On Red Wings

“What on gods green earth were you thinking?!?”

The words echoed off the bare concrete walls of the small holding cell, bouncing around with a force that matched the agitation of the man in the suit. Isaac, Mikhail's lawyer, paced back and forth, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the floor. His face was flushed with a mix of frustration and disbelief.

Mikhail, meanwhile, seemed utterly unaffected by Isaac's outburst. He was laid back in his chair, his large frame making the standard-issue piece of furniture look almost comically small beneath him. His head rested against the wall behind, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if the flickering fluorescent lights above were far more interesting than the man standing before him.

Isaac paused in his pacing, glaring at Mikhail, his hands clenched at his sides. “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into?” he continued, his voice rising. “A bar fight, Mikhail? And not just any fight—those were glacier workers! Do you realize the kind of leverage their company has? They’re going to come down on this like a hammer hitting a nail.”

Mikhail didn’t answer, his expression blank, his gaze unchanging. If Isaac’s words reached him, there was no sign of it. His breathing was even, his demeanor calm—a stark contrast to the anger radiating from his lawyer.

“Damn it, look at me when I’m talking to you!” Isaac snapped, his voice breaking through the silence of the cell, his frustration palpable.

Slowly, Mikhail lowered his head, his steely eyes locking onto Isaac’s for the first time since he’d started his tirade. His gaze was impassive, cold, with a hint of weariness that came from years of seeing too much. He blinked once, then finally spoke, his deep voice carrying an edge of tired detachment.

“What did you expect me to do, Isaac?” he asked, his tone devoid of emotion. “They wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried to walk away.”

Isaac let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples as though trying to ease a mounting headache. “Walking away isn’t enough when it comes to those guys, Mikhail. You know that,” he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “They've been itching for a reason to cause trouble, and you handed it to them on a silver platter. You can't just handle things like that anymore. This isn’t the war, Mikhail. There are consequences now—legal ones.”

Mikhail’s eyes flicked away, his jaw tightening slightly. He leaned his head back against the wall, the tension in his body barely perceptible, but it was there. He said nothing, his silence a clear end to the conversation.

Isaac sighed again, the sound filled with resignation. He stopped pacing and stood in front of Mikhail, his hands resting on his hips. “Look, I’m going to try to clean this up, but you’ve made it damn near impossible this time. Some of those guys are in the hospital—broken bones, concussions, the works. Their company is going to demand compensation. They’ve already put pressure on the police, and frankly, I’m not sure how much leverage I have to make this go away quietly.”

He waited for a response, but Mikhail remained silent, his gaze once again drifting to the ceiling. Isaac shook his head, his frustration palpable. “Just... try not to make things worse, alright?” He turned and made his way to the door, hesitating for a moment as he looked back at Mikhail, his eyes softening. “I know you’re not a bad guy, Mikhail. I’ve been defending you for a long time now. But you’ve got to stop letting the past define you. It’ll keep dragging you under.”

With that, Isaac pushed open the heavy metal door, the clang of it shutting behind him echoing through the small, cold space. Mikhail remained still, his expression unreadable as his eyes followed the faint lines of the ceiling, the dim hum of the overhead lights filling the silence left in Isaac’s wake.

Mikhail stayed like that for a while, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the faint outlines left by years of grime and neglect. The buzzing fluorescent light above him seemed to match the dull throb at the back of his head—a mixture of exhaustion, the aftermath of adrenaline, and the ache left by a night that had gone very wrong.

He knew Isaac meant well, the lawyer was one of the few people who still gave a damn about him after he got back from the army. But even Isaac didn’t understand the entirety of it. He didn’t know what it felt like to have a burden that slowly choked the life out of you until you were nothing more than a husk begging for death. Mikhail exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze from the ceiling, a deep frown creasing his features.

The door at the end of the narrow corridor opened again, and Mikhail’s eyes flicked towards it. The guard, a young officer who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five, entered with a jangling set of keys in hand. He looked uneasy, avoiding eye contact as he approached the cell.

"Uh, Mikhail Ivanov?" he said, his voice hesitant. "You’ve got ten minutes to make a phone call. Then it’s back to processing."

Mikhail slowly stood, his large frame rising with a steady deliberateness that made the young officer take an involuntary step back. Mikhail didn't miss the movement, nor the nervous look in the guard’s eyes. He offered no reassurance; instead, he simply held out his cuffed wrists. The officer fumbled with the keys for a moment before unlocking the cell door and gesturing for Mikhail to step out.

The small room down the hall contained a lone table with a phone sitting in the center, its cord curling and tangling on itself. The officer led Mikhail over and gestured to the chair, giving him a wary look. Mikhail sat, the metal of the chair creaking under his weight, and picked up the phone, staring at the numbers. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the buttons.

After a moment, he punched in the only number he knew was worth dialing, listening as the ringing filled the silence. After three rings, there was a click, followed by a familiar voice—rough and tired.

"Yeah, who’s this?" the voice crackled over the line, deep and somewhat muffled.

Mikhail paused for a second before speaking. "Boris. It’s me."

There was silence for a beat on the other end before the voice responded, the weariness shifting into something closer to disbelief, maybe even concern. "Mikhail? Christ, man, where the hell are you? I heard you got into it with some of those glacier oil bastards from the boys at the Rusted Anchor."

Mikhail closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need you to pick me up," he said simply. "They’re processing me, but I’ll be released on bail. Isaac’s handling it."

Boris sighed deeply, the static of the line amplifying the weariness in his tone. "Always trouble, aren’t you, brother? You should’ve just stayed home. You know these guys aren’t worth it."

Mikhail’s eyes opened, his gaze distant. "I tried, Boris," he said, his voice quiet, a hint of something raw slipping through. "I tried to walk away but..."

Another pause. Then Boris’ voice came back, softer now. "I know you did. Alright, I’ll be there. Just sit tight, and don’t do anything stupid, yeah?"

A faint smile touched Mikhail’s lips, barely there before it vanished. "No promises."

The call ended, and Mikhail hung up the phone, the clack of it settling into place echoing in the empty room. He sat for a moment, staring at the wall, before the young officer cleared his throat, gesturing for him to stand. Mikhail followed him back to the cell, his thoughts already far away—thinking of Boris, of Isaac, and most of all, the pain in the back of his head.

Back in his cell, Mikhail sat on the cot, staring at the small, barred window above him. The night sky was just barely visible, dark and endless. He sighed and leaned back, resting his head against the cold wall, waiting for whatever came next.

***

The sky above was overcast, the thick winter clouds hanging low, casting everything in a muted gray. The cold air bit into the exposed skin of anyone outside, a reminder that Arkenversk's winters were not kind to the impatient. The local jail, a squat, utilitarian building, sat on the edge of town, its stone walls worn by years of harsh weather.

The iron gates at the entrance creaked open, and Mikhail stepped through, the heavy clang of metal echoing behind him as they shut. He paused for a moment, taking in a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. The stillness outside was a stark contrast to the claustrophobic cell he’d been occupying, and despite the situation, a part of him felt relieved to be out—even if only temporarily.

Isaac had made good on his word. Bail was posted, and for now, Mikhail was free to go, though he knew well enough that his freedom was conditional. The upcoming hearings would be another battle entirely, one fought not with fists, but with words and bureaucracy—a kind of fight Mikhail had never been comfortable with.

Across the small, snow-covered courtyard, a familiar figure leaned against an old pickup truck, puffing on a cigarette, the orange ember glowing faintly in the gray light. Boris straightened as soon as he saw Mikhail, tossing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot.

“Bout damn time,” Boris grumbled, though there was no real malice in his voice. He took a step forward, his eyes scanning Mikhail’s face—taking in the bruises, the cuts, the weariness still etched into his features. “You look like hell.”

Mikhail gave a half-shrug, wincing slightly at the movement. “Feels about right,” he said, his voice rough from the cold and the hours spent under harsh lights. He approached Boris, who opened the truck door with a nod. “Let’s get out of here.”

Boris glanced at the building behind them, then back at Mikhail. “You know, Isaac said you’d be out soon, and he also told me to tell you something. Glacier is pushing this incident hard and is already trying to involve the provincial court.”

Mikhail paused his hand on the truck door, his eyes narrowing just slightly. He sighed, the exhaustion suddenly heavier on his shoulders. “Of course they are,” he muttered, the resignation clear in his voice. He climbed into the truck, settling himself into the passenger seat. “They won’t let this blow over easy, will they?”

Boris shook his head as he closed the door and moved to the driver’s side. He climbed in, the springs groaning under his weight. “No, they won’t,” he said, turning the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered for a moment before roaring to life. “Isaac says Glacier’s making this about ‘keeping order.’ They want the town to see them as the ones in control. And they’re using you as the bad example—trying to show what happens when someone steps out of line.”

Mikhail rubbed a hand over his face, leaning back into the seat, his gaze out the window, eyes watching the snow drifting in the air. “I’m not looking to fight them, Boris,” he said quietly. “I’m too damn old for that kind of trouble. I just want to keep my head down and live my life.”

Boris glanced over at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded, but there was worry in his eyes. “I know, Mikhail. I know. But these bastards... they’re not just gonna let this go. Isaac’s trying his best, but they’re not making it easy. You might have to do more than just keep your head down, you know?”

Mikhail didn’t answer, his eyes still fixed on the passing streets. He knew Boris was right, but what else could he do? He had tried to walk away, to avoid the trouble, and it still found him. He didn’t want to be a symbol or a fighter—not anymore. He just wanted to be left alone, to live quietly without the past or people like Glacier dragging him back into something ugly.

The rest of the drive was silent, the truck rumbling down the snow-covered streets of Arkenversk. The buildings passed by, some old and worn, others newer but still gray and uninspiring. The streets were quiet this early in the morning, only a few people out and about, bundled against the cold as they made their way through their daily routines.

Finally, the truck pulled up in front of a run-down, three-story brick building on the edge of town. Mikhail’s apartment. The paint on the exterior was peeling, the windows were old and drafty, and the stairwell lights inside were often flickering or out entirely. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for him. It was somewhere he could shut the world out, at least for a little while.

Boris shifted the truck into park, glancing over at Mikhail. “You sure you’re gonna be alright here?” he asked, his voice softer now, the concern evident.

Mikhail gave a slow nod, reaching for the door handle. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride, Boris,” he said, managing a faint, tired smile.

Boris watched him for a moment longer, then nodded, though the worry didn’t leave his face. “Alright. Just... keep your head down, alright? And call if you need anything.”

Mikhail stepped out of the truck, the cold air biting instantly, and he nodded back at Boris. “I will. Take care, Boris.”

With that, Mikhail shut the door and watched as the truck pulled away, its tires crunching over the snow before it turned the corner and disappeared from sight. He turned back to the apartment building, staring at the chipped bricks and the graffiti that someone had scrawled near the entrance. He exhaled, his breath visible in the cold, before making his way up the worn steps, each one creaking under his weight.

He pushed open the heavy door, letting it close behind him with a dull thud that seemed to swallow up the outside world. He headed up the narrow stairwell, the dim lights casting shadows across the worn carpet, until he reached his door. Room 2B. The number was hanging crookedly, barely attached to the wood.

Mikhail unlocked the door, stepping inside, and shutting it behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he took in the silence of the empty apartment. He was alone again, just the way he wanted it—yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that things weren’t going to be as simple as just keeping his head down.

Mikhail shut the door behind him, the latch clicking into place, sealing him off from the cold outside. He stood for a moment in the narrow entryway, letting the silence of the apartment settle around him. It was a familiar, heavy silence, one that often felt comforting, but tonight it weighed on him differently.

The apartment was a mess—dishes piled up in the sink, laundry tossed over a chair in the corner, empty bottles sitting on the table. The small kitchen was cluttered, and papers were scattered across the counter, some of them notices he had barely glanced at, and others just left there from days before. The floors were worn, and the dim light that filtered through the curtains barely lit the room, giving it a muted, almost forgotten look.

Mikhail moved slowly through the space, his eyes catching on the walls where military awards and photographs hung, some in cracked frames, others tacked up without much ceremony. The medals, tarnished from years gone by, still glinted faintly under the low light, and the photographs, though faded, were still in good enough condition that everything was visible.

Mikhail paused just before heading to the living room, his eyes catching on a particular photo that hung slightly askew. He reached up, carefully lifting it off its hook. It was a photograph of him in his younger days—standing proudly in front of a MiG, the massive fighter jet looming behind him. His flight suit had been crisp, his face clean-shaven, and a confident grin spread across his lips. Around him, other pilots and ground crew stood, some smiling, others giving thumbs up, all of them looking vibrant and alive.

Mikhail traced the edge of the photograph with his thumb, his eyes lingering on the faces. Of the men and women in the picture, almost every single one was dead now, lost to the skies they once ruled or taken by the brutal grind of war. He could pick out the faces—Yuri, always with that cocky smile whenever he worked on the planes; Anya, who used to bring everyone tea on those cold mornings at the base; Sergei, who’d been more like a brother to him than a friend. Only a few of the faces were still alive, scattered now across the country, ghosts of a time that seemed like another life entirely.

His own face looked back at him, smiling and unaware of what was to come—of the missions that would leave him scarred, of the friends he would lose, of the quiet emptiness that would replace the camaraderie and purpose he’d once known. He had been so young then. He had only just turned 26 when he graduated from the Starikov Air Force Academy, the youngest student to have ever done so in the academy's long history. He remembered the pride in his father's eyes, the firm handshake of the commanding officer, and the way the world had seemed wide open, full of possibility.

And then, only two weeks later, the war had begun.

There had been no time to settle into the role, no time to adjust. One moment, he was celebrating his achievement and the next, he was strapped into a cockpit, flying missions that seemed impossible, with orders that left no room for hesitation. The war had consumed everything—his friends, his youth, and any dreams he might have had of a life beyond the cockpit of his MiG.

He looked at the photo a moment longer, the weight of those memories pressing down on him. He had been so full of hope, so certain that he could make a difference. And perhaps, for a time, he had. But now, that part of his life was gone, and all he had were the reminders—these photographs, the medals on the wall, the scars that never really faded.

Slowly, Mikhail set the photo back in its place, adjusting it until it hung straight. He stared at it for a moment longer before turning away, his shoulders heavy as he moved toward the living room. There, an old armchair waited, worn and familiar. He dropped into it, the springs groaning under his weight, the room around him dim and quiet.

He leaned back, closing his eyes, the memories of the past fading into the dark behind his eyelids. He had once been something—someone who mattered, who fought for something. Now, he was just trying to keep his head down, to live out his days without drawing too much attention. He had already fought his wars, and he was tired.

But it seemed that even now, with all he had done to avoid trouble, the world refused to leave him in peace.