On Red Wings

December 31st, 1990

Arkenversk, Kingdom of Falkheim.

7:01 PM

The frozen water lapped against the hull of the fishing vessel as fishermen pulled at the long nets draped over the sides, their hands stiff and raw from the cold. Each tug was heavy, the nets weighed down by the icy water and whatever they had caught beneath the surface. The men worked in silence, the creak of the boat and the slap of water against wood the only sounds cutting through the frozen stillness of the harbor.

Grabbing the side of one net, one of the older fishermen heaved as he pulled the net onto the deck, muscles flexing as he did so. Heaving the net onto the deck, the old fisherman let out a tired grunt and wiped his brow with his sleeve. The catch was disappointing—just a few small fish scattered in with chunks of ice. He shook his head and glanced at one of the younger men, who had paused to catch his breath.

“Yknow, it used to be that around this time of the year, we’d be pulling in twice as much fish,” the old man muttered, nudging the net with his boot. “Now it’s barely even worth the trouble.”

The younger fisherman sighed, eyeing the small pile. “Aye, not like it was when my dad would take me out here to trawl. Feels like we’re wasting our time.”

The old man gave a slow nod, his eyes drifting to the horizon. "Aye, back then, the nets would come up heavy. You couldn't keep up with 'em, fish practically leaping into the boat. These waters fed the whole town and more."

The younger man shifted, rubbing his cold hands together. “What d’you reckon happened? Think it’s the cold?”

The old man didn't say anything as he looked off in the distance, his gaze fixed on the dark silhouette of an oil rig jutting out against the fading light. Its towering structure loomed over the horizon, a reminder of how much things had changed. Finally, the old man sighed, his breath clouding in the cold air. "Times are different now," he muttered, almost to himself, before turning back to the nets. "Not much we can do but keep trying."

It had been 12 years ago, not long after the war, when the oil companies first approached the town with their grand plans. They had spoken of opportunity, of bringing jobs and prosperity back to the area with the construction of a new oil and gas facility. For a town still recovering from the scars of conflict and the many young men for whom it took, it had sounded like a chance at a fresh start—something to rebuild around, something to look forward to.

But once the rigs went up and the outsiders rolled in to work the jobs that were promised, the reality set in. The money never truly made its way to the people of Arkenversk, and the changes that followed weren’t the ones they had hoped for. The fishing, once the backbone of the town, started to suffer. Whether it was from the rig’s presence itself or simply the changing tides of fortune, no one could say for sure. But the waters, once teeming with abundant life, had grown colder and quieter with each passing year.

And quite frankly, the old man couldn't blame the fish. To him, it made sense. The waters had changed, the town had changed, and maybe the fish knew better than to stick around. They'd fled the way people sometimes do when things no longer feel like home. The old man had seen it happen with the young folk—packing up and leaving for bigger cities, chasing work or something new, just like the fish slipping away to deeper, safer waters. What was left behind was the same as the dwindling catch that now filled their nets—small, sparse, and never quite enough.

With another heavy sigh, the old man gave the signal to reel in the last of the nets. There was no point in staying out any longer. The day was dying, and so was the chance of pulling in anything more than a few stray fish. The crew worked quickly, moving with the practiced efficiency of men who had done this countless times before. In minutes, the nets were coiled up, the lines secured, and the boat turned back toward the harbor.

As they made their way across the icy waters, the town of Arkenversk slowly came into view, nestled against the jagged coastline. The sun, now a dim sliver on the horizon, cast a pale glow over the worn stone buildings and narrow streets. At first glance, it still looked like the fishing town it had always been—modest, rugged, shaped by the sea. But the closer they came, the more the scars of change became visible.

The harbor was a mix of old and new, wooden piers crowded with small fishing vessels like theirs, while farther down the docks, the larger steel hulls of cargo ships and supply boats loomed. Rusted cranes dotted the skyline, evidence of the town’s slow shift from a fishing hub to an industrial outpost. A thin layer of snow covered the rooftops, softening the harsh lines of the town, though the smoke rising from chimneys spoke of the hard lives inside.

Beyond the harbor, the streets of Arkenversk wound through the town haphazardly. Narrow, cobblestone alleys led up to the older part of town where small houses sat tightly packed, their facades worn from years of salt air and wind. The newer buildings, built of cold gray stone and steel, stood in stark contrast, their utilitarian design more suited for the oil workers than the fishermen and farmers with whom they lived aside.

At the heart of the town, and perhaps its only real notable building, was the clock tower that rose above everything else, its face cracked and weathered, yet still keeping time. It had been around for generations and hopefully, it would see many more.

As the ship finally eased into the dock, the men worked quickly to secure the vessel, tying off ropes and stowing what little gear they had used that day. The mood was somber, the meager catch weighing on them more than the freezing cold. With a few gruff words and nods of acknowledgment, they began to disembark, boots thudding against the worn wooden planks of the pier. Their breath hung in the air like clouds as they trudged off toward town, each man heading toward warmth and whatever small comfort awaited him.

Most of the fishermen, however, had the same destination in mind. Just past the docks, tucked into one of the narrow streets leading toward the older part of Arkenversk, was The Rusted Anchor, a small, dimly lit bar that had been around almost as long as the clock tower. The old man followed the others, his shoulders hunched against the cold, as they made their way through the snow-dusted streets, the familiar creak of the bar's door welcoming them inside.

The Rusted Anchor was as weathered as the fishermen and workers who frequented it. The floorboards groaned underfoot, and the walls were lined with faded pictures of better times—boats overflowing with fish, smiling faces at sea, the town’s history captured in grainy black and white.

The old man took his usual seat at the bar, ordering a whiskey without a word, as the other fishermen spread out around the room. The bartender, an older woman with gray streaks in her hair and a sharp eye, slid drinks across the counter with practiced ease. Just as the men began to settle into the familiar rhythm of their post-fishing drink, the door creaked open again, letting in a gust of cold air and a group of oil workers.

Upon seeing the group, many of the fishermen bit their lips in silent frustration. This particular crew had been a source of bitterness in town ever since a drunken night months ago when they had crossed a line none of the townsfolk would forget. In a fit of rage, they had assaulted a local girl who had only been asking for donations outside the church. The incident had sent waves of anger and disgust through the town, but nothing had come of it. The oil company had swept it under the rug, paying off the authorities, leaving the men to strut around the town as if they owned the place while the poor girl was still hospitalized.

The oil workers settled into their table at the center of the room, sneering at those around them as the barmaid placed their drinks on the table. As she turned to walk away, one of the men, a smirking brute with a thick neck and an air of arrogance, reached out and slapped her ass, the sound sharp in the quiet bar. His companions burst into laughter, clearly enjoying the spectacle as the barmaid stiffened, her face flushing red with anger and humiliation.

The old man at the bar shifted uncomfortably, his hand tightening around his glass, while several of the fishermen exchanged dark glances. This wasn’t the first time these oil workers had crossed the line, and each time, they seemed to push further, testing the patience of the locals.

The barmaid said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line as she walked briskly back behind the counter, but the tension in the room skyrocketed. The fishermen, already irked by the group’s presence, now sat on edge, silently watching the oil workers with clenched fists and narrowed eyes.

One of the oil workers, the man who’d slapped the barmaid, leaned back in his chair, grinning. “What’s the matter, boys? Still too busy pulling up empty nets to show a lady a good time?” His gaze wandered around the room before settling on one figure sitting alone by the window.

The fishermen around the bar, along with the barmaid and bartender, shifted their eyes as they looked at the figure before ever so slightly scooting away. Off all the men they tried to pick a fight with, they chose perhaps the worst one yet.

Seated at the table was a bear of a man, his large, hulking frame accentuated by the thick, weathered coat draped over his broad shoulders. His bushy beard and mustache, streaked with gray, covered much of his face, giving him a rugged, almost primal appearance. The beard was wild, yet somehow well-kept, framing a pair of sharp, steely grey eyes that missed nothing in the room. His skin was tanned and weather-beaten, with deep lines carved from years of pulling nets from the backs of trawlers. His arms, thick as tree trunks, were littered with scars, visible even beneath his rolled-up sleeves

Despite the oil workers getting up and surrounding him, the man at the window didn’t move. He didn’t even glance their way, instead taking a long, deliberate drink from his vodka, his gaze fixed on the icy harbor outside.

Annoyed by his lack of response, the oil workers exchanged glances before the one who had slapped the barmaid stepped forward. “What’s the matter, old man?” he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “Too busy drowning in that drink to say hello to us?”

Another one, emboldened by his friend’s lead, chimed in. “Or maybe he’s scared. Looks like he’s spent too long out at sea to handle some real men.”

Their laughter echoed through the bar, but the man at the window remained unmoved. He reached for the bottle in front of him, calmly refilling his glass as though the taunts weren’t even directed at him. His silence only seemed to fan the flames of their arrogance.

The leader of the group, eyes narrowing in frustration, leaned in closer, his voice louder now, almost a shout. “Hey, I’m talking to you, old man! You think you’re too good for us? Or are you just deaf?”

Still, the man didn’t react as the taunts echoed around him. Instead, he calmly drained his cup, setting it down with a quiet clink before glancing toward the bartender.

"Pardon me, Irina," he said, his steely eyes briefly locking with hers, "but I must leave early for the day. I have to deliver a catch to Chebovny early in the morning tomorrow."

With that, the man stood up from his chair, buttoned his coat, and quietly made his way toward the door. The room fell into a hush, the eyes of everyone inside following him as he moved, though no one dared to speak.

The door creaked as it swung open, a gust of cold wind sweeping into the bar as the man stepped outside. The moment the door shut behind him, the murmur of conversation slowly resumed, though it lacked the usual warmth. Most of the fishermen turned back to their drinks, hoping the situation had dissolved without incident.

“I can’t believe Mikhail just left!” one of the fishermen whispered to another, a look of surprise etched across his weathered face. His voice was low, barely audible over the renewed murmur in the bar. “Never seen him walk away from anything like that.”

The other fisherman, a grizzled man with a thick beard, shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed on the door Mikhail had walked through. “Aye, strange. He’s not one to back down from trouble… especially with those bastards pushin’ him.”

They both cast a wary glance toward the oil workers, who were still laughing among themselves, oblivious to the near-miss. A few of the other regulars shared the same uneasy expressions, knowing that Mikhail leaving without a word was more out of character than any outburst would have been.

“It’s for the best, though,” the bearded fisherman added, though his tone held a note of uncertainty. “We’ve seen what happens when he doesn’t walk away.”

The first fisherman nodded slowly, but the sense of relief didn’t quite settle. They all knew the oil workers weren’t finished, and the night was far from over.

***

Mikhail trudged down the snow-covered street, the cold air biting at his exposed skin as he pulled his coat tighter around him. The glow from the bar faded into the distance as he made his way back toward his small house near the harbor. His mind was focused on the tasks ahead for the next day—preparing the boat, getting the catch ready for delivery. The silence of the night was welcome, and he hoped it would stay that way.

But just as he neared a bend in the road, he heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him, uneven and sluggish. Mikhail slowed his pace but didn’t stop, hoping it was just someone heading home for the night. Then came the slurred voice, barely able to string together coherent words.

“Hey... hey, old man!” The voice was thick with drink, and as Mikhail glanced over his shoulder, he saw one of the oil workers stumbling toward him, clearly drunk beyond sense. The man’s steps were unsteady, his arms swinging awkwardly as he tried to close the distance between them. “You... you think you can just leave like that?” the worker muttered, his words broken by hiccups and laughter that didn’t quite fit the situation.

Mikhail sighed inwardly but kept walking, hoping the drunk would lose interest and wander back toward the bar. The man’s footsteps, however, quickened as he staggered after him, his breath heavy in the cold night air.

“Hey! I’m talkin’... I’m talkin’ to you!” the oil worker slurred, his voice rising as frustration mixed with his drunken state. He caught up to Mikhail, stumbling to a halt in front of him, blocking his path. “You think... you think you’re better than us? Just... just walk away?” His breath reeked of alcohol, his eyes glazed but holding a faint glimmer of something aggressive behind the intoxicated fog.

Mikhail looked at him for a moment, calm and unmoved, before speaking in a steady tone. “Go home. You’ve had too much tonight.” He stepped to the side, trying to walk around the man, but the worker drunkenly swayed to block him again, a smirk forming on his face as if he had somehow gained the upper hand.

Mikhail barely had time to react before something hard and cold shattered against the side of his head. The impact sent him reeling, his vision blurring as he staggered and dropped to one knee, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady himself in the snow. The sting of broken glass and the warm trickle of blood down his temple was all he registered before the barrage started.

The others had been waiting, hiding in the shadows until he was alone. Now they swarmed, boots slamming into his ribs, fists coming down hard against his back and shoulders. Their drunken grunts and curses filled the night as they kicked and beat him, seizing the opportunity they hadn’t taken in the bar. Mikhail didn’t fight back, his arms covering his head and body as he tried to shield himself from the worst of it, hoping the attack would end as quickly as it had begun.

Amidst the flurry of fists and boots, his coat and shirt began to tear, fabric ripping as one of the attackers grabbed him by the collar and yanked. It was then that something caught their eyes—a tattoo, once hidden, now exposed on the thick, scarred skin of Mikhail's shoulder and chest. It was an angel, kneeling in prayer, her hands clasped around a bloody crown. Below it were the words “71st Squadron.”

The men froze for a moment, their eyes widening as they recognized the mark.

“Shit…” one of the oil workers muttered, stumbling back a step, his bravado faltering as the weight of what they were doing settled in. “He’s a vet...”

But the brief pause in the beating was short-lived. The lead worker, the same man who had harassed him earlier, spat on the ground, trying to reclaim his confidence. “So what?” he slurred. “That was years ago. You're just another washed-up has-been now. Not so tough now huh?”

The others, emboldened by his words, resumed their assault, kicking and punching with renewed vigor, though the hesitation still lingered in their movements. Mikhail remained on the defensive, his face impassive as he endured the blows. He stayed silent, gritting his teeth as their taunts rained down on him alongside the punches.

Then one of the men made the mistake of going too far.

"71st Squadron?” the drunk worker sneered, laughing bitterly. “I heard all you bastards were just a bunch of cowards. Probably why so many of you didn’t make it home—nothing but weak men pretending to-

The man didn’t get to finish his sentence. In an instant, Mikhail’s massive hand shot up, clamping around his neck like a vice. The worker’s eyes bulged as Mikhail lifted him clean off the ground, his feet kicking helplessly in the air. Without a word, Mikhail hurled him to the ground with a bone-jarring thud. The man gasped, clutching his throat, too stunned to scream.

Before the others could react, Mikhail was already moving. His fist came down like a hammer, crushing into the ribs of the closest worker. The sharp crack of bones snapping echoed through the empty street as the man let out a guttural cry, crumpling to the ground in a heap. Another rushed at Mikhail with a wild punch, but Mikhail ducked and retaliated with an uppercut that connected with the man’s jaw. The sound of bone shattering was immediate. His head snapped back, and he collapsed, blood already pouring from his mouth as his jaw hung grotesquely, dislocated and broken.

The lead worker, eyes wide with terror, stumbled back, drawing a knife from his belt with trembling hands. “I-I’ll fucking kill you!” he screamed, desperation clear in his voice. He lunged forward, slashing wildly at Mikhail but he didn't move. Instead, his hand shot out, catching the man’s wrist mid-swing.

Without hesitation, Mikhail twisted the arm with brutal force. The snap was sickeningly loud. The man's scream ripped through the night as his arm bent backward at a grotesque angle, the bones in his forearm shattered into fragments. The knife clattered to the ground as the worker collapsed to his knees, cradling his ruined arm, his face twisted in agony.

Mikhail didn’t stop. His boot came down hard on the man’s knee, the force of the blow obliterating the joint with a crack. The man howled in pain, collapsing fully into the snow, his cries turning into desperate sobs as he writhed in the freezing cold, clutching his mangled limbs.

One by one, Mikhail dealt with the others, his fists landing with savage precision. Another man’s ribs caved in under the force of a blow, and he fell gasping for breath, blood bubbling from his lips. Another had his arm wrenched behind his back until the shoulder popped free from its socket with a sickening crunch. The men who had moments ago been full of bravado were now broken, bloodied, and begging for mercy, sprawled across the snow like discarded refuse.

“Jesus Christ...” one of the officers muttered, glancing from Mikhail to the wreckage of bodies sprawled across the snow. Mikhail remained silent, his eyes cast downward, his expression unreadable. The officers led him to the squad car, pushing him into the back seat just as an ambulance arrived...