March to Redemption

The sudden blast shattered the peaceful night and jolted Arina from her slumber. The screams and curses that followed confirmed her worst fears. Her father, Viktor, was drunk again and her mother, Elena, was at his mercy.

She leapt out of bed and raced across her room, pulling on a nightgown to cover her trembling body. But as she pushed on her door, her mother was on the other side, blocking the way. The look in Elena’s eyes pained her daughter. They were dark and expressive, but now filled with exhaustion and resignation.

“Mama…” Arina pleaded, pushing against the door. But Elena held firm, refusing to let her daughter see the chaos unfolding in their small home.

“I dropped the sewing machine…” Elena’s voice trembled as she spoke. She forced a smile and continued to try to calm her only daughter. “Just go back to bed, baby.”

Tears welled up in Arina’s eyes as she realized that, once again, she was powerless to protect her mother from an irredeemable man. Elena pushed the door shut and locked it, trapping her baby outside of Viktor’s rage.

Arina blinked rapidly, forcing back tears with every breath. Walking to her desk, she pulled out a worn notebook from the top drawer. She focused not on the monster beyond her walls, but instead delved into the complex character of a broken man with a glimmer of redemption buried deep within.

She wrote of Ivan Stanislav, but to another monster.

Amidst the din of domestic violence, it channeled her fear into determination.

—

Mr. Jiles,

At first, I despised Ivan Stanislav as much as you do. I believed him an unapologetic relic of the defunct Soviet Union, clinging to an obsolete ideology that has only brought failure and bloodshed. That he was a tyrant of the past, with no understanding or compassion for anything beyond his own lust for power.

I learned that I was unfair in my estimation of The Russian Bear. No, he most certainly is not perfect. He, like all of us, is flawed. At his age, would there be any hope of Ivan Stanislav changing from this course?

And yet for someone as hopeless as I often am, I, Arina Timofeyevna, hope for Ivan Stanislav.

This is why.

—

The Red Star Gym, sixty-five kilometers outside of Moscow, was a decaying monument to a dark history, its walls covered in peeling posters of Soviet propaganda. Once a bustling hub of local athletes and sports enthusiasts, it now stood abandoned, a ghostly reminder of its former glory. For Ivan Stanislav, it was the perfect place to arrange a meeting with a young man who had fallen from grace. As Ivan stared at the rusted remnants of his Soviet Union, his mind raced with thoughts of what could have been.

The young, Olympic-level wrestler, Stefan Kulikov, had been reduced to skin and bones after just one grueling year in a Russian prison. His eyes were sunken and filled with the anguish of being forcibly separated from his wife and then-unborn child. Ivan vowed to secretly meet him after receiving his desperate letter.

Arina stood in the corner, listening to every word exchanged between Ivan and Stefan. She could see the stark contrast between the emaciated prisoner and the proud, powerful Starshy Praporshchik.

Everything Kulikov said, from first hand evidence during his arrest, to future incidents of interrogation, pointed to one man who had orchestrated and fabricated it all.

Alexei Ruslan.

As Ivan walked out of the meeting, Arina looked into his eyes.

Therein lay equal parts rage and sadness.

—

Stefan Kulikov. The name weighs heavily on my conscience, along with the countless others who fell victim to the cruelty of my government. Ivan, a loyal soldier, stood by and defended the regime with his life, blinded by misguided loyalty. Like a battered lover unable to leave their abuser, Ivan remained devoted to his country despite the atrocities he witnessed and committed.

But even the most resilient of individuals can only endure so much pain and suffering, Mr. Jiles. The ghosts of his past haunt him, both from external forces and his own inner demons.

Ivan’s meeting with Kulikov was a pivotal moment, a questioning of everything he had believed in. He uncovered a great betrayal that had lurked beneath the surface all along.

What happens to a man when he loses faith in his closest friend?

These questions plague my mind as I reflect on Ivan’s search for redemption, Mr. Jiles.

Is it possible for a man like him to find salvation after all he has done?

I doubt you would care.

But you should.

—

Ivan was ripped from his slumber, body drenched in a cold sweat as if he had escaped from the depths of a dark ocean. His hand frantically searched his chest, feeling the violent thrum of his heart trying to break free from its cage. The suffocating truth threatened to burst out of him like a monster from the deep, clawing at his insides as it fought to consume him whole.

Amidst the dizziness of his attack, Ivan caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure at the foot of his bed. He tried to rub it away, to attribute it to his exhausted mind, but it lingered. The blonde-haired specter of his brother, Kliment, often appeared in moments of overwhelming stress. But as Ivan stared at this manifestation of his own self-doubt, he noticed something off. Despite the familiar blonde hair, there were no signs of damage or injury. Instead, a foreign blue jacket adorned the figure's frame.

Nate Colton.

Colton smirked, the corners of his lips lifting into a sly smile that always got under Ivan’s skin. He looked up at Stanislav’s massive frame, taking in the thick forest of hair that covered his shoulders and chest.

“You really never shave, huh?” Colton asked curiously.

“You were supposed to win that match you no-good…” Ivan began, until Colton cut him off.

“No reason to cut a promo on me, Stanislav, I’m in your mind, remember?” Colton pointed to his temple.

“Leave me, specter!” Stanislav growled through gritted teeth.

But Nate, or whatever Nate was, only shrugged. “I can’t,” he taunted with a mischievous grin. “That’s up to you, Ivy.”

Ivan snarled and stared at him. “Then explain why you’re here!?”

Nate frowned thoughtfully. “Well, we’re both big brothers. You lost Kliment, and now you lost Alexei. Maybe that’s why I’m here rather than Klim? I am sorry about your younger brother, by the way.”

Stanislav rolled his eyes.

“And… I’m sorry about Alexei.”

“You hate Alexei. This situation between us would give you a nice laugh!” Ivan growled in the low light.

“Maybe,” Nate said quietly. “I’m probably sorry because you’re sorry about what you have to do. You need to confront him if you’re ever going to find peace, Ivan.”

Stanislav heaved himself out of bed, gasping and grunting in pain as his worn-out body protested every movement. Knees and a back overtaxed and overaged wailed beneath his bulk. Nate watched him with pity.

“At least you’re not naked,” Colton called, taking in Stanislav’s red boxer shorts.

“Shut up,” Ivan grunted as he staggered toward the bathroom.

Colton shook his head, “You’re not gonna…”

“I am sixty-two years old, Colton. I do this three or four times a night.” Ivan growled and left the door open behind him, the sound of his urine hitting the toilet echoing through the room. “Regarding Alexei, I can ignore him. I do not have to confront him.” Colton didn't answer. As Ivan finished, he turned and lost his balance.

The low light softened and expanded. The wood floors beneath his feet gave way to familiar carpeting. Colton looked up at Ivan and smiled, but slowly dissolved along with the bed. All that remained was a vivid memory.

“I wish all the best to all of you.”

The final words of Mikhael Gorbachev marked the end of the sixty-nine year history of the Soviet Union. Fanya stood in front of her television, tears streaming down her face as her son, Ivan, stood behind her.

It wasn’t long before the forces of democracy came knocking on their door. They ignored Stanislav’s protestations and barged in. As a decorated veteran and son of a famous dancer, Ivan was immediately targeted for arrest. Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav stood frozen in his bathroom doorway as he watched the men taunt his younger self, threaten his mother, and humiliate them both.

When all seemed lost, aa friend, clad in brown, appeared. With a piece of paper, he dispelled the aggressors and saved the Stanislav’s.

The young KGB agent embraced Ivan. His words resounding in a deafening echo.

“I’ll always protect you, my brother.”

Ivan jolted awake in bed, his chest tight and his sheets drenched in sweat. The pain was unbearable, pulsating through his body like a never-ending torture.

“Fucking dreams…”

“As Nazareth said, ‘Love Hurts,’” came a voice, but it wasn’t Nate Colton this time, nor Kliment.

“Oh no…” Ivan lamented.

The handsome version of Jonathan-Christopher Hall, prior to the downward spiral during his Universal Title run, smiled sadly at the panting Russian. “That’s the problem with men like Cancer, Alexei, and… others,” he said softly as he patted his heart. “They’re dead inside. They use people and only serve themselves.”

Hall stared out across the room at nothing in particular. “Trust me, I know.”

Ivan wiped his sweat-slick brow and growled to himself. “I sure as hell do not need advice from you, Hall!”

Jonathan-Christopher stood, wearing his ridiculous pink boy shorts and patted Ivan’s shoulder. “Nate is right, Vanya. You have to do this. Don’t ignore it. I did. And look at me now.”

—

I knew the next day would change their lives, Mr. Jiles, and I was fearful.

—

“Despite the scar on your face, you still manage to look somewhat attractive, Arina,” Alexei joked from across the room.

Arina’s stomach churned as she felt his gaze on her. She pulled her uniform tight around her body, feeling exposed under his azure stare. Her palms grew clammy and she avoided looking up at him, keeping her eyes fixed on her desk.

“Thank you, Mr. Ruslan,” she murmured.

He casually perched himself on her desk, causing her pencil cup to topple over and spill its contents.

“Is Ivan in a good mood today?” Alexei asked, unconcerned with the mess he had caused.

“He’s… just himself,” Arina struggled to say, trying to hide her fear and disgust. “He’s in his office if you need him.”

Chuckling darkly, Alexei made his way to the door, but not without muttering, “At least you’re good for something.”

Despite the sunny rays seeping into the den of the Bear, the office was filled with tension. Papers and documents scattered on his desk reflected his fractious state of mind.

When the cause of Ivan’s unease strode through his door, it only added fuel to the fire. Ruslan’s relaxed attitude made things even worse.

“Cancer Jiles!” He exclaimed with a clap, oblivious to the storm brewing. “This should be an easy match, Vanya!”

“It was supposed to be, Alexei,” Ivan growled, his frustration palpable across the expanse of his desk. “But Coral Avalon will be refereeing and we all know how that will turn out.”

“Bah!” Ruslan waved off Ivan’s concerns with a dismissive hand. “Coral Avalon could never stand up to you. His grudge against Jiles is evident…”

“You couldn’t resist meddling, could you?” Ivan suddenly snapped.

“What?” Alexei asked with a perplexed blink.

“How many times have you provoked him on Think Red?” Ivan continued, now standing from his desk and walking over to the window in an agitated state.

Ruslan stood nonplussed at the tone. “Ivan… victory is assured.”

“Oh?” Ivan wheeled around. “Is my drive sufficient this time, Alexei?”

Ruslan could only stare with confusion. “What?”

Stanislav took one step closer. “Are my intentions pure enough for you?” The sarcasm was tangible.

Alexei rolled his eyes and joked, “Ivan, I do not know why you are in such a mood, but whoever caused it, know that I am innocent.”

The mere mention of innocence in relation to Alexei launched Ivan into a rage. He rushed him, lifted him by the collar, and slammed him against the wall. “Innocence?!”

Ruslan thrashed against Ivan’s grip, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. “Let go of me!” he shouted, his voice strained as Ivan dropped him. “What the hell is wrong with you, Vanya?”

Stanislav turned away, but Ruslan refused to relent. “I asked you a question, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav!”

Ivan reluctantly faced his friend, Nate and JCH were right. Rage was replaced by dread and calm.

“Did you do it?” Ivan’s voice rumbled through the office.

Alexei adjusted his tie. “Do what?” he shot back, regaining his composure.

“Did you lie to me?” Ivan demanded, his tone stern.

Silence blanketed the two men.

“Answer me, Alexei. Did you lie to me? You said you would always protect me. Was that a lie?”

“Of course not!” Alexei blurted immediately. “I have no ide-”

“You bugged my office!”

Ruslan stammered. “That was Borisov, I never listened to any of it! He threatened me with–”

“I know about Kulikov,” Ivan interrupted, causing Alexei to fall silent and squirm under his intense gaze. “You manipulated me, Alexei. You used me!”

It took a moment for Alexei to grasp the weight of the accusation and to also accept the truth. He stared at his hulking friend, breathing hard not from exertion or competition, but from emotional strain.

“You were talking about throwing a match against Eddie Cross, Ivan,” Alexei blurted. “It was defeatist talk. I... I just wanted to help you. That’s all I ever want to do.”

“Help me?!” Ivan exploded. “An innocent Russian family suffered and you destroyed their lives, Alexei! They lost their child!”

“You were a shell, Ivan! You’re no good to Russia in that state!” Alexei retorted. “The kid would have been guilty of something else eventually!”

Ivan opened his mouth, but Alexei was unrelenting. “And what about the Freeman family? Invite them over for a summer vacation in Sochi, did you?!”

“They are American. Th- they were interfering with Kenny’s potential.” Ivan’s argument was feeble.

“Don’t talk to me about innocent lives being destroyed.” Alexei scowled. “We’re not so different, Ivan. We both have blood on our hands. How many doctors have you shipped to who knows where, or worse, because you disliked their medical evaluation of a sixty-two year old man? How about that woman who blew her head off in Kaliningrad after you ratted out her son?”

Ivan pushed his brows together. Ruslan scoffed. “Did not think I knew the truth to all that, eh? She asked for help, you sent her boy to the front, and he died! It drove her to suicide! There is no moral high ground for either of us to claim! So we wallow in the dirt and muck and blood!”

Alexei was unstoppable.

“Twenty years ago, Ivan, you wouldn’t have had an issue with any of this. The difference now is that you’re selfishly fighting for your own conscience, and I am fighting for something greater than you, me, or us! You kiss Lindsay’s ass and pander to the likes of Vickie Hall. Don’t even get me started on how you waste time and resources on that hopeless abyss of a girl outside!” He said, thumbing at Ivan’s door.

“Are you questioning my intentions?” Ivan grunted.

Alexei roared. “You figure it out yourself, Vanya! But mark my words, if you fall to the likes of Cancer Jiles, there will be no one to blame but yourself. Not Coral Avalon, not Lindsay Troy, not even the corrupt system that works against us. You have every tool at your disposal: talent, skill, drive. But Jiles will do anything to win!”

Ivan fired back. “Just like you?”

Alexei responded immediately, with resolute honesty. He stared directly into Ivan’s eyes. “I would grind up a thousand infants if it assures your victory.”

The tension between lifelong friends was palpable as the fallout settled between them in a silent, terrifying cloud. Then, Ivan’s words dispelled the haze.

“Get out,” he snarled.

Alexei’s eyebrows furrowed, mimicking the pained expression of his friend. The weight of those two words shattered his beliefs, intentions, and ideology. Only heart-wrenching comprehension remained within his grasp.

“You don’t mean that, Vanya…”

Stanislav stood before him like a solid statue, walling himself from the truth and pain that Alexei represented. Locked away behind a mask of stone, he was unmoving.

“Alexei Gregorovich,” the statue said through gritted teeth and snarled lips. “You untrustworthy animal, get out.”

Ruslan felt a surge of heat rise to his face as suppressed humanity clawed its way to the surface, long buried beneath years of bloodshed, lies, and duty to their country. It was an uncomfortable sensation that left him exposed and vulnerable.

“After everything?” He choked. “After every bit of us?”

“I said leave!” The statue roared. “Get out of my sight! I cannot trust you. I will not trust you!!!”

Ruslan’s mustache hid the quiver on his lip as he resisted the urge to allow humanity to win. With one final act of defiance, he snatched a picture from the wall and hurled it to the ground with a satisfying crash.

“You cannot even trust yourself,” he snarled through clenched teeth, but the pain in his eyes betrayed his true feelings. His entire body shook as he struggled to contain the overwhelming emotions he was forced to confront. “I am the same man I have always been. Strong. Unwavering. Committed. Can you say the same, Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav!?”

With a final, determined stride, he walked out of the room without looking back. Ivan stared at the shattered picture Alexei had thrown. A picture of two young comrades in Afghanistan.

Arina watched the ghost of Alexei Ruslan sleepwalk past her desk and through the door.

She wiped away tears.

—

I never expected to cry for Alexei. But I did, Mr. Jiles. Ivan’s painful march towards redemption was agonizing, but also inspiring.

Do you know what it’s like to truly inspire someone? No, I don’t think so. You hide behind your sunglasses, shielding yourself from the world because you lack any real inspiration to offer. Your only source of motivation is your own reflection, but that self-absorbed echo chamber does nothing to teach or uplift others. Just ask Ivan.

Yes, you and Ivan are more alike than you’d care to admit. Both flawed, selfish men who crave power, dominance, and gratification. Willing to do whatever it takes for the taste of victory.

When the time comes, will you have the courage to walk his path?

The silence outside my room is a suffocating blanket, amplifying the sounds of my drunken father’s slurred words and my sobbing mother’s broken cries. But amidst this chaos, I think of Ivan’s true strength, buried deep within his fragile frame and self-mutilating beliefs. It’s a rare and precious thing, a flicker of hope in a world dominated by the Jiles’ and the Ruslan’s. Those consumed by superficiality and greed, unable to see the beauty and power that lies within true inner strength.

I remember the moment when I committed to Ivan Stanislav.

—

The memories of Marx’s Tomb were a hazy blur in her traumatized mind, but she could feel him there, vigilantly watching over her bedside. His presence was a comforting hand, his words echoing in her fragile and damaged psyche. Her mother was hysterical. Her father was absent.

Ivan calmed Elena’s fears and promised retribution against those who had hurt her child.

He fought for Arina, relentlessly searching for the most qualified surgeon to perform her reconstructive surgery.

He used his newfound and hated wealth to pay for everything.

“I’m scared, Starshy Praporshchik…”

Foolish Arina. Getting into trouble. Now she will be uglier than ever. A reminder of her failure, an echo of her lack of resolve.

As hands peeled away the gauze, Arina’s heart thudded against her chest with anxiety. But as more was revealed in the mirror, she saw a young girl with delicate features and sparkling eyes. The wicked scar was covered, but not invisible. From the mirror, she saw Ivan standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

Just like Viktor, Ruslan, Maksim, and so many other male authority figures in her life, he was about to yell. He would mock and criticize her. She mentally prepared herself for the onslaught that was sure to come.

“Do not cry, Arina,” Ivan whispered softly. “You still look beautiful, my dear.”

The words drenched her in emotion. She looked the same and yet… changed.

“No, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav, I do not.” she replied, and refused to look away from the mirror. She saw her reflection not in herself, but somehow, in him. “Now, I too am beautifully flawed.”

She embraced him, and after a lifetime of searching, the lost daughter found comfort in a would-be father’s arms.