Weeds

The Russian Bear watched the Western Hemisphere shrink beneath him, its vastness reduced to a patchwork quilt visible through reinforced glass. It was always satisfying watching the West fall away, becoming insignificant beneath a Russian-made aircraft. Still, he hated flying.

Seatbelts weren’t built for a man like Ivan Stanislav.

It cut across his abdomen, a constant pressure he used to ignore. He couldn’t anymore. The nylon pulled so tight that the latch sat at an awkward angle. He tried twice to adjust it, once with patience, then with blunt force that usually convinced objects (or people) to cooperate, but the buckle only chuckled and clicked tighter, like it was proud of itself.

The armrests dug into his sides. His shoulders took turns touching the window and shifting into the aisle. His right knee pressed into the seat ahead of him, and the plastic backrest gave with a soft creak of surrender. His left leg had no place to go, so it remained folded awkwardly, compressed, and annoyed.

Flying never made a man like Ivan Stanislav feel large.

It made him feel small.

Across from him, handsome Maksim Stepanov sat as if the plane was built for him personally. Back straight. Hands folded. Neutral expression. A man who could fly about all day without a care in the world and rest without a single ache or pain.

The cabin stretched around them, a private jet meant for a dozen men, now occupied by only two. Ivan found himself missing Alexei’s presence. Ruslan had left earlier. The Svet Fanyi needed him, apparently. Ivan would have preferred Alyosha’s grumbling to Stepanov's cold silence.

The plane vibrated with the steady hum of its engines, a constant pressure, like someone whispering into his skull. The air smelled of recycled breath, plastic, and coffee.

Ivan’s enormous phone sat in his hand like obsidian. The Brick, they called it, as if the nickname could turn the absurdity of the object into something practical. Some said that the style of phone, specially made for a man of Ivan’s dimensions, could give a normal man a hernia just by lifting it. Ivan's thumb scrolled with the same blunt certainty he used to fold men in half in the ring.

He had been looking at headlines. A story about a Russian general, shot dead in Moscow. He stared out the window. Even decorated men could be reduced to a paragraph when the world decided it was done with them.

The screen flashed and changed with a short, blunt notification.

ON THIS DAY, 1 YEAR AGO

Ivan stopped scrolling.

The Brick offered a preview, like it was doing him a favor.

An image of Ivan Stanislav, holding the Universal Championship aloft over a beaten Coral Avalon. He stared at it without expression. His face didn’t soften, nor did it harden. It simply held, as if refusing to give the machine the satisfaction of a reaction.

One year ago.

He remembered the weight of the belt. Not the leather or the metal. The physical object was no burden at all. But the meaning of it, the certainty, and the uncertainty? That was heavy. But on that night, one year ago, the universe made sense.

The seatbelt dug deeper, like a cheap insult. However many miles he was in the air, Ivan couldn’t have felt much lower.

He darkened the phone and allowed himself to frown. It wasn’t really a memory. It was just… what did the kids call them?

“Algorithms,” he growled.

Maksim’s eyes flashed toward the Brick, then away again.

Ivan shifted his hips, trying to find some angle that did not feel like punishment. The knee in front of him pressed harder into the seat ahead.

Pop.

A sharp, ugly sound. Contained. Private. Humiliating. Like his body was clearing its throat at the wrong moment. Ivan’s jaw flexed once. He didn’t look down at his leg. He didn’t massage the aching knee. He tried to pay it no attention. Because to pay it attention was to accept it, and then surrender.

The plane dipped slightly, a gentle wobble that made the tray table in front of him rattle. Ivan reached down and tried to pull it open, mainly out of spite. It lowered halfway, then stopped, blocked by the simple reality of his size.

He pulled again. It refused.

The Brick buzzed again, different from the last. More official. Across the aisle, Maksim’s slimmer device lit up at the same moment. Maksim glanced down first and read it without expression, then lifted his eyes to Ivan.

“The Anglo Luchador,” the young man said.

Ivan stared at the words on his own screen.

There were opponents who felt like storms, rare and dangerous. Those were the ones you measured your year against. There were opponents who felt like wars, the kind that marked a man.

And then there were opponents like Tom Battaglia. Men who returned like an irritation you could not stop scratching. Always present. Always convinced they mattered more than they did.

“Again,” Ivan said.

“He is persistent,” Maksim replied, speaking with annoying calm.

Ivan kept his eyes forward on the screen, which he darkened, his own reflection faintly visible in the glass. “So are weeds,” he replied.

Maksim did not smile. He let the silence sit there for a beat. Long enough to suggest Ivan had made a point.

“Cancer Jiles versus Farthington for the Universal Championship,” Maksim added, as if Ivan wasn’t able to look at the rest of the card.

Ivan’s fingers tightened around the Brick. The plastic edged creaked. He considered crushing it. There were always more Bricks.

“Jiles returns after a break, beats Ruslan, a manager, and then beats Tsonda," Maksim continued. "Two matches. And now a Universal Championship match and he leads a team at Culture Shock. Impressive.”

Maksim’s eyes met Ivan’s for a moment, then returned to his lap.

“What are you getting at?” Ivan snarled. It sliced through the drone of the aircraft.

“You finished with the best record in all of 2025,” Maksim continued. “Beat former Universal Champion Jared Sykes. Achieved the Hall of Fame. You get The Anglo Luchador.” Maksim shrugged. “I find it interesting.”

Ivan’s breathing remained even. His face still. But the irritation had shifted, no longer confined to the indignity of the plane seat. It had climbed into his throat, trapped behind his teeth.

Maksim’s voice softened by a fraction, not with sympathy, but with the careful tone of a man pretending he had been hired to help.

“Ms. Troy versus Dan Ryan too,” Maksim continued.

Something in Ivan tightened.

“The man who defeated you in January,” Maksim mused. “You requested a match with Ms. Troy many times," Maksim shrugged. "She just… ignores you.” He shrugged. “My father says ‘momentum is measurable’ and I think he’s right.”

Ivan hated that Maksim was right. He hated the seat. He hated the belt cutting into him. He hated the tray table that refused to lower like it was making some moral point. He hated the Brick buzzing like a little judge. He hated the way the world reduced victories into anniversaries and losses into death sentences.

“It will be better once we get to Arkhangelsk,” Ivan growled. The words were less for Maksim and more for himself.

Maksim simply nodded and pulled up an email on his phone. It was short. Official. Dry.

He read it once, then again, and savored its simplicity.

He smiled.

—

The Brick had buzzed with Alexei's messages all morning. Ivan hadn't answered. The phone didn’t seem capable of delivering good news, and he’d see Alexei soon enough.

Arkhangelsk’s docks never welcomed anyone. The wind found the seams of his coat and proved his beard useless. The SFS Svet Fanyi loomed at berth like a floating city block. Steel stacked on steel. Floodlights washed its hull in pale white. Navy personnel moved along the deck in small, efficient lines.

Ivan had expected to see red. Banners, symbols, the familiar theatrical discipline Alexei loved to impose on every surface. The Red Army did not travel quietly.

But there was no statement.

No hammer and sickle. No Soviet flags. No propaganda. No welcoming committee in Red Army dress. It had been scrubbed down to bare metal. Only the current Russian Navy markings remained. Clean. Official. Unromantic. As if her soul was stripped away.

Down the dock, Ruslan stood with his coat open and cap askew. His face was red from wind and anger and his hands moved in sharp, chopping motions.

He was arguing with two men in naval uniforms.

They were not large nor were they impressive in the way Alexei liked men to be impressive. They were simply trained and stood with the indifferent steadiness of people who knew their role was to be a barrier.

Alexei’s voice climbed as Ivan began to approach with Maksim in tow.

“This is unlawful," Alexei screamed in Russian. "This vessel is a symbol under our protection. You have no authority to deny us entry!”

One officer responded without visible emotion. “Entry is restricted and our orders are clear, Sir.”

Alexei scoffed bitterly. “Orders from whom?”

“Kapitan Morozova,” the officer answered.

There had been headlines about Morozova and the Russian Federation absorbing the Svet Fanyi. Neither Alexei nor Ivan thought it would actually happen. Surely Morozova was ceremonial, not operational.

Alexei reinforced their ignorance. “Who?”

“Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav,” the officer said, looking past Alexei to Ivan. “Kapitan Morozova will receive you aboard the vessel.”

Ruslan whirled about and let out a sigh of relief, finally seeing Ivan in the flesh. Stanislav narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

“Only you,” the second officer added. “No entourage. No additional personnel.”

“Look what they did to our ship, Vanya!” Ruslan cried, and rounded on the officers. “Where he goes, I go!”

From afar, Maksim slipped his hands into his expensive coat and leaned against the truck. His expression was more bemused than polite.

Stanislav looked back at the ship, absent of everything he and Alexei loved, and then looked down at the two officers. “And if I refuse?” He asked.

“Then you will not step foot on the Svet Fanyi,” the officer said.

Alexei turned fully toward Ivan now, eyes wide with outrage. “This is a provocation,” he said. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “We can leave, Vanya. Give me two days, and I’ll disappear every fucking navy man in this city.”

The wind caught Alexei’s coat and it snapped like a flag. Ivan watched him, then looked at the gangway, then at the two officers.

“Wait here,” he said.

Alexei’s face twisted with disbelief. “Ivan…”

“I’ll meet him, and fix this,” Ivan said. The officers stepped aside. Ivan placed one boot on the first metal step as the wind hit him harder due to the open water and the open sky.

Behind him, Alexei’s rage did not stop. Maksim approached, finally, with a hint of quiet amusement in his voice.

“Something wrong?” Maksim asked Alexei.

Ruslan snarled. “Fuck you.”

While the two watched Ivan navigate the narrow gangway, Kapitan Morozova waited inside…

—

The corridors of the Svet Fanyi felt foreign. Not what Ivan could see, but what he couldn't. No red cloth. No banners. No images of himself or the Red Army. It had been boiled down to function.

A young sailor passed, eyes flicking up in recognition, then snapping away. The officer escorting Ivan didn't chatter. When Ivan's shoulders scraped the bulkhead, the officer didn't flinch.

The Bear's knee complained once. He ignored it.

At the captain's office, Ivan's nameplate had been removed. In its place, at eye level for everyone else:

Kapitan First Rank Morozova T. A.

The officer knocked once, waited for permission that came immediately, and opened the door. Inside, a voice. Not harsh, but precise.

“No. Remove it. Replace it. Do not come back to me with this again.”

“Aye, Kapitan.”

The room had been his office once. But not like this. Two patched screw holes where his Soviet flag had once hung. The desk wasn't his. It was smaller, bolted, returned to command standards.

The first thing Ivan saw was not her face.

It was the white streak.

A single slash of pale hair, like a ship's wake frozen in place. It registered, then his mind moved on. She stood behind the desk. No trophies. No photographs. Function, not sentiment.

Her uniform was immaculate. Dark navy, gold trim that looked earned. She held a white peaked cap under one arm. The junior officer stood rigid. Morozova's eyes lifted to Ivan. They didn't widen, soften, or look impressed.

Ivan had expected an older man, someone ceremonial, someone they could bully. His mind adjusted to the new reality.

Tatyana Arkadyevna Morozova was tall. Not near his height, but tall enough that the room didn't tilt toward him. She carried herself with the quiet severity of someone who had given orders where disobedience meant death.

She spoke without hesitation.

“Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav.”

Ivan’s shoulders settled into something formal. His chin lifted by a fraction.

“Kapitan 1 ranga Morozova,” he replied.

The junior officer excused himself silently and left, closing the door behind him with soft, practiced care. The office felt smaller with the two of them alone. Not because of Ivan’s size, but because of how much authority was now concentrated in one place.

Morozova set the cap down on the corner of the desk with exactness. Her hands were strong hands, not manicured in a way that begged attention. They were hands that did their job.

“Please, sit.”

Ivan held firm, but she did not react. She waited him out. It wasn’t a contest. She didn’t need him to win it.

After a breath, Ivan lowered himself down into a chair designed for a human, not a giant.

Pop.

A sharp, private sound from his knee as his weight shifted. Ivan’s face didn’t change, he just took the joint's betrayal and buried it.

She sat opposite him, her posture not rigid, but rather correct. She folded her hands and began, as if the conversation had started before Ivan even entered.

“This vessel is not a prop,” she said.

Ivan’s eyes narrowed while she let the words hang in the air. He replied with irritation and instinctive pride. “It is a symbol.”

She allowed a beat of silence, and spoke again. “It is a symbol,” she agreed, and yet it didn’t sound like a concession. “Symbols are carried through discipline. That is why it continues to bear your mother’s name. But she is not a spectacle.”

Ivan’s jaw worked once. He gripped the edge of his chair and felt the wood groan.

“Alexei Ruslan treats this vessel as a stage. But he had no right to do so. Nor did you have the right to bargain this ship to Mr. Jiles, I believe his name is. That’s an insult to command.”

Morozova held Ivan’s gaze for a moment longer, inspecting his weathered features. She considered the room.

“Walk with me,” she said.

Ivan’s knee answered before his mouth did.

Pop.

His face remained granite while Morozova, her white-streaked hair unmoved, turned to the door. She didn’t bother looking behind to see if he was following. They reached a watertight hatch and she placed her hand on the wheel. "I'm not your enemy. I'm the Kapitan. The Army has no right to control this vessel. It’s a naval asset. You know that, Starshy Praporshchik."

The hatch groaned open. Cold Arkhangelsk air, sharp as broken glass, cut across Ivan’s cheeks. Morozova widened her stance and strode onto the deck, while Ivan’s barrel chest pushed against Arkhangelsk’s invisible hand.

Near the gangway, she gestured downward. Alexei's red face tilted upward, his coat snapping like a whip. Maksim's thumb slid across his phone screen, his expression bored. Ruslan's mouth opened and closed, fists punctuating the air.

“He can shout all he wants, Starshy Praporshchik,” Morozova said. “Up here, he is noise.”

She stared out at the freezing water and allowed a beat to rest between them.

“Ivan Stanislav,” she said quietly. “I am a few years younger than you. I remember when I was in the academy. Ivan Stanislav.” She let another beat pass while staring at the cresting, murky waves. “You gave us hope.”

She turned to face him.

“Then, and now, you do work for this country most men only talk about. I respect it.”

Wind snapped her coat, but she did not adjust it.

“You are permitted aboard the Svet Fanyi,” she said. “But I will not tolerate a circus.”

A beat.

“Ruslan will follow my rules,” she added. “Or he will not be here.”

Ivan looked at Kapitan Morozova. He did not loom, he did not posture. Her eyes, and rank, afforded no possible alternative.

He had nothing to say.

—

The truck’s cabin was stifling. Ivan sat in the rear bench seat in a space designed for cargo, not a man of his dimensions. His knee wedged against the front seat at an angle that made the joint scream.

Alexei was ranting in the passenger seat.

He’d been raging since they left the dock, his voice climbing and falling in rhythms Ivan recognized from years of exposure. It wasn't about the officers anymore. It was about the ship. About the flags they'd taken down. About Morozova and her rules and her refusal to let him aboard. About the disrespect, the humiliation, the way everything they'd built had been stripped away.

Alexei was losing the ship.

And Ivan was losing his footing.

Maksim drove the truck with unhurried calm, his mouth curved in a slight, private grin. Ivan shifted his hips, trying to find an angle that didn’t feel like punishment.

He watched the Svet Fanyi fade in the rearview mirror and thought of Morozova’s words.

“You gave us hope.”

They didn’t bring comfort. He had been a monument once, but they eventually rust and get crammed in the back of a truck.

She wasn’t a politician. She wasn’t a meddler. She wasn’t an ally. Yet, she wasn’t an enemy either. She was simply… friction.

And friction had worn Ivan down.

Pop.

The sound was sharp and ugly. Ivan’s jaw flexed, an old reflex to bury the weakness and move on.

But this time, he didn’t.

He looked down at the knee. It sat wedged against the seat, compressed and throbbing. Heat lanced through it each time Alexei shifted and gyrated in his seat, complaining about everything.

The ship. The losses. Ties instead of wins. The ignored requests. The title shots that went to others. The momentum that had bled out post-Almasy while Ivan pretended everything was fine.

Always present. Always returning. Never loud enough to stop him, but never quiet enough to ignore.

He’d spent all day pretending it wasn’t there.

The Anglo Luchador.

Ivan narrowed his eyes at the joint. Battaglia was exactly like this ache. Not a storm. Not a war. Just a condition. Persistent. Invasive. Returned because Ivan had been arrogant enough to believe it would eventually fade.

He’d called him a weed.

But weeds were dangerous in a way storms and wars were not. Weeds choked the root. They split foundations.

Like the knee, they cost him matches. Momentum.

He couldn't fix the ship. He couldn't erase the losses and wasted effort. He couldn’t force the world to give him what he wanted.

But he could destroy The Anglo Luchador.

It wouldn’t win him a title. It wouldn't give Alexei his banners back. It was just gardening. But right now, a small, violent act of control was the only comfort Ivan had left.

Fix it before it cripples you.

The truck hit a bump. The knee flared hot.

Ivan didn’t wince. He didn’t look away. Instead, he reached down and pressed his thumb into the joint, feeling the shape of the damage. He adjusted his weight. Shifted the angle. Gave the joint what it needed.

Up front, Alexei was still raging. But Ivan was done listening.

“Quiet,” Ivan said. Not a shout. A growling statement.

Not just to Alexei.

To the ship. To the losses. To the momentum he couldn't reclaim. To the distractions, the aches, the weeds that had choked his foundation while he'd been too arrogant to notice.

All of it. Quiet.

There was only one thing left that mattered. One problem he could solve with his hands.

Alexei went silent. Maksim ceased smiling and focused on the frozen road ahead. The pain in Ivan’s knee receded. Still there, but under control.

He stared at the road ahead.

Fine.