He breathes heavy, as heavy as the clouds above.

Breakfast: fungus, fungus, dried mushroom tea.

Filters fail, throat clogs up.

Retching cough, mask fogs up.

.


.

He loads titanium bullets into the barrel

Metal soldiers at attention in a dark tunnel

just like himself.

.


.

The sun's coming up, but doesn't promise warmth and smiles

the wolves of the night replaced by the demons of day

the Kremlin stars no longer glow red with demonic Illumination.

.

- "Nay, Comrade, we are Destruction, they're just Infestation."

.

Rats, once the lowest class, the Privates of the Underworld,

now gnarl with their foot-thick hides, and red eyes coated in black slime

ugly – true – but real

unlike the human pantomime.

.


.

- "How much longer, Comrade, until we die? Attacked from ground by rats, and by the demons of skies. Mushroom salad, fungus bread, mushrooms with mushroom sauce and fungal tea. That's no way to be. Top of the evolutionary ladder for ten thousand years, the Kings of Mammoths. Emperors of Tigers. Generals of Bats. Now we hide underground like rats. The world is no more, humanity's a single spore whose fate is not to germinate. Out times are done, we're none. Gone."

.


.

The Stalker is a hero.

Geiger counter screams like his lungs, beg for air which used to be free

- everywhere – abundant. Now the cold draught of the metro station, grimy, claustrophobic, stinking of fear is his atmosphere.

The Stalker thinks – "Home is here." He takes one glance behind him, the sun is peering slowly, creeping up into the sky, the screeching demons circling by, the gargantuan behemoths lumbering nigh.

- "What a beautiful world we have left to die."

.


note: this was just a really short experimental piece I wrote in a few minutes, inspired by the Metro 2033 universe.