Иван Станислав выглядит как мое последнее дерьмо

”It is impossible, of course. But when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming?”

- Laini Taylor

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The morning air is crisp. I look up and see blue skies dotted by wispy clouds floating like peaceful boats on an invisible river. A soft, cool breeze brushes my face, and the sun’s rays are breaking through to cast a warm glow over the grassy field. I really do dream the loveliest dreams. I jog lightly as I approach two large boulders and tug lightly at the mask over my eyes, feeling a surge of bravery. I am, after all, the Dread Pirate Hunter. I carry on, and see three more medium-sized rocks across from the first two forming something of a valley. As I approach, I slow to a cautious walk. Only a few steps into the passage, a small but still sizable rock flies across my vision and smashes into the boulder to my left. “I did that on purpose. I don’t have to miss.” I look to the right, where stands a large Russian, far too large to be reasonably believable, wearing combat boots and rough-looking trousers held up by suspenders of all things. He has a dark gray shirt with the Arby’s logo on it, and I think to myself, “I haven’t had a Beef ‘N Cheddar in some time.” But I shake it off, because he kidnapped Buttercup, and because he’s holding in a hand the size of a winnebago another large rock, prepared and cocked to throw at my precious little head. “I believe you,” I say. “So what happens now?” I don’t expect what happens next. Like a steroid-riddled bear in heat, the gigantic Russian creature runs at me, all the while screaming “FOR FANYA!!!!!!” “Wait, who is…” is all I can get out before he reaches me, and I must quickly dart to the side to avoid his overtly planetoid-like mass from smashing me into a fine powder against the rocks. Fortunately, I am agile like a panther, and I easily avoid his advance, and watch in bemusement as he slams into the rockface. He stands there, stunned, and four little birds fly in circles around the crown of his head along with several small stars. His eyes turn in opposite circular patterns, and I take this opportunity to jump onto his back and apply a devastating choke hold.

“DIE BORSCHT BOY!!!!!” But he doesn’t. Instead, suddenly the scene swirls around me. I’m in the air, breaking free from a kaleidoscope transition that threatens my understanding of time and space, and is also quite pretty. The air hits my face, this time much colder than before. I see out in front of me a frozen hellscape with tall white-capped mountain peaks and iced-over plains. Ships are flying alongside me in formation, however, I am not in a ship, it seems. Rather, I am a ship. We continue flying forward, my comrades and I, toward a large lumbering object up ahead. The object is hard to make out at first, but slowly it comes into focus. Before us stands a giant of a man, some two hundred feet tall at least, who has a flat top haircut, even though this isn’t the 80s and he isn’t a member of Kid ‘N Play. It seems like the same man from before because he also has suspenders holding up some ugly pants and large combat boots, but this time, his shirt has the Panda Express logo. He looks angry, like maybe they didn’t give him enough orange chicken in his order. Or maybe Mongolian beef. It’s hard to tell. Either way, he continues to lumber forward. I turn my head to look behind me and see the Vae Victis sanctum. The giant Russian with the tiny Stroganoff noodle between his legs means to attack and destroy the sanctum, and my good friend Lindsay Troy along with it. This I cannot allow, but he seems formidable. He’s huge, maybe too huge. Like, ‘the size of Bobby Dean’s morning stack of pancakes’ is huge. My wingmen fire their blasters at him, but they bounce off of his hard outer armor harmlessly. An idea comes to mind, so I yell out, “Use your harpoons and tow cables!! Go for the legs! It might be our only chance of stopping him!” We surge forward and one by one, we swoop around his big dumb ankles, first firing a magnetic dart that sticks to his stylish metal ankle bracelet, then flying in large majestic looping patterns around his legs until he is tied up. He tries to take another step, but can’t because his gigantic padded webbed feet are wrapped up in cables, so he falls forward all the while yelling out in a soothing baritone voice, “ARINA!!!!! I ACCEPT YOU AND LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOU ARE A LESBIAAAAAAAAAAN!!!!!”, and falls on his face with a splat. I think this is an odd thing to say at this moment, but before I can delve too much more deeply into the implications, the world swirls around me again, this time in a dark, rainy swirl that ends when I find myself standing in a dark, rainy street. The buildings around me are grimy, like they have a story to tell, but they refuse to sell the movie rights, so I look away instead. On the ground, heaving and in complete and utter agony, is Ivan Stanislav, the angry Russian from before, and my opponent at ReViVal. He is once again in weird pants and a shirt with suspenders, but this time the shirt has a giant logo of the Kryptonian symbol for hope on it. I am, of course, Batman. He has blood trickling from one side of his mouth, and I notice blood on one of my clenched fists. I realize that I must have beaten him to a pulp, which makes perfect sense, but as I look down on him, I feel a surge of empathy and pity… because I hear him struggling to whisper some last words. I kneel beside him, and hear him say, “Maaaaaaartha….” A tear fills my eye. That’s my mother’s name, too. I cannot hurt this man. Our mothers have the same name. But my kindness, it seems, was misplaced. The rain is gone. The streets are gone. I find myself in a boxing ring now, kneeling sadly over the lifeless form of Lindsay Troy, her face pummeled by the unwashed hands of an ugly Russian who can’t fit into normal-sized clothing. She isn’t moving. I wipe a tear away with the back of my hand, and I look up at Ivan Stanislav, who is standing next to a puny man with a microphone, Alexei Ruslan, Mikhail Gorbachev, Yakoff Smirnoff, and Brigitte Neilsen. He stares at me as he bellows in broken English, “IF SHE DIES, SHE DIES.” I realize suddenly that this could be Lindsay Troy’s fate soon… this is our future… it is the possible fate of us all… Unless I do something about it. I clench both fists, rise to my feet… And wake up. I swing my legs around and sit, sweat dripping from my brow, and frown the deepest of frowns. I am determined. I will not let this man threaten us. I’m not scared. I’m Scott.

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”Make improvements, not excuses. Seek respect, not attention.”

- Roy T. Bennett

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The echo of slapping chops and grunting filled the vast gymnasium, the air humid with sweat. Scott wiped his brow as he stepped back, panting, his muscles tight and glistening under the overhead lights. Manhunt had been a success, despite the final outcome. No one had expected much out of him, but he knew he had turned some heads. He had likely turned one very important head specifically - that of Lindsay Troy. He had called out Ivan Stanislav, the two-time former Universal Champion, on a lark. Alexei Ruslan had passively-aggressively threatened Lindsay Troy just moments before Scott was scheduled to speak. He hadn’t had the time to think it through. He just jumped into the fire, said what was on his mind, and received a match against the dangerous Russian as a reward. He jumped into the fire, and she turned up the heat. Sink or swim. He felt deeply the need to turn up his training another notch, so that’s what he did. Above the training floor, through a glass window, Artie Blumenthal, Scott’s trainer, leaned forward, hands braced on the ledge. He watched Scott with an intensity that matched his own. “Look at him go,” he remarked, a grin spreading across his face. “He’s finding his rhythm.” Kerry Kuroyama, perched beside him, nodded, his eyes wide with admiration. “He’s like a lion out there. Did you see that takedown? Flawless!” Kerry’s jaw dropped and stayed open involuntarily. He wasn’t used to seeing this, but it held his attention. If this were the new Scott… Scott rolled his shoulders, shaking off the lingering fatigue as he prepared for another round. The cheers from the small group of onlookers faded into a blur, but he could still feel their energy propelling him forward. He focused on his opponent, a wiry wrestler who had been in the game longer than Scott had been alive. “Ready?” Scott shouted, the tension in his voice mingling with excitement. The opponent smirked, bouncing lightly on his toes. “Bring it, kid.” The bell rang, and Scott plunged forward. He feinted left, then right, reading his opponent’s movements like a book. He could feel Artie’s sharp gaze, every nod and grunt echoing in his mind, reinforcing the drills he had practiced relentlessly. “C’mon, Scott!” Emma’s voice pierced through the din. Scott’s sister had accompanied Kerry to the gym, wanting to see how Scott was progressing just as much as Kerry did. Scott glanced up, momentarily catching her gaze. She stood at the glass, arms crossed. He flashed a quick smile before returning his focus to the match. They watched as he avoided a lunge, then ducked and took his opponent's neck and snapped it down to the mat with a counter. “Impressive,” Artie murmured, his voice low but brimming with approval. “Isn’t it?” Kerry leaned back, eyes wide. “I don’t think people will be calling him my sidekick anymore. He’s the real deal.” In the ring, Scott twisted, ducking another attempt at a grapple, then unleashed a series of calculated strikes, sending his opponent stumbling back. From a standing start, he then leaped into the air, spun, and delivered a precision elbow to the veteran’s temple. The man fell where he stood, and Scott dropped onto him for a three count. A bell rang, and the lookers-on at ringside erupted into applause. Scott, grinning from ear to ear, slid out of the ring and rushed toward the door that led up the stairs to the office. As he entered, he saw Artie, Kerry, and Emma there, and he looked at his big sister, smiling. “That’s my baby brother!” she yelled, her voice making him smile from the inside. She rushed forward, embracing him in a tight hug. Artie stepped forward. “You’re getting better every day, kid. You’ve put in the work. You’ve transformed before my eyes. Keep it up, and you’ll be ready for the big guy in no time.” “Yeah, the big guy…” Scott’s smile faded slightly, replaced with concern. “What if I can’t beat him?” “Stop right there,” Artie interrupted. “Doubt has no place in this gym. You’re stronger than you think.” “Right,” Scott replied, though the knot in his stomach tightened. “Hey,” Emma nudged playfully. “Remember when you were scared of the diving board? You jumped anyway.” “Yeah, but this is different.” “Emma’s right,” Kerry chimed in. “You’re not the same kid that wandered into the sanctum. You’ve trained hard. You’ve always had the skill. Just stay focused, and you’ll surprise yourself.” “Surprise myself,” Scott echoed, half-heartedly. Kerry stepped forward, his voice lowered, seriousness settling in. “Scott, you’re more than just a wingman now. This isn’t just about you winning; it’s about proving to everyone, and yourself, that you belong here.” Scott nodded, but the weight of the upcoming match loomed large. “You’ll always be my sweet baby brother,” Emma said softly, her gaze searching his. “But you can be fierce, too. Just don’t lose who you are. Scott glanced at her, a flicker of conflict sparking in his chest. “I won’t. I promise.” Artie cut through the sentiment. “Alright, let’s go hit the mats again, keep that momentum going.” Scott took a deep breath, the familiar thrill of training igniting within him again. He rushed back down the stairs and out of view. Artie gave Kerry and Emma a little wink, then followed him. Kerry turned and looked through the glass, watching him slide back into the ring. “Look at him. He’s in the zone,” he said to Emma, who stood nearby, her expression a blend of admiration and concern. ‘I just hope he doesn’t change too much,” she murmured. Kerry nodded. “Change can be good, you know. It’s part of growing up.” “Maybe,” Emma replied, her eyes lingering on him as he executed a perfect dropkick. “But I don’t want him to lose that innocence. He’s my baby brother.” “He can be both,” Kerry reassured her. “A fierce competitor and the good kid he’s always been.” Emma sighed, watching her brother’s focused expression. “I just want him to be happy.” “He will be,” Kerry said. “Especially when he wins.” Scott finished his training session, wiping sweat from his brow. He caught Emma’s worried gaze up above, and gave her a little wink, then lightly tapped his fist on his chest over his heart. She winked back, proud, and smiled.

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”Life’s under no obligation to give us what we expect.”

- Margaret Mitchell

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A single metal folding chair in the middle of a dimmed room. Scott Hunter, hair soaked and body dripping with sweat, leans forward with his head drooping. He picks up a water bottle from the floor and pours it over his head in an attempt to cool himself. He leans forward again slightly, and the water drips over him. He lets out a sigh, a relief from the stressors of an intense workout. “It’s time I say what I need to say to you, Ivan Stanislav. I know who you are, what you are, and what you think of me, of this match… I’m a fly to be swatted. That’s what you think. I’m young and naive, and maybe I don’t fully understand the danger I’ve gotten myself into. Maybe I spoke out of turn when I called you out last week. Yes, a young man with more balls than brains. That’s what you think. That’s okay.” Scott looks up, a wry smile on his face. “Part of me is terrified, but the larger part of me is angry… angry that you refuse to take responsibility for your actions and instead deflect your inferiority complex onto the rest of us. Oooooh!! Scotty learned some big words! Yeah, I’m been doing a lot of work lately, Ivan. A lot of work. There’s a lot more to me than what you’ve seen. There’s so much about me that you don’t know, that nobody knows. But every man has that moment in his life when he faces the crossroads. You either step up and challenge yourself to become what you are meant to be, to find out what lives inside of you, to understand what you’re made of, or you cower, step back, accept the perceptions of the people around you, forget about being great, and settle for mediocrity. We all have that decision to make, Ivan, and I’ve made mine. I’ve decided to jump into the deep end. This is all I’ve wanted to do my whole life. I can’t remember a time when my head wasn’t filled with dreams of putting on the boots, climbing into the ring, hearing the roar of the crowd, and holding up the Universal Championship. You’ve done that twice, haven’t you?” Scott stops, sits up straight, picks up another bottle of water, and takes a big drink. “And yet here you are, making excuses.” Scott holds an intense stare, then shrugs. “You can think I’m an idiot if you want. You’re waiting to hear some jokes. But I’m not in the mood for jokes. I’m not some chimp that just hops around with bubbles blowing out of my behind. You crossed a line, and I can’t let that slide. You can think I’m simple, that I don’t understand. But I have eyes that see everything just fine. Do you want to know why you aren’t the champ any longer? It’s because you’re a coward. You have your entourage - you had Max, you have your girlfriend… Is she your girlfriend, though? Or is she a prop for you to pretend you have a soft side? You have Alexei, or Nikolai, the Champ Kind to your Ron Burgundy, sniffling and borderline falling apart because he misses your musk. And yet, he still carries your balls and your brains in his breast pocket. You have your mother, which is more than I have. But this buffer you’ve created around yourself means a whole bunch of nothing when the opposition meets buffer with buffer. Did you expect Cecilworth Farthington not to be prepared?” He rolls his eyes, letting out a sigh that puffs his cheeks out. “And people call me a fool? You just made the biggest mistake of your life, allowing your stooge to barge into Lindsay Troy’s office and make threats. I can tell your heart isn’t in it. We all can, but the deed is done. And that’s the problem with people like you. You build power, you make plans to demonstrate that power, but you think your power resides in a vacuum. You think everyone else will simply stand by and wait for you to be finished, that they’ll let you play out your Cold War fantasies inside a risk-free sandbox.” Scott looks mock empathetic. “I like video games, too. But eventually reality steps up and backhand slaps you right across the face. That’s what happened to you at Culture Shock, Ivan. That’s what happens to everyone who gets so far into their delusion that they forget how the real world works. But you’re a mindless automaton. You don’t know how to act outside of your programming, and you’ve been subject to that programming since birth. You talk about an inexorable march toward destiny. It takes you right to your grave, but you’re too full of your bullshit to realize it. It’s where we all end up eventually. Trust me, I understand that fully. Only I intend to go to my grave with dignity, with honor, with family and friends surrounding me, sending me off to whatever comes next, knowing I did everything I could to make things better for the people I care about. You’re headed to yours, proud of being an unrepentant jerk, using other people’s hard work to prop yourself up, and boasting about it.” Scott tosses the empty bottle aside and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “And now, unfortunately for you, these misguided mental gymnastics you’ve performed in your head to justify your ‘Red Army’s’ actions have put you in a place you never expected to be. You aren’t hunting Lindsay Troy, Ivan. Oh no. You’re not hunting Vae Victis. We have never been the hunted. You’re biting the hand that feeds you. You could be fired tomorrow, and no one would care. You’d just be the former champion whose head got stuck so far up his ass that he made the biggest mistake of his life. And guess what? Lucky me, I’m gonna be the one who makes you pay. Surprised? Keep on thinking this is a walk in the park. Keep on thinking you’ll be taking some sort of frustration out on me. I have every intention of making sure you remember me well, Ivan. What happens when you get in my face and I don’t back down? What happens when I fly through the air and blast you right in the side of your head with my elbow, and the world goes dark around you? What happens when the mighty Ivan Stanislav hits the mat like a mighty oak chopped down, and I break you in front of everyone? Underestimate me, please. I dare you. Make sure Alexei has all of his complaints and excuses ready, and make extra sure to prepare for no one on this side giving a shit about your whining. You’re a big man, and you’re dangerous. Believe me, I know. But you’re in for a surprise, because I’m not your prey, you oversized soft-brained billboard for Soviet propaganda. No, I’m not your prey, Starshy Praporschick. I’m the Hunter.”

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”You and I are going to learn how to fly. And then we’ll stain this kingdom red.”

- Sarah J. Maas