Nikolai

Ivan spared no expense when it came to accommodations for his mother, Fanya. The plush hotel suite in the heart of Vladivostok boasted a panoramic view of the bustling harbor, with ships bobbing gently on the horizon. Fanya had been adamant about traveling to this far eastern city, yearning to be close to her son as soon as he returned triumphant from his business at Culture Shock.

So rarely was she close to him when he wrestled.

She had no doubt he would be victorious, her confidence as steadfast as the Siberian winters.

The dining room was tastefully decorated, with elegant wooden furniture and soft, ambient lighting. She had brought her family photographs on the long trek across her Motherland, capturing moments of joy and togetherness, and past loved ones. A vase of fresh lilies sat in the center of the dining table, adding a touch of color and life to the room.

With a steady hand that belied her years, Fanya ladled generous portions of hearty stew into bowls for both Ivan and Alexei. The rich aroma of simmering beef and vegetables filled the air, mingling with the scent of fresh bread.

Few warranted the respect of Ruslan removing his coat, but he did so for Fanya Stanislav. He enjoyed the comfort of his yellow shirt and knotted red tie. He waved his hand and yelped as Fanya filled his bowl nearly to the brim. “How hungry do you think I am?” he teased.

“No, no, no,” Fanya scolded affectionately, her eyes twinkling. “You look too thin, Alyosha. Take after my Ivashechka and eat!”

She gestured with the spoon toward Ivan. Her burly son grunted and chuckled. “He could never eat more than me, Mother!” He boomed.

“Maybe not, but I can outdrink you, Vanya,” Alexei retorted, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous challenge.

“Oh really? Maybe we try that after this then, eh?” Ivan replied as he leaned back in his chair with a grin.

“Enough, you two!” Fanya interrupted, her tone a quiet scolding as she settled into her seat between the two men. She reached out with her hands, taking both Ivan and Alexei’s hands firmly in her own, her grip warm and steady. She looked back and forth between them, her eyes softening. “How rarely do I have both of you boys at the table.”

A hush fell over the trio while Alexei gazed at the steaming bowl of stew in front of him. He felt his heart race as he drew his eyes up to Ivan while a lump formed in his throat.

“So tell me about this Manhunt match, Ivashechka,” Fanya prompted, breaking the silence.

Ivan's expression turned serious, a shadow passing over his face as he exchanged a knowing glance with Alexei. “It’s a battle royal, Mother. The entire Tokyo Dome will be our battleground,” he explained, his voice steady but tinged with anticipation.

Fanya’s brow furrowed with concern, lines deepening as she sighed. “You know how much I dislike those kinds of matches, Ivan,” she murmured, her disapproval clear.

Ivan nodded, acknowledging her feelings with a slight dip of his head. “Yes, Mother, I know.”

“Your boy will be ready for anything, Fanya. And I will be with him every step of the way,” Alexei assured her softly, his voice a comforting promise.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Alyosha,” Fanya squeezed Alexei’s hand more tightly, her gaze piercing as she met his eyes, “call me Mother.”

Ivan studied Alexei and watched his old friend smile, albeit shyly. — There we were. Perhaps not brothers by birth, but still, two brothers together with their collective mother. Reflecting on that moment, it makes me question something that I’ve questioned so very often. Just what was the story of Ivan Stanislav? Was it the tale of an aging man grappling with the fading light of relevance? Was it a relic stubbornly clinging to existence despite all odds? Could it be something more? Or perhaps, something simpler? Could it be the exploration of a deeply flawed man striving to do good, yet perpetually falling short? Perhaps a narrative centered around a perceived villain designed to highlight the virtues of would-be heroes? Of course, I have my own answers to this question. But why reveal it so quickly? I’m instead drawn to the story of someone you have not yet met. One that I had, truthfully, forgotten for what feels like decades. Beyond the Arina’s and the Alexei’s of the world. Past the Fanya’s and the Olga’s. To a simple boy, with a simple name. Nikolai. — The orphanage was a cold, unwelcoming place, its walls echoing with the sounds of children who had learned, long ago, to fend for themselves. Young Nikolai sat alone in the corner, his nose buried in a book. He was a thin boy with sharp eyes and a mind that seemed too old for his young body.

The other children played noisily, their laughter a stark contrast to the silence Nikolai so preferred. Though thinner and not as muscular as the other boys his age, what Nikolai lacked in size he made up for with intelligence and ambition. Still, that did little to shield the youth from the harsh realities of orphanage life.

“What’s this, Kolya? Reading again?” a tall boy with a cruel smile snarked, snatching the book from Nikolai’s hands.

He stood up, his small frame trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. “Give that back, Mikhail,” he demanded, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes.

Mikhail loomed over the smaller orphan and shoved him. “Make me!” The other children took notice of the disturbance and moved closer, and began to chant their cruel song: “Kolya, Kolya, small and weak, Always hiding, never speak. Books won’t save you, little mouse, In this cold and lonely house!” Before the situation could deteriorate further, a caretaker stepped in and scolded the older boys for their actions. Mikhail was forced to apologize, yet when the caretaker's attention was elsewhere, he tore out several pages from the book and slipped them into his pocket.

“This isn’t over, Nikolai…” Mikhail sneered as he walked away to join his friends.

Nikolai's blue eyes burned with a fierce, unyielding hatred. — I would never openly admit that The Russian Bear can’t exist in a vacuum. That perhaps his true meaning is contingent on the existence of others. That in some way, they help give him meaning. And I’m not just talking about his loyal comrades and friends. I have to give credit where credit is due: to those characters who relentlessly oppose his plans. The courageous Chandlers. The challenging Coltons. Even the tenacious Troy’s of PRIME. Their steadfast resistance to his inexorable march grants him purpose. Their dogged harassment only fuels his fire. Take this Manhunt match for example. Ivan would be proud to know he might be the most coveted prize in that competition. Yes, the target will change as the time ticks by, but make no mistake: everyone wants to pin The Russian Bear. It takes someone of tremendous character, or perhaps infamy, to be so sought after. Someone who, you would think, would be so ingrained in the consciousness of PRIME, as he is right now, that he could never, ever fade away. But, I grapple with the knowledge that the unending march of time will someday defeat him, and he will be no more. Someday, Ivan Stanislav, that larger than life force upon which the very ground quakes, will become nothing more than a footnote in the annals of wrestling history. He’s done his best. He’s won the Universal Championship twice and built a respectable career. He’s participated in significant events in PRIME. But we all understand that eventually, when Ivan retires, his relevance will fade. Just like those who came before and those who will continue after him. All his efforts for the Universal Championship will boil down to his name appearing in a long list of great wrestlers who held that prestigious title. As people unfamiliar with his legacy glance over the list, they’ll pause, think, and say “That guy had a funny name,” and then move on. It’s a sobering reduction of such a significant figure, a gradual fading of a man into obscurity. But that's the reality of life. And if I am honest with myself and allow myself to admit it, I realize something painful: That’s all right. — Ivan tapped his fingers impatiently against the polished mahogany table in the conference room, his growl low and simmering. He glanced at Arina, who sat across from him, her expression calm yet watchful. With a sigh, Ivan adjusted his glasses, the rims settling comfortably on the bridge of his nose, and eyed his pocket watch with mounting irritation.

“What the hell is taking him so long?” he muttered, the watch’s second hand ticking away his patience.

Arina reclined in her chair, the soft leather creaking beneath her. “He is usually on time…”

Suddenly, the door swung open with a bang, and Alexei stormed in like a whirlwind, his entrance as abrupt as the slamming door behind him. “I’m sorry for the tardiness, Ivan,” he blurted, slightly out of breath.

Stanislav cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the room. As he leaned back his chair groaned beneath his considerable weight, and he folded his arms over his broad chest. “So?” he prompted, the single word hung in the air.

A tense silence settled as Alexei adjusted the front of his overcoat. He stammered. “My people did everything they could, but I wasn’t able to get a full list,” he admitted, pulling a crumpled printout from his back pocket and tossing it onto the table before Ivan.

The Russian Bear emitted a low, rumbling growl, the kind that screamed displeasure. “How is this so, Alexei?”

Ruslan’s brows knitted together and his mustache twitching slightly with the movement of his upper lip. His eyes flickered towards Arina, seeking her reaction, but she quickly looked away and stared at the patterned carpet at her feet.

“Lindsay Troy must have the full list of Manhunt participants shoved deep up her tight ass,” Ruslan grumbled, his voice laced with frustration. “And unless you want me to go plumbing those depths,” he continued, his eyes narrowing, “I’m either going to need a military-grade drill, or we just have to settle for what I already know.”

Ivan lifted his right eyebrow high. “Now there is a visual, Alyosha,” he muttered, his tone dripping with cynical sarcasm. Ruslan let out a snort.

“Resist the temptation to go plumbing Lindsay Troy’s backside,” Ivan declared, flipping through the crumpled printout in front of him. He adjusted his glasses, tilting his head slightly to catch the light and read the small print. “We work with what we have,” he said before tossing the document across the table for Arina to study. “You’re right, nothing of real interest.”

Ruslan’s jaw tightened and he clenched his fists. “Yes, I know, I said that!” he snapped, his voice rising with irritation.

Ivan finally shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling with nonchalant ease. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t even have to win this match,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of indifference.

Arina leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized Ivan. “What do you mean, Starshy Praporshchik?” she asked, her tone both curious and cautious.

Ivan met her gaze with a knowing smile, the type reserved for moments of shared wisdom. “Farthington is dead on arrival at Night One,” he explained, his confidence unwavering. “If someone else wins Manhunt, at least I’ll get a clear picture of what I’ll be up against in the future.”

Ruslan chimed in. “And if you did win, Lindsay Troy would just do something to fuck you over. It stops her from such an opportunity if you don’t win.”

Arina looked between the two scheming Russians, feeling naive, but hazarding a question, “So… why participate in the first place?”

Alexei allowed a sly grin to show on his face, understanding the answer before Ivan spoke. Ivan turned to Arina, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous light.

“Because, dear Arina Rakhila, even if I don’t care to win the match, that doesn't mean I can’t inflict as much damage as possible along the way.”

Ivan flashed a grin, his teeth sharp and predatory like a shark’s.

Alexei chimed in immediately, seizing the opportunity to save some face. “Which is precisely why I was late.”

Both Ivan and Arina gave him their attention, intrigued by his statement.

“I took a stroll around the Tokyo Dome,” he began, his voice laced with mischief, “and let’s just say, I might have stumbled upon an idea…”

Whenever Alexei had ideas, they usually came with a side of trouble and a dash of wickedness. — The Manhunt match is one of those unique occasions in history where numerous forces come together, creating an event with significant stakes and a strong potential for making history. It’s a free-for-all where anything is possible. It’s a rare chance for Ivan to face off against many talented and important wrestlers in a match and become a part of that great history that is PRIME. Naturally, I’m aware that Ivan is completely confident about his victory on Night One of Culture Shock. No one knows how he thinks better than myself. I want to share in his confidence, to pat him on the back and agree that he’s absolutely right. However, we all understand that nothing is guaranteed, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise. So if the story of Ivan Stanislav isn’t about being remembered forever… what is it? Again, I feel compelled to reflect on our dear little Nikolai. The boy without a family. — "Help! Help!!!" The caretaker's desperate cries pierced the air as the children huddled in terror in one corner of the cafeteria. Mikhail lay sprawled on the floor, his body thrashing violently, blood-tinged froth spewing from his mouth like a macabre fountain. The other caretakers dashed to his side, but their efforts were futile against the convulsions that wracked his body, leaving him a slave to the violent spasms before plunging him into the icy grip of shock.

Some of the children squeezed their eyes shut, sobbing in fright and helplessness.

But Nikolai's lips curled into a sinister smile.

Mikhail should have torn the page detailing the corrosive properties of lye. — I want to believe that this wasn’t the path that Nikolai wished to take. Yes, Mikhail was a bully, but to use a corrosive liquid to eat him from the inside out? I’d say that was rather extreme. And one must also wonder what sort of interplay his story has with the overall concept of Ivan Stanislav. What does a young orphan boy have to do with such things? I’ll give this to Nikolai. He was persistent. The children suspected he had a hand in Mikhail’s death. And he became an outcast. His friends abandoned him and girls he fancied reviled him. He deserved it. Nikolai kept the truth a secret forever and never told a soul. Throughout his life, he hoarded secrets, one upon another. He hardened his heart in an attempt to shield himself from future loss and pain, and he used those secrets to protect himself and hurt others. He went so far as to change his name.  I thought Kolya’s story was just cautionary fiction. I was wrong. — Ivan’s temporary quarters in Vladivostok were stark and spartan, a reflection of his disciplined nature. The room contained only the essentials: a bed, a desk, and a chair. The walls were bare, and the only decoration was a single framed photograph of himself and his mother, Fanya. The dim light from the nearby window cast long shadows across the room.

He lay asleep on the bed, his massive frame barely fitting within the confines of the mattress. His breathing was deep and steady, a rare moment of peace for The Russian Bear. The sudden knock on the door broke the silence.

Ivan's eyes snapped open at the noise. Moving cautiously, he sat up, swung his legs over the bed, and pulled on his black pants, stretching the suspenders over his undershirt. Grabbing a pistol from the nightstand, he approached the door.

“Who is it?” He snarled.

“Alexei,” came the quiet, familiar voice.

Without hesitation, Ivan stuffed the pistol in the back of his pants and opened the door. Standing before him was not the collected agent in brown, nor the fiery defender at ringside. No, Alexei Ruslan looked shockingly different.

He was unkempt and disoriented. His usual brown overcoat and neatly pressed pants were swapped for a plain, creased white t-shirt and a pair of crumpled black pants. His hair was tousled, and his mustache untidy.

He seemed aged.

“Alyosha?” Ivan inquired, his own neat haircut falling slightly to one side, “What’s going on?”

Ruslan’s voice was barely audible. “May I come in?” he asked, his tone trembling. Stanislav shifted aside as his old friend stepped into the room. He shut the door with a soft thud and flicked on the lights, his eyes staring with perplexity as they fell upon his lifelong companion.

At last, Alexei turned to face Ivan, his gaze raw and desperate.

“I have been thinking about this match, at Manhunt, Ivan.” He began. “It forced me to reflect on all that we’ve been through.”

Ivan tilted his head to the side and gave Alexei the room he needed to speak.

“Meanstreak, Tyler Nelson, and Mexi,” Alexei reminisced. “Vending machines flying through the air, old comrades and enemies alike now gone. Trashcan Man, Clyde, and bloody Doug Troy.”

Ivan slid his hands into his pockets and absorbed his words.

“And now, we find ourselves at another precipice: Manhunt,” Alexei continued. “Yes, we’ll have The Red Army, Ivan, but once more, we’ll stand together in the heart of war. This time, trust isn’t optional; it’s our only lifeline. We have to believe in each other.” He paused, his eyes dropping to the floor, then lifted back up to Ivan’s. “I’ve never felt this depth before… it never even crossed my mind that perhaps…” His words faded.

Ivan shook his head and tried to parse through the ramblings. “Alexei, what are you trying to say?”

With a fragile whisper, Alexei replied, “I never apologized for betraying your trust. You simply forgave me.”

“Alyosha,” Ivan said gently, “that is what brothers do.”

Alexei recoiled. “I’m not your brother. Kliment was. And I’ll never be.”

Ivan frowned deeply as he thought of his younger brother. “Blood isn’t necessary for brotherhood, Alexei.”

For a moment, crumbled, revealing a vulnerability so raw it pained Ivan. “I’m not Alexei,” he murmured, his voice laden with worry.

“That’s not my name…” he repeated.

“Alexei…”

“I need to tell you my name. Sitting with you and your mother and being part of that family. I cannot risk losing it through deceit again, Ivan.”

The world had labeled Alexei Ruslan in many, wholly justifiable ways. As a hateful cretin, a stalwart protector, a mindless lapdog, a vengeful hitman, a loyal comrade, a cherished friend, and a brother.

But had anyone ever seen him as Ivan saw him now? As a man, flawed and aching, fighting to reconcile his own identity? Another piece of humanity so chewed up and molded, forcibly, by such a cold, industrial regime?

“I forgot my own name. It’s not special. Simply ordinary. Something, something in this head,” he said, pointing shakily at the side of his head, “made me forget it. For so long.”

Alexei jumped when Ivan’s hand touched his shoulder, and Stanislav leaned in, meeting his gaze. “Alyosha,” he said softly, “your name or past mistakes don’t matter. What matters is the man you are now and the brother who has been by my side through every battle, from war’s ravages to championship triumphs and the chaos of Manhunts.”

“But my name,” Alexei whispered.

“...doesn’t change who you are to me, Alyosha.” — My name is Alexei Gregorovich Ruslan. To me, Ivan Stanislav means having something I never thought I could achieve: a family. In the quietest corners of my heart, I have come to understand that Ivan's story is not just about wrestling or glory. It is about the bonds we forge, the love we share, and the understanding that transcends our past mistakes and secrets. Ivan Stanislav is more than a legend in the ring. He is a brother, a comrade, and a beacon of strength. His story is one of resilience, loyalty, and the human condition. As we stand on the precipice of the Manhunt match, I know that no matter what happens, we will face it together. For in the end, it is not the victories or the titles that define us, but the love and understanding we have for one another. And that, to me, is the true story of Ivan Stanislav.