Red Bear Retreat

My world is crumbling around me, weighed down by anguish, failure, betrayal, and insult.

Anguish: My mother, the dearest person in my life, is being overtaken by a relentless disease.

Failure: That pinnacle of success was stolen from me, torn from my grasp when it should have been secure.

Betrayal: Those who I considered worthy of my respect have now revealed their true, treacherous nature.

Insult: And you, Scott Hunter, stand as the most profound insult of them all.

My mother is dying, Scott, and though I’ve fought countless battles and vanquished numerous enemies, I am powerless. No matter how fiercely I strive or how stubbornly I resist, the end remains unchanged.

This helplessness terrifies me.

In the face of this paralyzing powerlessness, I navigate the situation in the only way I know how…

—

Fanya Stanislav sat quietly at her old kitchen table, watching her son move purposefully around the house. Her once vibrant eyes now dulled by illness, following his every step.

She was sick, and rapidly becoming a frail shadow of the woman she once was.

The dreaded moment had arrived, one that every parent hoped to avoid: the point where physical frailty forced them to lean on their children for support. Many parents resist, pushing their offspring to live their lives unfettered by the weight of caregiving. They fear becoming a burden, yearning instead for their grown children to chase dreams and futures unencumbered by the past.

But letting go is often easier said than done.

Cancer had ravaged her frame, leaving her hollow and frustrated. The diagnosis was a reality her small family now faced together, necessitating changes to ensure her safety and comfort.

The whir of a power drill reverberated through the small apartment as her son methodically installed handrails along the walls and secured new light fixtures. He could have enlisted an army of workmen for the tasks, but this was a personal labor of love.

Furniture had been rearranged, the space transformed to accommodate her needs. Her heavy armchair, upholstered in faded floral fabric, now sat near the window. It granted her a view of the lush forest beyond, where she imagined her children, young and carefree, playing amidst the trees. A small table rested beside said window, cluttered with a teapot and a stack of well-loved books and old magazines of yesteryear.

She watched her son with a tender, wistful gaze as he approached, pausing to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“You were always so handy, Kliment,” Fanya murmured, her voice soft and tinged with the warmth of a memory.

Alexei stopped at the mention of her long-dead son. He stared at the addled woman, who had given him a family, now slipping away.

“Fanya, it’s Alexei,” he said gently, his hand resting lightly on her thin forearm.

She met his gaze with a serene smile, oblivious to her mistake. “Yes, of course,” she replied as her mind drifted.

He observed her closely, concerned by her bewilderment, and crouched down to meet her gaze. "I wanted to let you know about Ivan's Universal Title match. Remember when those troublemakers took his title?"

She nodded with interest. "Yes."

Alexei grinned and sighed with relief. "The decision was reversed. Ivan remains the champion."

She genuinely smiled at the news as he stood up and returned to his tasks.

Yet her voice, soft and searching, called him back.

“Alyosha?” she asked, her tone hopeful, “Where is Ivashechka?”

Alexei paused, his footsteps faltering as he sighed deeply.

Where indeed…

—

It may have been over a year ago, you insufferable bastard, but I never forget a slight and I damn well never forgive one.

Kerry Kuroyama was supposed to be the ultimate trophy for The Red Army, and his place in my War Games team was the perfect vehicle for his recruitment. His showdown against The Anglo Luchador, that annoying gnat, was the golden opportunity. Instead, I was thrust into a living nightmare, trapped between you and that no-good son of a bitch Arthur Pleasant.

Can you even comprehend it, Hunter? If Kuroyama had joined The Red Army, we would have spat in the faces of the Vae Victis elitists who mock you behind your back. I would have secured another international powerhouse in my crusade against the West. It would have been a geopolitical triumph that would have made my nation roar with pride!

But you, you rat bastard, chose to linger and babble your nonsensical gibberish instead. Kerry foolishly listened to you, instead of me, and he lost to Tom Battaglia, of all people!

I should have caved your skull in right there, on live television. Make all of Vae Victis realize they weren’t protected by Lindsay Troy and her mighty pen. Now, here we are, and the restraints are lifted.

Inflicting suffering isn’t new to me.

—

“You’re gonna love Cedar Ridge!”

Ivan Stanislav was 4,338 miles away from his mother in Beltrami County, Minnesota. A Humvee roared down the rural road, its engine growling through the early spring landscape where snow patches lingered. Inside, Minnesota State Senator Richard Thompson, a confident figure in his mid-thirties with blonde hair and a clean-shaven, youthful face, gripped the wheel tightly. The sunlight reflected off the American flag pin on his lapel, highlighting his polished public image.

Beside him, Ivan Stanislav sat stoically, his broad shoulders stretching his flannel shirt. Blue jeans, sturdy boots, and black suspenders completed his Paul Bunyan-esque look. His eyes were fixed on the scenery outside, a blur of forests and lakes, far from Moscow's urban sprawl but reminiscent of his beloved Arkhangelsk. Ivan's expression remained calm and resolute.

Thompson occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror, catching glimpses of the exotic beauty behind him. Arina sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap, the strangeness of America weighing on her thoughts. Her eyes shifted from the American flag on Thompson's lapel to Ivan, seeking reassurance in his calmness.

The Humvee veered onto a gravel road, the crunch of stones under the tires reverberating as they neared their destination. Thompson finally cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over them.

“We’re almost there,” Thompson announced, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Arina. “The property is just up ahead. I think you’ll find it quite suitable, Mr. Stanislav.”

“Starshy Praporshchik,” Ivan growled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, his expression set in stone.

“Right, sorry,” Thompson replied, a hint of unease creeping into his voice.

Arina’s grip on the seat tightened, knuckles white, as anxiety curled through her like a coiled spring ready to snap. She watched the dense forest blur past the window, each tree a fleeting sentinel of their uncertain journey. The landscape was a tangled mix of anticipation and dread, a canvas of emotions she couldn’t quite paint. Her gaze shifted to the passenger beside her: Maksim Stepanov.

The oligarch’s son lounged with a self-assured grin, his eyes hidden behind sleek sunglasses. His tailored suit was a perfect fit, a stark contrast to Arina’s practical revolutionary attire and Ivan’s rugged proletarian demeanor.

Maksim’s posture was relaxed, untroubled by the tension that clung to the air. There was no shared concern etched into his features. He checked his phone and took a selfie.

“” he said in their native tongue. Arina glanced up at the phone, but did not smile as he took another picture.

The Humvee turned onto a lengthy gravel driveway which led to a secluded compound. The property sprawled out over acres, enclosed by imposing iron fences and dense thickets of towering pines, ensuring both security and privacy. Scattered across the expanse were various structures: a grand main house with a wraparound porch, several guest cottages with quaint, shingled roofs, and a few utilitarian outbuildings.

The vehicle rolled to a stop on the cobblestone courtyard, and Thompson swiveled in his seat to address Ivan. “Welcome to your new home, Starsky Paperoschik Stanislav. I’m sure you’ll find…”

Without waiting for Thompson to finish or correcting the American on his title, Stanislav heaved open the vehicle door. The Humvee rocked on its suspension as he stepped out, making it sway as if it were an amusement park ride. Arina and Maksim followed, their eyes scanning the lush surroundings with a mix of curiosity and caution, while the American Senator made his way around the front of the Humvee to join the towering Russian.

Thompson spoiled the silence of the moment. “This area is really something special. Bemidji boasts stunning lakes and endless forests. Perfect for fishing, hunting, and all sorts of outdoor adventures. The people here are salt of the earth types, real down-to-earth folks. They’ve been incredibly supportive of me, which means they’ll extend that same support to you.”

Ivan stood like a stoic monolith, gaze fixed on the horizon, refusing to even glance at Thompson. Undeterred, the American continued his enthusiastic pitch.

“We’re just a short drive from the Bemidji Regional Airport, which can accommodate your private aircraft. Makes it convenient for attending your PRIME shows. And if I can assist with anything else…”

Ivan finally broke his silence, his voice a deep rumble that cut through Thompson's words. “I am here for my own reasons.” His eyes remained fixed ahead, dismissing the Senator with his indifference.

Thompson swallowed once and nodded. “Of course, of course.”

Arina stood a bit away from the group of men, her eyes flickering with confusion and curiosity. Behind them, a caravan of vehicles halted. Engines quieted, and representatives of Stanislav, in crisp uniforms, emerged to unload crates and equipment, meeting all of Stanislav's requirements.

“Welcome to Cedar Ridge,” Thompson announced.

Ivan’s eyes narrowed into slits. “No. This is Otstupleniye Krasnogo Medvedya.”

Thompson’s brow furrowed in curiosity as he stared at Stanislav, seeking an explanation. Ivan turned slightly and spoke with deliberate clarity.

“Red Bear Retreat.”

Ivan turned his attention to the assembled troops behind him. His voice was a deep, authoritative growl. “”

The Russians quickly fell into an orderly formation. Ivan glanced at Arina, his eyes icy as he spoke Russian. “”

Arina felt a chill run through her veins, while Maksim chuckled irritatingly behind her.

—

Scott,

I think about my desire to be a surrogate father to Arina and it feels like the cruelest irony. How can I aspire to parenthood when I have inflicted such profound suffering on those who cherish their children?

The Freeman family remains shackled, hidden away from prying eyes, enduring untold hardships.

Rose, separated from her daughter, is forced to remain by my side.

Kai Makana is imprisoned, reduced to nothing but a pawn in my cruel game.

The Kulikovs are victims of Alexei’s machinations, scattered and lost.

Arina’s father is gone, his blood dried beneath my fingernails.

Yet, Katya Belova is the one who puzzles me most.

This tormented soul stormed into my office, her despair and anger palpable as she wielded a pistol. She never revealed what drove her across such distance to confront me. I never understood why she turned the gun, intended for me, on herself.

Her final words, uttered in a trembling voice, echo in my mind.

“Mama will be there soon.”

The gunshot shattered my eardrums and painted myself, and my ceiling, red.

As she tumbled down, Arina stood behind her, drenched in the same blood as me and I have to wonder, does my mother suffer because of my deeds?

Vae Victis might not be family, Hunter, and Troy may not be your mother. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fill them with the same terror.

You prevented my geopolitical coup with Kuroyama, yet I had an unexpected windfall land on my lap.

—

Senator Richard Thompson admired the organization of Ivan's office. Unaware that The Bear’s other offices were similarly arranged. The awards and photographs on the wall behind Ivan's desk, however, revealed a man very much engaged with his personal history (and vanity).

Thompson could appreciate that.

Yet, it was Stanislav himself, now dressed in a formal red uniform, who was the most striking presence. His physical aura dominated the room, and his piercing gaze could practically move someone. Thompson noticed a picture of Vladimir Putin on the wall. Such a sight on American soil should have made him uneasy.

Instead, it made him smile.

"The office looks fantastic, Sir," Thompson said, smiling at the senior Russian.

"You've fulfilled all promises so far, Senator Thompson, and superiors are pleased," Ivan replied smoothly. "Given tariffs, Ukraine, and everything else, I am confident our nations will forge closer bond than ever imagined."

Ivan never envisioned having his own office on American soil, with a State Senator flattering him. It brought a smile to his face. He had thought the Cold War ended with the fall of his beloved Soviet Union, but he was mistaken.

The Americans were practically handing the world away. Could it be that his life's work hadn't been in vain?

Thompson rose and extended his hand to Ivan, saying, "I should be going, but thank you for your hospitality, Starshky Prapurshick, and I'm sure we'll be in touch soon."

It was a moment suspended in time. Ivan standing while enveloping the smaller, weaker American’s hand with his own. A Senator was now deferential to him. He smiled inwardly.

"Goodbye."

As Thompson awkwardly exited the office, Ivan settled back, placing his glasses atop his head. He glanced down at his large, custom phone (known as The Brick) and typed a message to Alexei.

I.Stanislav: Americans are eating out of our hands. Cold War all but over.

The response was not what Ivan expected.

Alyosha: Good to hear, Vanya. Are you able to come home? Your mother asks for you.

His eyes darted away from the phone and looked forward, noticing that Arina stood there, her hands tightly clasped in front of her as if to brace herself. Her eyes transfixed on his wall.

She was focused on the usual spot reserved for the Universal Title. When Stanislav possessed it, the space was occupied; when he pursued it, it left a void.

Not anymore.

Now, the space was filled with various other medals and plaques. Arina grasped the importance of this. Stanislav, known for his careful decisions, had intentionally redirected his focus. It was a subtle, yet stark move. A sign of transformation.

PRIME’s titles were worthless. There was only war.

Ivan set his phone to the side. His eyes bore across the room like a Siberian wind.

“Arina.” His words were ice.

The weight of his gaze forced her eyes down. “I know why I am here. I… I am sorry about Nico. I misspoke and I know you are disappointed in me.”

His eyes remained unyielding. She had disastrously blundered by letting information slip. His feelings for her ran deep, but that didn’t exempt her from harsh lessons that needed learning.

“You complicated a great many things, Arina.”

She inclined her head, her voice a subdued tremor. “Yes, Starshy Praporshchik.”

“I expect you to untangle this mess in due time.”

She bowed her head. “Yes, Starshy Praporshchik.”

He grunted with a sound of finality. “Dismissed then.”

Arina seemed frozen momentarily, however, and Ivan saw the ghost of her form standing behind Katya Belova during the suicide. The memory sent a shiver through Ivan, prompting him to remove his glasses and place them down with a soft clink. “Anything else?” He asked.

She stepped inside, her footsteps light, and closed the door behind her. “Starshy Praporshchik. I wanted to… check on you.”

It was a rare occurrence for someone to inquire sincerely about Ivan Stanislav's well-being. He gestured toward the chair across from his desk, an invitation she accepted with a small, reassuring smile. She was acutely aware of the heavy burden he carried, the silent torment caused by his mother's condition.

“I cannot imagine what it feels like, Ivan,” Arina spoke gently, her hands resting neatly in her lap, “but I am here for you, should you need anything.”

The formidable Russian Bear met her gaze, his eyes softening. He offered her a flat smile. “I appreciate that.”

She nervously massaged her fingers into her knees, offering him a smile that cut through the stony façade he wore. She could sense the pain beneath. “You know, I really believe it will all turn out okay. Your mother is a strong woman, just like you,” she said gently, “and I hold onto the hope that good things happen to good people. Like your mother.” She watched his face. “Like you.”

“Like me?” Ivan questioned, uncertainty in his voice.

She nodded, her smile persistent. “I have studied you a great deal, Starshy Praporshchik. In the Stanislav Archive, for example.”

She sucked her lips into her mouth for a moment, and then exhaled. “I am sure you know my father was an alcoholic, and I know you abhor alcoholism. Yet, despite all of that, you are working to find him for me.” She gave him an innocent smile. “And what you did for the Kulikov’s and the risks you took.”

Her voice carried the weight of her admiration, “The tangled mess with Kai and the Freeman family, you’re battling to reverse the havoc Max unleashed. All of this, while juggling countless other burdens on your shoulders, both personal and professional.” She nodded with conviction. “It reveals the essence of a truly good man.” Her words lingerd solemnly. “A hero.”

Ivan’s stomach twisted with guilt, leaving him feeling hollow. “Pardon me?” he managed to say.

Her eyes shone with gratitude. “You are heroic.”

Her unwavering faith only amplified his guilt. His words stumbled.

“Thank you, Arina. I… think I need some time alone.”

She stood and, without another word, left Ivan alone in his office. Ivan’s thoughts drifted far away, to places where answers seemed as unreachable as his own peace of mind.

Red Bear Retreat indeed.

—

Fanya Stanislav lay in bed with the dim light of her lamp casting gentle shadows on the wall. There was a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building itself.

It was uncommon for anyone to feel at ease around Alexei Ruslan, yet Fanya did as she glanced at him sitting beside her with a smile. Observing her, he noticed the persistent weariness and worry etched on her features.

“Alexei, where is Ivan?” she asked softly.

“He’s in America,” he replied gently and offered a smile, “doing important work. He had an assignment that could not be ignored.”

She gazed up at the ceiling. “I miss him,” she murmured with longing.

“I know,” Alexei said softly. “He misses you too.”

There was a moment of silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Alexei studied this woman who had invited him into the Stanislav family with no questions asked. The feeling was alien. One that he pushed away and claimed was weakness.

This warmth, in a chest oftentimes so cold.

He loved her as deeply and sincerely as any son could love a mother.

“Alexei?” she asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. “I need you to do me a favor, please?”

He nodded down at her. “Anything, Fanya.”

She pointed to her nightstand, “After what you said earlier, I have written a letter that needs to be sent. Can you see that it is?”

Alexei offered her a smile, and leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Of course. Now, get some rest.”

He retrieved the letter and turned off the light and walked into the living room. He turned the letter over in his hands and saw the name on the front of the envelope.

Lindsay Troy

—

Dear Ms. Troy,

Alexei told me that Ivan’s Universal Title was restored to him, and I can only assume it is due to your prudence. I am writing you to offer thanks for your prudent decision and kindness offered to my boys.

I know that both Ivan and Alexei can be challenging at times, but they are passionate men who try their best to achieve victory for their country.

You have always shown me unconditional grace, despite the distance between us and the relationship my son has with you. I am forever gra—

—

The letter crumpled violently in Alexei’s hand, forming an angry, tight ball of wrinkled paper. He crushed it with all his might, his knuckles turning white from the sheer force of his frustration.

The hostilities would persist without pause. There was no room for olive branches. Neither Hunter, Troy, Vae Victis, Tsonda, or any adversary of The Red Army, would see an end to the relentless and unforgiving cycle of warfare. Scott Hunter’s corpse, that foolish joke of a man, would serve as the initial shot across PRIME’s bow.

Burdened by the responsibilities of PRIME, the declining health of his surrogate mother, and the haunting absence of her son…

...Alexei’s eyelid twitched with uncontrollable emotion.