take care of the punishment.”

“With all hardness.” Nodded, Albert Michailovitsch.

“Arrest for one month. And of course I have to join the excuse of this idiot.”

“He didn’t mean it in a bad way.” Leonid rubbed his hurting cheek.

“I hope this can remain under us?” The metallic voice of the officer was creaking mysteriously.

“As you can see I was just smuggling somebody through.” The musician nodded into Sasha’s direction.

“Could you help me with that?”

“Done.” Said Albert Michailovitsch.

They let the guilty guardsmen stand in the cell. The officer locked the door and led them along the corridor.

“I am not going anywhere with you.” Said Sasha loud.

Leonid hesitated and said almost inaudible: ”And if I am telling you that we’re really going to the emerald city? What if I just happened to know more than your grandfather? That I’ve seen it with my own eyes? Even been there myself and that only…”

“You’re lying.”

“What if he.” Leaning his head into the direction of the officer. “Only let us go because he knew where I’m from? And that we can surely find a cure in the emerald city? And that it’s just three stations away?”

“You’re lying!”

“How do you know?” Said Leonid angry. “When you really want to believe in miracles then you should be ready to believe in them. Or in the end you’re going to miss it. I always knew that they would let us go. I just wanted to… Not act before it happened.”

“You’ve been playing for time!”

“But I didn’t lie to you! There is a cure!”

They had reached the border. The officer who had turn to them again, gave the musician back his things and even gave him a few bullets and documents. Then he saluted Leonid. “Now, what are you going to do Leonid Nikolayewitsch? Are you taking your smuggle-ware with you or are you leaving it at customs?”

It ran down cold Sasha’s back. “We’re taking it with us.”

“Well then I wish you a life of love and happiness.”

Said Albert Michailovitsch like if he was her father and lead them through the three defense lines. Their occupants saluted them while they passed the out of grids welded tank stoppers. “I hope that you won’t have any problems with your import?”

Leonid was smiling. “We’ll manage. I don’t have to tell you that there’re no honest officials. The stricter the regime the lower the price. You just have to know where to look.”

The officer cleared his throat. “The magical words should be enough.”

“Not for all.” Leonid was feeling his cheek again. “But what was the saying again? I’m no wizard, I am still learning.”

“It would be an honor to deal with you again when your training is complete.” Albert Michailovitsch bowed his head and stepped back.

The last soldier opened the thick iron gate which went from the ground to the ceiling. Then an empty and completely lit part of the tunnel came to their views which walls were covered with ashes at some points and it had been marked by firefights. At the end they could see a new defense line, hanging from the ceiling like giant banters.

Even their look made Sasha’s heart beat faster. She stopped and asked Leonid. “Which border is that?”

“What now?” He looked at her surprised.

“Of course the border to the red line.”

How long had Homer dreamt to get back here!

How long has it been since he had last been here! At the Borovizkaya, with its small and roomy apartments that were directly under the arcs, the reading hall with the Brahman monks in the middle of the room, the long with books covered desks out of planks and the low hanging, with cloth covered lamps. It was interesting how Homer almost could hear conversations from a time before the crisis and the war.

Then the dignified Arbatskaya, totally made out of white and bronze colors, just like the palace of the Kremlin.

With their strict order and the busy military officials who still acted like they had nothing to do with the apocalypse.

Then the old and worthy Biblioteka imeni Lenina, which towered on the surface. They had forgotten to rename it, as if that even made sense because it had been as old as the world even when the young Kolya had stepped foot into the metro the first time. It had its own passage, which was over the romantic commando bridge in the middle of the train platform. Even the surrounding stucco had been renewed, if not a bit sloppy.

Then the Alexandrovski, remaining in the half dark for all eternity, somehow a thin and edgy stop, looking like a blind retired man, who was thinking about his Komsomol-youth.

Homer had always been fascinated by the question, how far did the stations resemble the likeness of its builder?

Were they self portraits of the architects who had designed them?

Had they received small parts of their creators? One thing was sure for the old man: It shaped the inhabitants of the stations; their character was transmitted to the people and they were infected by its special mood.