Indefatigable.

The air hung heavy with dust, mingling with the sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder that stung the nostrils. Distant explosions reverberated through the landscape, while the relentless crackle of gunfire served as an ominous soundtrack. Young Ivan Stanislav, his simple military uniform dirtied and frayed, crouched behind a crumbling wall, his heart thundering in his chest like a caged animal. The mujahideen were advancing, the pressure of the situation pressing down on him like a tangible weight.

To his left, Alexei pressed his back firm against the wall, his teeth clenched in pain, his face smeared with blood like a crimson mask. On his right, Bryan Dawkins stood out absurdly in a Hawaiian-themed uniform, his red and yellow sunglasses reflecting the chaos around them. Rose, positioned next to Ruslan, wore her wrestling gear, her mouth bleeding but her eyes blazing with a fierce determination.

Inexplicably, Randall Schwartz and Kenny Freeman stood exposed in the open, their eyes fixed on the blazing sun above, seemingly oblivious to the chaos.

Ivan wasn't The Russian Bear yet, just a desperate young man ensnared in the nightmare of the Soviet War in Afghanistan. Or something akin to that. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he exchanged nods with his comrades, determination hardening within him. His joints screamed in protest, and his arm dangled, nearly useless, after taking a bullet, but his sidearm remained his lifeline.

“We’re going to be okay, comrades!” he shouted, casting a resolute glance at Ruslan and then the others. “I’ll get us out of this.”

Ignoring every muscle's plea to stay down, he surged to his feet, defying the agony that coursed through him. As he pivoted to confront the enemy…

BANG!

Something struck his head.

BANG!!

Again... and again... and again.

He crumpled to the ground.

—

There was pandemonium backstage at the Tokyo Dome. Stanislav had been groggily walked backstage thanks to the entirety of The Red Army shouldering him. The Russian Bear claimed to only be four-hundred pounds, and maybe he was (doubtful), but when it’s almost completely dead weight, you’re better off with a bulldozer.

No forklifts, though. Please.

“Get your fucking hands off of him!” Alexei Ruslan roared.

Blood oozed from a cut on Ruslan's forehead and crept into his mustache as medical personnel tried to tend to the now-former Universal Champion, who lay sprawled on the floor, his breathing shallow.

"Alexei!" Dr. Fihlguud interrupted sharply, her tone a mix of authority and urgency. "We need to get him on a stretcher, and YOU need medical attention!"

"Fuck that!" Ruslan growled defiantly, wiping the blood from his eyes and glaring at the doctor. "I’m not letting a single one of your western doctors touch him!"

Astrid Fihlguud had encountered this resistance before with the Russians, the mistrust as thick as a Siberian winter. Stanislav, when awake, was surprisingly cooperative most of the time. But Alexei's fiery temperament was a different beast entirely.

"What do you propose we do then?!" she shot back, frustration lacing her words.

A quiet yet firm voice broke the tension. "We help him up, ourselves." Alexei turned to see Arina Timofeyevna already lifting one of Ivan's massive legs. "But I cannot do it alone."

Alexei nodded, his eyes narrowing as he snorted dismissively at Fihlguud. "You and your vultures can watch." He reached for one of Ivan's colossal arms. Rose took the other, while Dawkins hoisted Stanislav's remaining leg. Randall and Kenny positioned themselves at his hips. United in purpose, The Red Army heaved their fallen leader from the ground with their combined strength and solidarity.

—

Ivan’s gaze was welded to the floor, his vision swimming as the intricate carpet patterns melded into an indistinguishable chaos, much like the turmoil of his raging mind. His broad shoulders, once proud and strong, now sagged under a burden far heavier than anything physical.

The weight of failure was a heavy load.

They had returned to the hotel room, but fury was everywhere. Not from Ivan, who simply stared at the floor, but instead Alexei. He had been so stricken with rage that he had stormed out of the room, leaving it in oppressive silence. Arina's quiet sobs in the corner were the only sounds piercing the quiet, aside from the thunderous pounding of Ivan's heart.

It was short lived. Ruslan might have gotten three steps down the hall, before he turned back around. He slammed the door open with a crash.

"Absolute bullshit!” Alexei's voice tore through the silence, raw with fury. He was so incensed that the blood smeared across his face had been left to dry. "I told you! I told you, Ivan! How many fucking times did I tell you?!"

"Please, Alexei..." Arina's voice was a fragile whisper amidst the storm.

He shook his head with vehement defiance.

"No, this is exactly the time for this conversation! Some bastard comes down and bludgeons you, and those assholes cheer?!" Alexei roared, his voice a tempest of wrath. "That Farthington son of a bitch pulled every dirty trick to take you down and still failed miserably! He'll boast and parade around, but he didn't earn a damn thing!"

Alexei stood with his hands on his hips and let the hammer fall. “And you know who won’t do a fucking thing about it?!”

It was too much for Arina, who excused herself from the room. Alexei watched her leave, and lowered his voice. He looked back at Ivan, who still stared numbly at the floor, unmoving. He spread his arms and slapped them on his legs.

"I’m sorry, Ivan," he murmured gently and tempered his rage. "I’m truly sorry it ended like this, before it even began. I know you had such grand plans for PRIME. You've climbed higher than anyone else to reach the pinnacle, and when you finally do? She sets you up, Ivan. Like last time. Same favoritism with Glue, just a different favored son. She shields them!"

He knelt down next to Ivan and took his free hand. “Ivan Stanislav,” Alexei said softly, “The Red Army is proud of you. Russia is proud of you.” He squeezed his hand. “I mean it. I know it hurts. But we’ve been down this road before.”

Alexei sighed softly. "And I know you hoped to build some kind of working relationship with Lindsay Troy. I know… you tried. You really did. She deceived you. She… she deceived us." He chuckled lightly. "I almost admire her cunning. She even went so far as to pay for parts to be put into your mother."

Ruslan removed his hat and dropped it to the floor. His dark hair a mess of static.

"Please, Ivan. I need you to hear me. I love you," Ruslan said tenderly. "I will never stop fighting by your side, Ivan Sergeiovich. Through all the injustices and setbacks."

Ivan finally cast a glance down at Alexei, who kneeled there, almost imploring the shaken former champion.

“You are unstoppable. Unbeatable. Indefatigable.” Alexei whispered, “And no bullshit hit job will change that.”

Ivan allowed a soft growl to rumble from his chest. The light in the room danced with his vision, flaring and ebbing as his concussion wavered.

“We have a Manhunt tomorrow, Strashy Praporshchik,” Alexei whispered. “Let this not be the moment that we give up, but that we make PRIME tremble.”

Ivan couldn't lift his eyes higher than Alexei, and Ruslan understood why. He gave a gentle nod and stood up slowly, carefully placing his hat back on his head. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said softly.

van's gaze remained fixed on the carpet, tracing its patterns while Alexei made his exit. He mumbled “Goodnight” as he left. But not to Ivan.

There was still someone else in the room.

Her words were laced with tenderness.

“Please, put the ice back on your forehead, Ivashechka.”

It took herculean strength for Ivan to look at his mother, Fanya, who had been sitting there the entire time. She offered a bag of ice, which melted in her wiry, elderly hand. This was a rare occasion; it had been decades since she last watched her son wrestle in person.

And Ivan had lost.

He gazed at her intently, tracing the elegant lines of her face; the high cheekbones that mirrored his own, the sharp angles of her jawline. Her eyes, though filled with concern, radiated a love that outshone the lights overhead.

Despite the cancer that was ravaging her body, mercilessly consuming her from within, she sat there, exuding strength for him, when it should have been the other way around. Ivan accepted the ice pack, pressing it against his brow, then stared at the floor beneath his feet.

He felt transported back to childhood, trapped in a moment of inadequacy, unable to bear the weight of disappointment he had cast upon the few who truly cared for him.

Fanya’s heart ached as she observed him, her son a man, yet still her little boy. She kept her thoughts to herself, finding solace in being present during his time of sadness rather than triumph. With limited time left, she cherished this bittersweet opportunity to embrace her role as his mother once more, a poignant twist of fate allowing her to be there for him in a way she hadn’t expected.

Yet, like all mother bears, her gentleness was matched by a fierce resolve. She leaned forward, her eyes sharp and unwavering, and spoke again with a commanding intensity.

“Make them pay tomorrow.”

The Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav, tightened his jaw...

…and nodded.