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Bullets continue to rain from the sky, unrelenting even when he's struggling to crawl; a 5.45mm hole smoldering in his stomach. But Duke presses on regardless. He's already died once, a second death will not stop him. The dead man walking drags himself to the mouth of the tower, trailing red against the fire and brimstone. There is still more that he can do.
When Duke radios in for the Aurora to charge on ahead, he does not mention the fact he has been shot. He does not mention he will not be returning with his brother in blood. A part of him feels cruel, knowing that Artyom lacks the ability to tell them otherwise. But he will leave him with the mercy of making this choice for him, as painful as it may be. A final parting gift.
Twice Artyom reaches for him with shaking hands, grief already carved into his features. Twice Duke pushes them away in fear of staining them with his blood. Artyom is good and still alive. Artyom still has a chance. His skin broils from the heat, blistering and crackling in unbearable pain. Duke isn't even sure if he's breathing anymore.
He has no regrets when he screams for Artyom to jump, half shoving him out the window as iron bubbles in his throat. Artyom manages to land on the roof of the metal beast, the blood in his body wrenching to reunite with its other half. He catches a glimpse of Duke's eyes as the train roars past, embers fading. In a moment too long and fleeting, he twists his grimace into a smile in spite of the tears streaking down Artyom's ash covered face.
Only once the savior of the Metro and the home he's just known for a few weeks disappears from view does Duke realize how much he wants to hear Artyom play the guitar again. He sighs and looks down to his gloved hand that had been pressed against the wound, the fabric coming out glistening and dark.
The flames eat away at weary beams and walls that had been supporting the tower for far too long. The floor beneath Duke creaks in warning, though he can't be too bothered when his stomach feels like it's digging itself out with a jagged knife. Heat is clawing at his neck and suddenly all he wants to do is sleep. Duke rests his head against his hand on the window's edge, and closes his eyes.
Artyom watches the tower turn into a blazing speck of dust on the horizon. He watches how frozen lakes and snow-laden trees consume its smoking wake. He watches the northern wind blow sheets of frost, melding into the white of winter. He watches and watches and watches, a martyr burned into his vision.
He stays up on the roof long after his tears have run out and the sun threatens to dip below the hills. It is Sam who drags him back into the hearth of the Aurora, where it is safe and warm and full. Artyom cannot shake the chill of the Volga from his bones.
When Sam finds him all alone on the cold rusted metal, he swallows down his agony in a way only years of war long before the world ended can allow. The others do not have the same luxury, abject horror and guilt apparent on their faces as Artyom descends without their rising star.
Miller sends him to his room with a carefully blank face. Anna trails after him, sympathies already on her tongue. He stops her with a single raised hand when they reach the door, her eyes shining in pity as she leaves. Artyom does not need sympathy. He needs penance. He needs Duke back.
The soldier shuts the world behind the compartment door and sits down on the loft, heavy under layers of grime and regret. He unbuckles his gear piece by piece until they all fall slack on the floor. He peels off his thick layer of gloves, finding skin far too pristine beneath.
Finally he touches his face, feeling the cracked edges of dried blood under his fingertips. It is not his, but it is all the same. AB Rh+, of one blood.
Artyom drops the gloves onto the ground, not bothering to wipe his face. The very thing that bears Duke's sacrifice is the only thing he has left of him now. With a leaden weight on his chest, and wanting nothing more than to sleep and never wake up, Artyom closes his eyes.