Before the Dawn

“How in the fuck did I end up here?”

I find myself asking that question most days and today is no different.

The Octane hums like something alive beneath my standard issue Red Army boots. It’s taken a long time to get used to wearing footwear that isn’t a flip flop, but every day they get more familiar. Deep inside, my Polynesian heritage bristles at the idea of getting used to what’s become my new normal. Heavy jackets, fur-lined hats and combat boots are all far cries from flip-flops and swim trunks.

The Arctic air tastes like iron and salt, and every breath feels borrowed from the sea. Ivan will probably say something like “it’s a good day for unity, comrades!” The fog says otherwise.

We line up across the deck—Hessian, Gamble, me. The longer I stand out here, the more I believe there might not be a winter coat warm enough to survive this kind of weather. It’s only been a few minutes and I can already feel the tips of my fingers and toes starting to tingle with the first signs of frostbite. Then again, I consider anything under 75 degrees cold, so maybe it’s just me.

Meanwhile, Alexei shuffles beside the Bear with his clipboard, muttering about checklists while Ivan’s voice booms through the heavy, salty air. He talks about loyalty, about discipline forged through steel, about the Red Army as a living thing. The Octane seems to agree; her hull groans with every syllable. Honestly, I can hardly pay attention; my mind’s been elsewhere for obvious reasons.

Then the deck lift grinds open, and she rises.

She exhales through her vents, a slow, heavy breath that rolls diesel across the fog. Her paint is the color of old rain, her turret scarred, the white Cyrillic of her name cut across her flank like a heartbeat. Part of me wants to believe this relic is nothing but a symbol. A reminder of what decades of war can do - leaving you battered, broken, a shell of your former self. When her engine catches, it’s not noise—it’s pulse.

Ivan lays a hand on her armor like he’s greeting an old friend. “Zarya.” He almost whispers her name. “She saved lives,” he tells us. The Bear’s expression goes from stoic to dead serious in the blink of an eye. “Do not disgrace her memory.” That’s a warning if I’ve ever heard one.

I catch a glimpse inside through the commander’s hatch: red velvet, worn smooth, a ghost of perfume under the fuel. It almost feels wrong getting a peek, like I caught her in a brief moment of undress. For a second I feel her watching me. Not the way a man looks, but the way memory does—quiet and absolute. My eyes dart in the opposite direction, desperate not to get caught gawking at her.

Ivan assigns positions. Hessian commands, Gamble mans the gun, I handle the driving. “Three hearts,” he says, “one body.” Zarya rumbles beneath us, answering in kind.

Ivan’s speech ends with the kind of silence that feels earned. And trust me, after being around the Russian Bear for the better part of the past year, silence isn’t exactly easy to come by. The only sound left is the low rumble under our feet. The fog’s lifting now, and the gray hulls of ships moored nearby start to show through like ghosts coming home. Slowly but surely, the city that raised the great Ivan Stanislav is waking up to find this comically large warship sitting in its waters. What a sight, indeed.

Alexei barks orders, his clipboard clutched like it’s The Communist Manifesto. He yammers in Russian, as if the three of us can understand a single syllable that he spits. Nonetheless, we move without talking. Hessian climbs into the commander’s hatch, Gamble slides forward into the gunner’s seat, and I drop inside last, letting the hatch close over us as I settle into the driver’s seat. The sound of it sealing is like the world shutting its mouth.

The air inside smells of sweat, grease, velvet, and something older. The faintest scent–maybe floral?--that brings a slight sense of calm into the otherwise tense situation. I press my palms against the controls and feel her pulse waiting, driven by a purr like that of a giant Russian blue.

Zarya breathes in, and so do I.

🍍🍍🍍

The headset crackles. Hessian’s baritone orders come through clipped and calm; Gamble mutters about torque and alignment. It’s hard to believe that a decade and a half after I first met these two, I’m sitting in a Soviet-era tank under the tutelage of the one and only Ivan Stanislav. If I wasn’t responsible for handling this murder machine, I’d probably be pinching myself in an attempt to wake up from this dream. Again, I repeat…

“How in the fuck did I end up here?”

My hands rest on her controls, feeling Zarya’s rhythm. Every time I exhale, she steadies. She’s learning me; this whole exercise is mutual.

Ivan watches from the bridge with Alexei, his giant silhouette carved out of the fog. He wants, no…expects precision, coordination—no wasted motion. I think of Danny Christie, my opponent at ReVival 79. One of PRIME’s newcomers.The bare-knuckle man who fights that way: economical, efficient, honest. The opposite of banners, speeches and elaborate spectacles. You know, like this military exercise in which these three ReVolution-era alumni find ourselves.

“Left Hand Larry,” I whisper to myself. Don’t give him the angle. Stay centered. Control or be controlled. Christie reminds me a lot of Paxton Ray…only without the major attitude problem. He doesn’t waste anything, that’s what gets me. Every step, every punch, every breath—it all means something. Danny Christie doesn’t swing unless there’s a reason. That’s a kind of discipline I’ve never had, not in the ring, not in life. He’s the kind of fighter who makes violence look like arithmetic: clean, measured, inevitable.

I envy that.

Zarya hums like she understands. She doesn’t waste effort either. She moves when she needs to, and when she does, the world feels it. Maybe that’s what this whole exercise is about—learning when to strike instead of swinging until you break something.

There’s a kind of honesty in that, too. Christie fights the way I keep telling myself I should live—decisive, efficient, no noise, no theater. The funny thing is, when you strip away all of Ivan’s speeches and the Red Army’s pageantry, what’s left is that same truth: a man trying to control the chaos before it consumes him.

Maybe this match isn’t just another fight.

Maybe it’s a reminder of what I used to be before I started drowning.

He doesn’t even realize it, but Christie’s more than just another opponent. He’s the checkpoint between who I was and whatever the hell comes next. The guy walks to the ring with nothing but tape and purpose—no flags, no speeches, no noise. A man like that forces you to strip away your excuses. If I can’t meet him on that level, if I can’t find that same clarity inside the chaos, then maybe I deserve to sink. He’s not just throwing punches at me; he’s throwing them through me, seeing what’s left on the other side.

Between drills I see Nico leaning on the rail in a Red Army jacket, binoculars bigger than his face. He waves, grinning. My stomach knots instantaneously and I almost lose control of her, which would’ve sent the three of us plunging into the icy abyss that is the White Sea. My son should be home doing algebra, not watching his father learn how to function while high on diesel fumes. But he’s smiling, and that almost feels like forgiveness.

Almost.

You know, except for the part where I know he at least partially blames me for what’s happened to his mother. Honestly, I’m kind of surprised he hasn’t brought up Max’s counter proposal. I’m even more surprised he hasn’t tried to encourage me to accept. As if I need that clouding my judgement on the matter.

Is there really a right answer to the questions I’m facing? How do you choose between losing your son’s mother and losing both your son AND his mother? If someone can come up with the right answer, I’m all ears.

For a second, I think I see Kai standing behind him—the same half-smile, the same kind of stubborn warmth that used to make everything feel lighter. Now, more than ever, we could all use that warmth. At least, I know I could. Every day that passes, I go back to that conversation we had on Christmas. The one that led to all of this happening. I never appreciated what she brought to our relationship and I’d give up damn near anything to have her back. Then I blink, and it’s just Nico, bundled in that oversized jacket like he’s trying to fill a role that’s too big for him.

He’s got a notebook in his hand—Alexei’s idea, no doubt. “For observation and tactical notes,” he called it. Nico probably doesn’t even realize they’re teaching him how to write reports like a soldier. He just wants to be useful.

He waves again, eager, proud, and I force myself to wave back. If he sees hesitation, he doesn’t show it. The way his face lights up cuts straight through me. That’s the part nobody tells you about guilt—it doesn’t burn, it freezes. It takes all the warmth and leaves you cold enough to make bad decisions feel like survival.

The phone buzzes inside my pocket. Same number as usual.

The Herald.

I let it ring until the sound disappears into Zarya’s growl. He made his choice; I’ve made mine. And it doesn’t involve him.

Hessian calls another maneuvering sequence. Zarya revs; the treads bite; the gun stabilizes just as Gamble pulls the trigger. The recoil thunders through my chest and out into the sea air. Perfect. Ivan’s voice crackles through the comm: “Excellent, comrades! She loves you!”

I don’t answer.

I already know.

This already feels like a well oiled machine.

When the final report echoes across the deck, everything stops. No orders, no growl of the engine, just the creak of metal cooling in the cold. It turns out this old girl is just like the rest of us, needing a good cool down after flexing her muscles. Not all that far off from how I’ll be after I put Danny Christie to sleep with the Garrota. Tired, beaten, sore and in need of some R and R. Hessian climbs out first, rubbing at his neck. Gamble follows, stretching his arms like he’s been manning the world’s largest gun.

Ivan stands near the bow, watching the horizon, hands behind his back. For once, even he seems tired. The drills are done; the Red Army has accomplished much today. He won’t say it, but as a team, we’ve done him proud.

I stay a moment longer in the gunner’s seat, hand resting on the velvet, feeling the faint throb still running through her frame. Again, I find myself relating…it’s hard to come back down from the high of the fight. The adrenaline rush that accompanies war. She doesn’t want to sleep yet.

Neither do I.

When I finally climb out, the sky is bleeding into dusk and the deck lights flicker to life.

The Bear calls us over.

Another lesson awaits.

🍍🍍🍍

Dusk bleeds across the White Sea. The drills are finished. Ivan gathers us near the rail, his voice soft now. “One heartbeat,” he says. “One breath.” The way he speaks, I’m not entirely sure he’s speaking to us, rather to her.

Regardless, they cheer.

I don’t. I just keep staring at Zarya.

Christie wouldn’t need any of this. No toasts, no banners, no metal between him and the truth. Fluff just isn’t part of his game. He’d just raise his hands and let the world see exactly what he is. Fair Game. No pomp and circumstance. Clean and final. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. Maybe I want to remember what honesty feels like.

When I look to the railing where Nico once sat, my teenager is no longer there. Instead, he’s milling around near Ivan and Alexei…but not too near. As he looks out across the rolling waves, I can’t help to notice how much of Kai I see in the boy. The brown in his eyes. The natural highlights in his hair. I think the only thing he took from me was his stature. Nico’s been packing on some weight since tagging along with The Red Army. Guess it’s that military grade diet at work.

Zarya waits where we left her, turret angled toward the horizon. My eyes scan her weathered exterior, running my hands over the dents and imperfections in the metal. Despite her faults, she’s an impressive killing machine. I brush soot from the brass plaque—«Память Фани». “You did good today,” I tell her. Her engine ticks as it cools, a slow, steady breath. “He thinks you’re his past. Maybe you’re my future. Maybe together, we can find a way out of this fuckin’ mess.”

The sea wind smells like oil and coming storms. The deck trembles under my boots, steady and slow, like she’s breathing again. A pulse hiding in the steel. It’s almost comforting—the rhythm of something ancient reminding me to listen. Maybe she’s talking, or maybe I’m just finally quiet enough to hear. The message is the same either way: stay calm, stay centered, strike with intent. It’s what Ivan preaches, what Christie embodies, what I keep forgetting. Zarya doesn’t waste a single beat. Maybe it’s time I stopped wasting mine. I rest my hand on her armor. “Don’t worry. I won’t disgrace you. Just…don’t watch too closely.”

The deck vibrates beneath me, soft and rhythmic. A slow heartbeat, or maybe just the echo of hers. It’s strange how the longer you spend around a thing built for war, the more it starts to sound human. Maybe she’s trying to tell me that the real enemy isn’t the one we’re pointing her at.

Her idle deepens, low and patient.

Ivan explained that the name Zarya means Dawn. The name is fitting. They say that things get darkest before the dawn, and I’d imagine that things are going to get a little worse before they get better. The real question is whose situation is going to get worse? If I can help it, it’s not gonna be me.

Standing here in the dark, with her breath warming the air between us, it feels more like waiting for something to finally burn.

Hours later, the ship has gone quiet. The others are below, the laughter of comradeship fading into the engine hum. I haven’t been much in the mood for camaraderie these days anyway.

I can’t sleep. The cold keeps needling through my jacket, or maybe it’s just what’s left of conscience. Zarya idles beside me, soft and steady, her turret angled toward the stars.

The phone buzzes again in my pocket—same number. I let it ring until it dies and contemplate sacrificing it to the sea.

I must’ve dozed off on the deck because when I open my eyes, everything’s red—the velvet, the sky, the sea. The radio inside Zarya crackles even though she’s powered down. For a second, I swear I hear his voice.

“The Bryan Dawkins…are you still there?”

The Herald.

Only it doesn’t sound like him. The words are slow, almost sad, like they’ve traveled a long way through cold metal to reach me.

I tell myself it’s just the wind pushing through the vents, but it lingers anyway. The air smells like burnt ozone and sugar. The voice fades, but not before it leaves one word stuck in my head—‘focus.’ Maybe it’s The Herald. Maybe it’s something else. Either way, it’s the same word Ivan drills into me every day, the same thing Christie’s already mastered. I close my eyes and listen until it fades, leaving just the steady hum of her engine…and the feeling that somebody, somewhere, is still trying to get through.

🍍🍍🍍

Out beyond the harbor lights, the horizon’s as black as oil. Somewhere out there, Max Kael’s laughing. Somewhere else, a friend I stopped believing in keeps trying to reach me. Most importantly, somewhere Kai is wondering where I’ve been.

I rest my hand on the tank’s armor.

“Not yet,” I tell her. “But soon.” Sooner than she probably realizes.

The sky over Arkhangelsk doesn’t really go dark; it just bruises and holds its breath. Zarya’s engine purrs beside me, low and patient, each rumble a reminder that she’s waiting for purpose. Ivan calls her Dawn, but she feels more like a promise the night keeps whispering to itself. I trace the edge of her armor and watch the frost melt under my hand. Somewhere inside the ship, Nico’s asleep. The Herald’s number still sits unanswered on my phone. Max is out there, untouched, still laughing.

I tell myself this isn’t revenge—it’s closure. It’s control. But when Zarya exhales through her vents, it sounds a lot like hunger.

Soon, she’ll eat.

Soon, we both will.