The Beautifully Flawed

They see me as a monster, one which they whisper about in dark corners. I am a soulless communist beast and, perhaps, they are right. My actions against Blake Colton reinforce these fears. I have no regrets.

While the rest of PRIME may view Colossus as the pinnacle event of the year, for me UltraViolence reigns supreme.

That was MY event.

My path of destruction started at UltraViolence 2006, when I destroyed ReVolution legend Chet Worth. At UltraViolence 2022, I returned, dominated Hayes Hanlon, and sent an earthquake through PRIME. The following year saw the end of their hero, Brandon Youngblood, and the start of The Red Era. You knew the writing on the wall and used any excuse to get out of it.

It changes nothing. I still have a New Diamond to grind to dust.

Challenge me to an “I Quit” match? I won’t quit, Nate. But there is more.

I can’t.

Ivan’s office door creaked open and he walked past Arina’s desk. She admired how dashing he looked, even if he was naturally intimidating. The medals that adorned his olive green uniform clattered as his voice boomed.

“Arina Timofeyevna,” he announced while clutching a folder under a huge arm. “I have to submit these documents. I will return shortly.”

As he adjusted his blue tie, she stood up from her seat and smoothed her red uniform. She stole a quick glance at him. “I can take care of them for you, Starshy Praporshchik,” she offered politely.

The Russian Bear shook his head. “No bother, continue with your responsibilities.”

“Yes, Starshy Praporshchik,” she replied dutifully.

He strode through the door without another word, leaving Arina alone with her thoughts. It had been a few weeks since the Stanislav/Ruslan implosion, and Alexei had disappeared into vapor. Arina found Ivan to be more guarded than ever. Losing a lifelong friend, even the likes of Alexei, would do that.

The distractions in PRIME had impeded his march to redemption. The Kulikovs still languished in prison, and Nate had fully consumed his thoughts.

She frowned.

If Nate Colton hadn’t threatened him with an “I Quit” match, maybe the family would have been one step closer to freedom. Of course, she couldn’t fault Nate. How could the handsome American know that Ivan was actively working to right a terrible wrong? He wouldn't believe it anyway.

Could this be the end of the illustrious career of Ivan Stanislav?

Her thoughts drew her gaze to the floor.

“Oh no,” she lamented as she fell to her knees. A sheet of paper from Ivan’s folder lay at her feet. She grabbed it and tried to resist the urge to read its contents. But her curiosity got the best of her, and she scanned the old, typewritten words that rested upon yellowed paper.

As she finished reading the document, she remained on her knees and stared at the door where Ivan had left.

“Oh no…” she repeated.

No one heard Arina’s heart shatter.

—

It’s a phrase I’ve heard too many times to count, whispered in hushed voices and uttered with disdain. Even my own people, the ones who are supposed to be my compatriots, have said it behind closed doors.

“The world would be better without Ivan Stanislav.”

And maybe they’re right.

Despite our differences, Nate, we are quite similar. We’re both older brothers. Both fiercely devoted to our families. Both willing to do anything to protect what we hold dear. I, too, fight for my younger brother, Nate. Every match against an American is a battle of vengeance in his memory. Is this match a battle of vengeance for you?

When you issued the challenge and I looked into your fiery eyes, I understood why you did what you did.

I would have done the same.

—

The desolate streets of Moscow stretched out before Arina, a chilling reminder of the dangers lurking in the dark. She pulled her black coat tighter around her body, trying to shield herself from the biting cold that seeped through every layer of clothing. The distant traffic and occasional shouts echoed through the night, accompanied by the flickering lights of street signs.

With each step, she could feel eyes on her. She quickened her pace, passing groups of faceless individuals huddled for warmth around burning barrels.

A single streetlight cast a long shadow behind her as she turned the corner and shivered. Glancing over her shoulder, there was no one but the echoing of her own footsteps off the concrete.

Relief flooded her when she reached the family apartment, but it was a fleeting sensation. Light cascaded through the living room window and dread filled her heart.

He was awake.

The streetlight flickered as she stood on the sidewalk and contemplated the inevitable. She could already hear her father’s slurred voice and smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. With each step up the creaky stairs, she braced herself for what awaited her beyond the door. She entered the apartment quickly.

Viktor’s bitter words followed her like a relentless storm. His once hearty frame now gaunt and skeletal, fueled by alcohol and resentment. He sneered at her from his seat, his remaining eye cold and unforgiving. “Look who comes home…” he rasped sarcastically and rose.

She refused to show her fear as she made her way to her bedroom door. She turned to face him. “I… just want to go to bed, Papa.”

The stench of cigarettes and booze wafted off of him as Viktor brandished an empty bottle in his hand. Her mother was working. She was on her own.

“You’re so proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he spat, his voice dripping venom. “Little Arina, working while father cannot?”

“You got hurt.” She said softly and added, “I am tired.” She looked up at the ghoul before her.

He loomed, and with each ragged breath he grew more monstrous, anger boiling over until it was focused solely on her. “Fuck you!” he roared, hurling the bottle against the wall with a sickening crash. “Do you know what is at stake? If Stanislav loses?! Pretty Arina won’t bring in the money any longer. Then what?! Two worthless women in this house!”

Her resolve wavered as she shrank inward, bracing for the worst. “Please don’t yell Papa. I promise, he will win,” she whispered timidly, clinging to hope even as her father’s rage devoured him before her eyes.

“He better,” Viktor snarled, stepping uncomfortably close to his daughter.

She reached into her purse and grabbed a wad of cash. Just enough to placate him and allow her to escape into her room. As she closed the door, she pressed her back against it, hoping to block him from entering if he tried.

But his threats stabbed through the door like shards of shattered glass. “He better win, Arina Rakhila!! He better win!!”

Arina collapsed to the floor, her sobs escaping in choked gasps, the door unable to prevent the suffocating grip of her father’s oppressive presence.

“I'll beat the shit out of you if he quits!”

—

She stands as a lone rose in the midst of a war-torn battleground, her gentle nature setting her apart from the rest of my Red Army. Even the innocent, like Kenny Freeman, have been consumed by our desire for victory at any cost.

We sacrifice our bodies, our lives, and sometimes our families for the glory of Russia.

I make no apologies for our noble cause.

Yet, Arina grants me pause. This strangely sensitive young girl, with honest intentions and decent aspirations, does not deserve the meat grinder that is our country. She showed me kindness when it was not expected, nor ordered. She showed me compassion and patience.

She said “I, too, am beautifully flawed.” I didn’t understand at first. When she sought comfort, she chose me.

I realized she saw me not as a monster but as a human being. It’s been so long since anyone saw me that way.

My actions do not warrant such kindness. Yet she gave it anyway.

My life has been defined by violence and bloodshed with few instances where I am able to bring joy and safety without force.

As I held her after the attack, the weight of my past fell away and for the first time in a long time, I found I was able to bring hope through gentleness.

It felt wonderful.

—

The next evening, the dreaded glow of her apartment window haunted her once more. Rather than face the hurtful words and abuse, Arina sought refuge in a rare, hidden place in Moscow: The Stanislav Archive. She wondered if Nate Colton would manage to shutter it for good.

In the media room, Arina sank into an armchair built for a man far bigger than most. She pulled her jacket closer around her as she peered at the vintage television set on a sturdy steel table, complete with VCR and DVD player. With curiosity, she began sifting through the stack of media and carefully inserted each into the appropriate machine.

A life and career played before her eyes.

She marveled at the rare footage of a then thirty-something Stanislav, coaching the Arkhangelsk State University Wrestling Team. As young men grappled on worn mats in traditional singles competition, the hulking coach in dark pants and shirt shouted instructions. She smiled. He wore red suspenders. When his charges were victorious? The laugh was unmistakable.

She cheered when, a handful of years later, a much more recognizable Russian Bear (though clean shaven) marched down the PCW ramp with Alexei Ruslan at his side. There, he uplifted Speedy Riggs and defended Chinese Commentator Wang Xue which ushered in the beginning of The Red Army.

She gawked when Stanislav took a penguin-filled snow globe to the head, courtesy of Chris Sloboda, and laid in a daze while being pinned at the PCW Mall Brawl. Later, at the TD Waterhouse Arena, a live penguin flopped atop the stunned Stanislav at the Sea World Battle Royal. The penguin got the pin.

She laughed until tears filled her eyes. The irrational penguin phobia revealed!

There were championships and successes along with failures and setbacks. Often, it was brutal, like when Ivan hefted a full vending machine upon his nemesis, Meanstreak, and pinned him in bloody fashion for the PCW World Title. Multiple wrestling personalities found themselves flying upside down through various walls and structures.

Ivan hit ReVolution-Era Lindsay Troy with a thunderous backhand that sent her sprawling to the mat. Arina nearly covered her eyes, until later Troy flattened him with a front-flip legdrop in their first and only wrestling contest. On the apron, Ruslan buried his face into his hat and squirmed.

She grew tired and snuggled deeper into the chair, but inserted one last, unlabeled video into the VCR.

“How does it feel to be the First Couple of OSW?” OSW Head Commentator, Dave Kern, spoke off-camera as he addressed the couple in front of him. Arina adjusted the tracking on the VHS and saw Stanislav, with his signature red suspenders and dark shirt, standing tall with his arm around Rakhil. She had vibrant pink and purple hair, glittering in the light while wearing a tie-dye singlet.

Ivan chuckled and looked down at Rakhil. “I have not stopped smiling, have I?”

Rakhil playfully booped him on the nose, laughter bubbling out of her. He laughed as well, but it was a different laugh than Arina was used to. This one was filled with happiness.

As Dave continued to ask questions about their future plans, Rakhil pulled back and smiled up at Ivan. “We’ll settle down sometime, I’m sure.”

“Maybe wedding bells? A family?” Dave prodded.

Ivan sighed and ran his hand through Rakhil’s hair, uncaring of the glitter that now clung to his skin. “Someday we will put all of this behind us and just be together. You and I.”

Rakhil turned her almond shaped eyes up to him and beamed with adoration. “And maybe little Russian cubs of our own!!” she laughed.

Arina paused the video and studied the two ghosts, locked in a loving gaze. How different the man had been at this time. Her thoughts lingered on the document he had dropped.

It began to make sense.

—

I miss Alexei. You would laugh at that, Nate, but he was my best friend. As we get older, we lose more and more of what ties us to this world. Friends. Family. Opportunities.

At my age, you live a life surrounded by ghosts and echoes. It is a terrifying and humbling existence.

I don’t have much left in this world, Nate. Not anymore.

—

It was one of those still afternoons, where the sun shone brightly yet the breeze brought with it a chilly briskness. She followed Ivan as he took a walk through Red Square. He paid his respects to the Lenin Mausoleum and communed with the specters buried in the Kremlin Wall. Then, he sat down.

“Starshy Praporshchik?” She stood before him as he sat on the bench.

Ivan blinked clarity into his eyes and regarded her. “Arina?” His words were carried silently upon the wind.

She stood at attention, with her black coat pulled tightly around her body and the fur tickling her neck.

“You dropped this, Starshy Praporshchik, when you were leaving the other day. I… am sorry, I found it and was unsure how to return it to you.” She offered the document.

He gazed down and read the words. The letters were set in a crooked, irregular manner that only a typewriter could produce.

A few moments later, he bounced the document off his knee and deposited it in his breast pocket. He looked up at her and shifted down the bench without a word. She settled next to him.

“You left her, didn’t you? Because of that?” she asked quietly, daring to risk discussing his past.

“Yes,” he replied. His eyes followed the graceful flight of a bird soaring overhead. “She wanted little ones...”

The bird disappeared in front of the low sun and then emerged.

“Did you tell her?” Arina asked softly.

“No.” The weight of the why was heavy, overwhelming to the point of silence. Eventually, he lifted the burden. “She would have convinced me that she could settle for less.” He shook his head. “I would not accept possible half measures for her life. Hers was too vibrant. Too…” he stared off in thought, and then looked down at Arina, “...precious.” He nodded to himself. “I gave my heart back to Russia so that she could have a complete life with someone else.”

She watched him sigh and fight to conceal the sadness in his features. After several quiet moments, Arina squeezed his hand.

Together, they watched the bird continue its journey towards heaven while Ivan’s old heart thudded against the text of the letter.

—

“Praporshchik Ivan Stanislav,

It is with utmost respect for your service and dedication to our great Soviet Union that I write to you today. Following your recent medical examination, it is my duty to inform you of the results:

A consequence of your gigantism has confirmed that you are sterile.

It is essential to understand the success of the Soviet Union far outweighs individual hardships.

Etc. Etc.”

Arina trudged back home that evening and reflected not just on the career she watched, but those typewritten words and what they meant to the man. Nevertheless she was a realist.

The atrocities Ivan committed could not be ignored. He had caused pain and suffering then and she knew he continued to do it now. It made her uneasy inside, grappling with the complex figure. The only time any of these behaviors halted were in the presence of Rakhil.

Arina wished she could see Ivan as a heartless monster, like everyone else did. Like Ivan wanted everyone to see. She longed to be blind to his humanity and simply condemn him. But her kind, perhaps naive, heart wouldn’t allow it.

The all too familiar sight of light pouring out of the small apartment window greeted her as she stood beneath the streetlight. With a heavy heart, she entered into the chaos of her drunken father.

Viktor swayed in the living room with a cigarette in hand. Arina approached him, her eyes narrowing at the smell of alcohol on his breath.

“You didn’t come home last night,” he hissed, blocking her path. “Where were you?”

Arina’s shoulders tensed as she tried to avoid his grasp. “I was reviewing footage for Starshy Praporshchik,” she replied.

“All night?” Viktor grabbed her arm forcefully. “Are you fucking him?”

Arina gasped in shocked pain and struggled, “What? No, of course not…”

“Maybe that is what he wants, eh?” Viktor interrupted, staring at her through his bloodshot eye.

She shook her head and squirmed. “He respects me, he is good to me.”

“There are no good men in Russia, stupid girl!”

It cascaded over her like a tidal wave as she pushed away from him. “He’s a better man than you!” She spat out, tears welling in her eyes. “He stayed by my hospital bed every night while you remained here and loved your drink instead! Why can’t you love me?!”

Viktor’s hand came out of nowhere, striking Arina across the cheek with a crack. She screamed and stumbled back against the wall, blood trickling from her split lip. But she refused to cower in fear.

She willed herself upright and drew in a deep breath, her chest rising with determination. When Viktor pulled back again, her fist connected with his nose. He staggered into his chair, blood spilling down his face as he glared up at her with confused rage.

Her fiery eyes stared down at her father, towering over him at that moment. The neat hair that once framed her face now fell wild and tangled around her fierce expression. This was what it must have felt like when Stanislav battered those who hurt him. It was cathartic.

She pointed down at Viktor. “If you ever touch me again,” she warned through gritted teeth, “I will tell Ivan Stanislav everything you do to me and my mother. And he will destroy you.” Her voice turned cold, “I swear it.”

She entered her room with her head held high. Trembling through both pain and triumph, Arina allowed herself to cry and smile at the same time.

—

She was my gateway to another future. One that would have allowed me to fade into happy obscurity. She was a rope of love that I had to just hold onto. I couldn’t bear to drag her under.

I released that rope and drifted away without knowing if Rakhil ever got the family we both yearned for. The weight of regret and fear for squandering a chance at a better future will always haunt me.

I didn’t quit Tempest. Nor did I quit my life’s work when it was determined that “Stanislav” would die with me. I threw myself further into the cause. I have never quit protecting my mother after my father died of grief. I have never stopped guarding Russia, despite her abuses to my person.

Love has brought suffering. Biology has robbed me. Mother Russia has scarred me. Never have I considered, for one iota, the concept of quitting.

I have never bent to these seismic forces.

So what makes you think a mere man could ever compel Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav to quit?

Two words and one fall, Nate. I beat you weeks ago. It took one fall from your brother at UltraViolence and you quit before this even started. My brother fell thirty-eight years ago. My glorious Soviet Union fell thirty-three years ago. I did not quit. I did not hide. I did not cower. I have, and still, wage war eternal against soft Americans like yourself. Your lot is ill-equipped to face the true difficulties of life. My determination is endless.

Some might say indefatigable.

Your misguided belief that you could ever outlast Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav will be an unforgettable lesson, and I will ensure it stays with you forever. Yet, amidst the anger, fury, and loathing I have for you, my thoughts drift to the tenderness of a kind, innocent Russian girl.

She has sealed your fate.

A thoughtful person, full of hope and promise, who never quit on me. A person better than not just me, but most. Devoid of ulterior motives and selfish desires. I will not quit on her.

They see me as a monster, yes, but I am not a beast. I am just a man. A man who has stubbornly clung to life for too many years, bearing the heavy weight of unrelenting scars earned through a lifetime of struggles. Wrestling is my life, Nate. I have nothing else left.

And in the arena of life, Nate, I am unstoppable.

So do what I cannot: quit while you still can.