Echoes of the Past

3.15.2024 The Office Moscow

Ivan’s grip tightened around the bug detector, a simple tool that could reveal complicated secrets and betrayals. As he stood in his office, however, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of being deceived himself.

He had always trusted Alexei, but with his friends' unsupervised foray into his office, Ivan couldn’t dispel the nagging doubts that haunted him. With trembling hands, he searched every corner of his office, hoping to find nothing, but instead coming across a transmission signal from the windowsill. Images of Alexei in Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s hotel room flashed through his mind, and suddenly everything seemed to fall into place.

He collapsed into his office chair and stared, dumbfounded, at nothing in particular.

Why would Alexei set him up? They had been friends for forty-three years and Ivan couldn’t understand what had caused such betrayal. The memories of their bond flooded his mind and he felt a new wave of hurt and confusion wash over him.

He tried to remain composed, refusing to give into the anger and tears that threatened to consume him. But as he sat at his desk, unable to speak or trust anyone around him, Ivan’s stoic facade was slowly crumbling away.

Silent and conflicted, Ivan stared at a picture of Alexei from Afghanistan and wondered just how everything had come to this point. As he considered his memories, his thoughts turned to a most unexpected recipient.

—

I know you cannot hear this, Tom. Nor would you listen. These are just thoughts of an old man who, truthfully, has no one else to speak to.

I never imagined that Alexei Ruslan would become such an integral part of my life. As a stranger, he saved me from certain death. And in doing so, after the war, he replaced the biological brother I had lost.

But our relationship is complicated, to say the least. To you, Tom, he may seem like nothing more than a loyal servant, always at my beck and call. But it goes deeper than that. He is no sycophant. We both rely on each other in ways that are not easily definable.

When I first met him, I was fighting the greatest battle of my life…

—

Forty-Three Years Ago 3.15.1981 Mazar-i-Sharif Afghanistan

The room was a cavern of darkness, illuminated only by a single bulb casting a sickly yellow glow from the ceiling. The walls, fashioned from cold concrete, were riddled with cracks and stained with dirt, blood, and dampness. The flaking gray paint was a pitiful attempt at making the room appear more hospitable. Two rusted metal beds had been haphazardly lashed together, their frames creaking under the weight of an enormous Soviet soldier lying motionless upon them. The heart monitor beside him beeped dangerously slow, its red light casting an eerie glow in the otherwise dim room.

The man was dying.

Outside in the hallway, chaos reigned as wounded soldiers, civilians, and frantic doctors crowded the space. The air was thick and heavy with the smell of antiseptic, smoke, and death. In the midst of it all, a young agent charged down the corridor, his chestnut overcoat billowing behind him and his brown hat clutched tightly in one hand. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the concrete walls as he pushed forward with determined urgency.

“Where is he?!” Agent Ruslan’s voice cracked as he frantically searched the chaotic hospital ward. His piercing blue eyes were sharp and focused, his youthful face had high cheekbones and sunken cheeks, and yet there was an energy about him that granted others pause. Despite his wiry appearance, his grip on the nearby doctor was like a vice.

“Who?” stammered the doctor, fear etched into every line on his face as he watched the frantic man produce a badge. He was a member of the KGB.

“Stanislav!”

He was ushered into the room. The agent had been chasing after the elusive Soviet giant for weeks and now, lying before him, was the dying man. No longer the symbol of Soviet physical superiority, but instead a pale, sweat-drenched figure clinging to life. He was a representation of the entire disastrous Afghan campaign. Ruslan felt a surge of anger and frustration crash into him.

Turning to the nearby doctor who was scribbling away on a clipboard, Ruslan’s voice trembled with rage. “Why are you not saving this man?!”

The doctor’s gaze shifted nervously between Ruslan and the dying soldier. “The resources and blood needed to save a man of his size and condition could save three other soldiers…”

Without hesitation, Ruslan drew his pistol from his hip and pressed it against the doctor's chest. “If your concern is the amount of blood needed to save him, I will happily take it from your own pulsing heart, doctor. For he is ten times the Russian you could only hope to be!”

The youthful agent’s eyes burned with an icy malice that sent shivers down the doctor's spine. He nodded and began rounding up doctors and supplies.

Alexei looked down at the young, thrice-shot soldier. His head was enormous, with that strong jaw and prominent cheekbones, that protrusive, Russian nose and chiseled features. He would make the Soviet people proud for decades to come. If only he could save him.

He leaned down and whispered softly in the soldier’s ear and petted his sweat slickened hair.

“I will protect you, Private Stanislav. Always. Together, we will create great things, you and I.” Alexei kissed his forehead.

Ivan Stanislav lived.

—

Our bond has been tested time and time again, through wars and revolutions and our shared sense of patriotic duty. He was the first person I saw when I defeated death and opened my eyes. Young, vibrant, and clad in brown. A lifelong comrade.

He was the only one I could trust with anything.

Something has changed, Tom, from between when I first met you and now.

If you could, would you listen to a confused communist? For I know not who else to talk to.

My doubts started almost a year ago.

—

7.23.23 The Office Moscow

Ivan had been arguing with Alexei for the better part of a half-hour, which was a rare thing between the two old friends. As Ivan’s conscience began to weigh on him, he contemplated intentionally losing to Eddie Cross in their upcoming wrestling match. “How do I crush someone who I once held in my palm?” But it was more than just empathy. The traumatic memory of Stanislav mauling Stefan Kulikov, a rising star wrestler, in order to appease his superiors for a failed title shot at Culture Shock 2023 haunted Ivan’s conscience. He had caused severe and possibly permanent damage to an innocent Russian for his own personal gain.

And later, as he had looked into the eyes of Kulikov’s pregnant wife, who unwittingly embraced the man who had brutalized her husband, Ivan felt more guilt and shame.

But Alexei refused to let Ivan give up and throw the match. Even as he dragged himself up to his toes using Ivan’s suspenders, he yelled at him: “You promised victory in your interview! You can’t deceive Russia’s mothers and sons like this!” His intense, icy blue gaze bore into Ivan’s.

Ivan ignored the coincidence, when his interview with Olga Karishnikov was co-opted by a breaking news story, in which the Kulikov’s were found harboring anti-Russian sentiments. It was convenient to channel his anger and swear to destroy the younger generation.

And destroy them he did.

—

With my fast track towards the Universal Title, Tom, I was too distracted to think on it. But Alexei seemed so pleased after seeing the news break before my eyes. He salivated, like a ravenous hyena, and I am beginning to think it had less to do with my opponent’s destruction and more to do with my ignorance.

I feel so lonely.

Tom, were you correct all along?

You always harped about the duplicity of my friend, but it was my fear that brought an unexpected messenger.

My brother, Kliment.

—

9.21.23 Stanislav’s Apartment Arkhangelsk

He would never have admitted it. Not even to Alexei. But Brandon Youngblood haunted Ivan Stanislav’s dreams. The Bear was rendered near-insomniac as he fretted about his upcoming Universal Title match against The Diamond, and he had every reason to be worried. Yes, he believed he could beat him, but even this deep into his run in the ReVival Era, Stanislav was learning the limitations of his older body.

Youngblood would take no quarter. Nor would Ivan expect anything less.

His victory in July was far behind him. The Universal Title was on the horizon. Youngblood was the greatest prize Ivan could have asked for and yet, subconsciously, his doubts continued to fester.

He conjured up a ghostly version of his brother, who visited him one night. Bearing the mortal wounds of Afghanistan, Kliment’s half-destroyed face was a reminder of the harsh reality of his demise. In his tattered aviator’s suit, he spoke to Ivan about his legacy in wrestling and the challenges that he would face.

And as The Russian Bear sat there, with his shirtless, sweat stained body glistening in the low evening light, he watched Kliment examine his myriad of pictures upon his wall. He gazed at the brother who supplanted him, Alexei, and tapped upon the glass. Younger brother spoke words that hovered in his subconscious.

“He lied to you.”

Kliment settled down next to Ivan on that fateful evening and stared at him. Ivan struggled to look back into the burned, horribly scarred face of his cherubic younger brother. He wheezed gently in the darkness and spoke softly.

“Is he a good brother to you, Vanya?” He asked tenderly.

“I think so…” Ivan replied in a whisper.

Kliment’s face took on the sad veneer of consideration. “A better brother than I would have been?”

Ivan stared at the floor.

Kliment clasped his hand on Ivan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Focus on Brandon Youngblood. You deserve that title, Ivan. But sometime, you are going to remember this, and you will have to face your doubts.”

—

Did the pressure of the Universal Title and Brandon Youngblood somehow unearth the concerns I had buried in my mind? Did it somehow push out my naive wishes and instead bring clarity to me?

“He lied to you.”

I didn’t want to believe it, Tom. Yet so much didn’t add up. When the Universal Title was stolen from me (and it was stolen) I found myself with the bandwidth to consider these painful truths.

Two can set a trap, and Jonathan-Christopher Hall was the perfect bait.

—

2.17.24 Sheraton Brooklyn New York

With a loud crash, the room service attendant was thrown against the wall by the furious Ivan Stanislav. Jasper watched the metal cart he had been pushing clatter noisily down the hallway while he literally rested in the wall. Ivan stormed towards Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s hotel room, his Russian curses filling the air. Meanwhile, Alexei kept pace beside him, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Perhaps we should plant a bug in their room. After all, who knows what Johnny and Vickie say behind closed doors!”

Ivan clenched his fists. “Whatever.”

Without hesitation, Ivan kicked open the door to JCH’s room and grabbed him by the throat, shaking him violently as he ranted at him. But Ivan kept one eye on Ruslan, who casually strolled over to the refrigerator and plucked an apple from it. Then, he made his way to the window, sliding a finger under the sill and applying pressure.

The windowsill. A perfect hiding place for a bug.

Ivan saw it all.

Precisely where his own bug had been found.

—

I have no idea how Freeman and Schwartz got into my locked office, but the two nitwits provided the perfect excuse for Alexei to enter undetected.

He has never done that before.

What kind of a friend does that? It was only dumb luck that Arina mentioned to me that Alexei entered to clean the sand out of my office. But say what you will about our communist sensibilities, Alexei isn’t one for manual labor.

Something deeper was afoot. With the knowledge of his preferred location for a listening device, I stared at my windowsill and it, in many ways, stared back at me.

I am not a fool, Tom. I know that the chance of being spied upon was always high. But Alexei had sworn to protect me from surveillance. Not participate in it.

Just how much of what I’ve believed is a lie?

—

The root of this deceit is still a deep, dark mystery to me. After all Alexei has done for me, why would he suddenly do this? But as they say, where there is smoke, there is fire.

And so, Tom Battaglia, it begs the question: why do I feel such a burning desire to reveal my feelings to you?

Because you, dear Anglo Luchador, will be the one to suffer for it.

It may seem contradictory. Should I not relish in the fact that you and Nate Colton threatened to attack my friend who was spying on me? Should I not welcome Alexei’s comeuppance at your hands? But the truth is, I cannot publicly reveal my doubts about my friend's motives.

I must maintain a facade of normalcy and hide my true feelings. We Russians are masters of deception.

But you? You are the perfect target for my pent-up frustration, anger, and rage. And best of all? You deserve every ounce of it.

Despite being stomped on multiple times, you still manage to rise from the ashes like the cockroach you are. You are a cancer, an infection that refuses to be eradicated.

But at Culture Shock, I can finally rid myself of you once and for all. Not just for myself, but for everyone.

You, the laughingstock of PRIME.

You, the white knight who no one wants.

Soon, your proclamations and judgments will come to an end. Your heroics will be nothing but a distant memory. You will finally reap the whirlwind that you have sown for yourself, Tom Battaglia. And with Alexei at ringside, my hatred and rage towards you will burn hotter and brighter than ever before.

You, another distraction discarded by The Russian Bear. You, an insignificant insect crushed in my palm. Then I can focus on my true goal: The Universal Title.

Take comfort in the fact that while your record reflects mediocrity at best, you are still a stepping stone on my path to reclaiming my spot at the top of PRIME.

Savor it. Welcome your sacrifice.

And as you lay, broken and obliterated in the ring, stare up at me and perhaps wish you had simply embraced my friendship and fallen in line. For it may have saved you. Alexei will unwittingly see the lessons hammered in the ring as a prelude to his own fate.

I will uncover the true root of Alexei’s treachery. I will discover the truth about Kulikov. And so too will Alexei Ruslan pay for his duplicity.

—

The Day Before Alexei Bugged The Office Office of FSB Director Rostya Borisov Moscow

Rostya Borisov was the antithesis of Alexei Ruslan. The FSB Director was a bulking mass of flesh, overflowing in his chair and testing the limits of Russian engineering. His small, beady eyes glinted behind thick glasses, leaving deep impressions on his rounded nose and pudgy cheeks. With a dramatic sigh, he leaned back and shifted through a stack of papers, his chubby fingers leaving greasy marks on the edges.

Ruslan stood in front of Borisov's massive oak desk, his hat gripped tightly in the crook of his arm. His jaw was clenched, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he waited for Borisov to speak. The fate of many Russians, including Ruslan and his friend Ivan Stanislav, lay in the hands of this powerful man. It was a rare occurrence for Borisov to call someone into his office, and it was never a good sign.

As the director’s fingers gripped the edges of his desk, he let out a frustrated grunt and tossed the papers down. “You understand the gravity of this ‘Lifetime Contract’ situation, Alexei Gregorovich?” The aging director’s voice was strained with worry.

“It was that woman, Lindsay Troy. She was the one who insisted it be done that way.” Ruslan replied. That may have been the story that Ivan gave Alexei, but he knew the truth. Still, he tried to cover for his friend.

The director’s small, beady eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you certain Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav isn’t being influenced by his frequent trips to America?”

Alexei’s shock was evident on his face. “No, sir. I have no doubt about my friend’s loyalty.” He approached the desk and hung his hat on a nearby chair.

“He’s been snooping around,” Borisov continued, leaning back in his chair. “Did you know he accessed the Kulikov files after he lost that Title in America?”

Alexei gawked in disbelief. “No, I had no idea.”

“I want you to keep an eye on him, Alexei,” Borisov said sternly. “I want a bug placed in his office. We need to make sure he is loyal to the Motherland.”

The weight of these orders hit Ruslan harder than any punch from Brandon Youngblood. “But sir…”

Borisov’s expression hardened. “We cannot afford any chances.”

Alexei could feel the rage boiling inside him as he clenched his fists. The director’s accusation had struck a nerve, and the anger on Ruslan’s face was palpable. He couldn’t believe they were doubting the loyalty of his friend, who had sacrificed so much for their country. He straightened his back, steeled himself, and stood up for Ivan.

“I won’t do it.” Alexei declared firmly, despite his pounding heart.

Borisov was surprised by the pushback. “What?”

“Find another agent, Director.” With a sharp nod, Alexei grabbed his hat and made for the door.

But just as he reached the handle, Borisov growled a warning. “If you walk out that door without agreeing to my request, I will have to assume Stanislav’s intentions are the worst imaginable and you will never see him again.”

Despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to leave, Alexei slowly released the handle and lowered his head in defeat. Ivan Stanislav was the only friend he had. The only person in this world who he had. “Please,” he begged, turning to look at the man who held all the power in this situation. His brows furrowed with worry. “Don’t make me do this.”

“I insist,” Borisov replied coldly.

With a heavy heart, Ruslan nodded his head in agreement. Once again, he would make sacrifices to save his friend. This time, himself.

Alexei immediately fled to his office and shut the door, settling down at his desk. He pulled a picture of himself and Ivan from Afghanistan and stared at it. How could he do this to Ivan? And what were the chances that Ivan would find out?

His phone rang. It was Arina. Somehow, Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz had miraculously appeared in Ivan’s locked office and with them came a torrent of tropical sand. Stanislav was furious.

The perfect chance to enter the office undetected.

“I’ll take care of it, Arina. Leave it to me.”

As Alexei hung up the phone, he realized he had been given the perfect opportunity for a horrible act.

He drew his fingers along the young photograph of Stanislav, a year after he had recovered from his wounds. For as cold hearted as Alexei could be, tears welled up in his eyes as his greatest fear was realized. He whispered an apology to the picture.

“I am so sorry, Vanya.”

—

Sometimes, there is no good and evil, Tom Battaglia. Just two men fighting one another because fate has dictated it. That, dear boy, is where we are.

It could have been different. I wish, somehow, you could have sacrificed your Trotskyist beliefs to see that we could have been comrades. Alas.

Yet I have also learned, now, that even comrades betray one another, don’t they? I can only assume you would have done the same, with your bleeding heart and wishy-washy demeanor. I granted you amnesty by denying this match.

But some fools beg for their just desserts.

No more time to consider “what might have been.”

All enemies of Ivan Stanislav will suffer for ever crossing him.

I have waited a long time for this, Anglo Luchador.

I will revel in it.