The Useful Idiot

American elections were strange things for most people.

They were particularly strange for Ivan Stanislav.

For a man who touted Russian “democracy” he certainly didn’t understand the cornerstone tenets of such things. Nor did he really care.

In Russia, democracy wasn’t the business at hand.

Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav was a unique case, having a particularly strong “western facing” profile thanks to PRIME. Even if it wasn’t viewed in particularly positive fashion, he still had a voice that was heard and digestible.

Like the good soldier he was, he did everything that he was told. Blasting out social media jabs here and there. Sowing confusion and dissension amongst the populace. And vaguely, and without specifically naming any names, pushing one candidate over the other.

The rich one.

Let’s not mince words, there was no American candidate that Ivan, or any Russian for that matter, could truly support. The ideal scenario would have been America descending into self-destructive civil war, weakening itself in the process. But that was simply a pipe dream, an impossibility.

Instead, Ivan and his fellow Russians had to settle for the lesser of two evils. And in their eyes, the lesser evil had triumphed. A candidate who seemed more amenable to Russia’s interests, somehow easily manipulated by a shrewd leader like Vladimir Putin. A useful idiot. It was a victory tainted with conflicted emotions for Ivan, as he struggled between loyalty to his country and the knowledge that this victory came at the expense of another class’ well-being.

The rich one, indeed, had won.

“Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. We have come to a determination regarding the winner of the American election. Reach out to your department contact ASAP.” - Director Borisov.

The text message was to be expected. With the absence of Alexei, Ivan lacked a go-between with the FSB and thus had to deal with them directly. No doubt his contact would tell him what to say, how to act, and what to do that would maximize Russian interests.

The old Russian sighed as he peered out his window, with his hands firmly on his hips.

He felt like a prisoner in his own mind, trapped by thoughts that he couldn’t share with anyone. Not in Russia, not in PRIME, and certainly not in America. These conflicting thoughts consumed him, leaving him trapped and helpless. He wanted to escape them, but they were there, taunting him with their presence. His imagination ran wild, chewing on these conflicting ideas until it felt like his brain would explode.

Another text, from a colleague.

“Congratulations, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav! We have finally won The Cold War!!”

He should have smiled. Kliment would not have died in vain. Perhaps his lifelong struggle against capitalism had borne fruit and yet, Ivan Stanislav couldn’t smile. Kliment’s dog tags rested in the case on his desk, and they judged him from far below his square chin.

And yet, there was a small smirk on Ivan's face. The Americans had shot themselves in the foot, their own actions leading to their downfall. But as much as he wanted to revel in their defeat, Ivan couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. How could the American people have chosen greed over education, wealth over women and children, and power over their own workers?

Maybe he had just given them too much credit.

He just couldn’t smile.

His experiences had left him jaded and conflicted, forcing him to confront harsh realities that went against everything he had been taught. He couldn’t ignore the truth any longer: he didn’t fully align with the strict beliefs of his country. He couldn’t ignore the evidence of racism, division, and manipulation that he had seen firsthand. It further pained him to know that these actions weakened America and yet… strengthened Russia.

Deep at his core, Ivan Stanislav was not a nationalist.

He was a communist.

Despite his fierce love for his country, Ivan couldn’t help but feel further conflicted. As am an with a complex worldview, he found himself torn between his beliefs and the unexpected empathy he now felt for individuals who he had every right to despise.

For example, the great missed opportunity, RIA. His attempts at salvaging any kind of a relationship with her was dead and gone, and yet he sympathized for her.

As a self-proclaimed non-sexist, Ivan believed in merit over gender. Those who stepped into the wrestling ring or raised a hand to him would receive no quarter. He further didn’t believe in coddling based on gender.

He hated the conflicting emotions he had towards RIA and others like her, who lived lifestyles deemed illegal by his country. It weighed heavily on him. The complexities of his thoughts left him feeling lost and uncertain about his place in this world.

He thought about the other women in PRIME, and how their own country had betrayed them. Yet he thought about his own country, which had also stripped rights from women over the last century. Despite Lenin’s attempts to equal the genders, his own people had walked the same path as the Americans now.

His files on every member of PRIME was extensive, and he thought about their children. He considered the unnecessary struggles they might have to fight as headstrong, fear mongering theologists further sank their claws into the fabric of their daily lives.

Still, maybe the conflict in Ukraine would end. Ivan did believe the Ukrainians were more Russian than Ukrainian. The man was no saint. Would the useful idiot actually bring it to an end? Would his ignorance save Russian lives?

His phone pinged again. Borisov was urging him to call for directions.

Ivan didn’t want to make the call. He didn’t want to be given the orders he knew were coming: be happy that the rich man won. Be glad for the one who would trample on the downtrodden and take advantage of hardworking individuals and innocent people. Once he made the call, this torturous moment of contemplation would vanish, the moral dilemma would be shoved aside, and Ivan Stanislav would once more be the proper cog in the wheel.

He hated it.

These were the rare moments where Ivan could allow him to not be The Russian Bear. To not be the Starshy Praporshchik. But to just be Ivan.

Sometimes, people saw rare glimpses of it. Lindsay Troy had seen it, from time to time, even if she wasn’t aware. Paxton Ray, even, if or just a moment. Arina Timofeyevna. And sometimes, like in this moment, just himself.

It was a fool's errand to try to enjoy those moments for too long.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as the air filled his oversized lungs. Power surged through him, overwhelming and all-consuming. In this moment of chaos and turmoil, Ivan allowed himself to truly be honest with himself. To feel for himself. To allow the turbulent coalescence of anger, rage, sadness, and yes even happiness, fill him to his core and allow himself to accept these feelings as his own. He let the emotions wash over him, drowning out all rational thought.

As he opened his eyes, his hand instinctively grabbed his phone. With trembling fingers, he dialed the number and unleashed everything he had been holding back. The words spilled out of him like fire, scorching and raw with emotion that could be mistaken for happiness. It was a release unlike any other, a catharsis that left him shaking.

“This is Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. Yes, indeed, I just heard the... good... news…”

The useful idiot didn’t smile.