Tsar's Tormentors Ch. 7 - "For Mother Russia"

The Examination
Location: Sub-Level Clinic, Underneath Kremlin-Funded Gym – Later That Night

The clinic had been a storage closet once. You could tell by the way the walls didn’t quite meet evenly in the corners, and by the faded outline of old shelving brackets hidden under a fresh coat of white paint.

Now, it was an improvised medical suite—efficient, quiet, deniable. A narrow cot bolted to the floor. A rolling cart with instruments sealed in sterile packs. An ECG machine humming faintly in the corner. A crucifix and a faded Soviet campaign poster shared one wall, an uneasy coexistence of faiths.

Svetlana sat on the cot, boots off, legs dangling. She had her hands braced on either side of her, muscles in her forearms corded under the skin. Her beanie lay discarded beside her, exposing the row of stitches like black ants marching across her forehead.

Dr. Takagi was a compact man in his fifties with tired eyes behind rimless glasses. His hair had gone more salt than pepper, and his white coat had been ironed so precisely it looked like an apology. He held a penlight in one hand and a tablet in the other.

Across the room, Mikhail leaned in the doorway, arms folded, filling the space without trying.

Dr. Takagi: Follow the light, please.

He moved the beam slowly from left to right. Her pupils tracked obediently, though the right one dilated a fraction slower. He noticed. Doctors always did.

Svetlana: You enjoy shining that thing in people’s faces or is it just the best part of your job?

Dr. Takagi: The best part of my job is when the patient listens.

She huffed, but didn’t look away.

He lowered the light, checked his notes.

Dr. Takagi: Headache today?

Svetlana: Always.

Dr. Takagi: Worse than yesterday?

She thought about lying, then remembered Mikhail watching her at the stairs.

Svetlana: A little.

Dr. Takagi: Nausea? Blurred vision?

Svetlana: Only when I watch American wrestling promos.

The corner of his mouth twitched; he didn’t let it become a smile.

Dr. Takagi: How many fingers?

He held up his hand.

Svetlana: Four. And a lack of patience.

He tapped a few things on the tablet.

Dr. Takagi: Any ringing in the ears?

She hesitated.

Svetlana: Only when I think about Cassie Hurst’s laugh.

Mikhail: (flat) Yes.

Dr. Takagi looked at him.

Dr. Takagi: Two answers is not helpful, Mordokrov-san.

Mikhail: She was dizzy this morning in the weight room. She grabbed the rail. She thought no one saw.

Svetlana shot him a glare sharp enough to cut tendons.

Svetlana: Do you want me in this match or not?

Mikhail didn’t look at her.

Mikhail: I want you in one piece when it is over.

Dr. Takagi cleared his throat, shifting back into clinical rhythm.

Dr. Takagi: Concussion symptoms can worsen under strain. Another impact could mean long-term damage. Memory deficits. Balance issues. In severe cases, intracranial bleeding.

Svetlana: (dry) Add “compulsively watching Ukrainian news” to the list. Then Kremlin will care.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaled.

Dr. Takagi: You understand the risks, Kazakova-san?

Svetlana: I understood the risks when I was jumping out of planes into places your government pretends don’t exist.

She rolled her shoulders, cracks popping.

Svetlana: This is not the worst thing I have done to my head.

Mikhail: That is true.

Dr. Takagi looked between the two of them—the soldier who wouldn’t back down and the relic who had learned to survive too many regimes.

Dr. Takagi: The Kremlin has made its expectations clear. They have also made their… preferences… known to me.

He set the tablet down, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose again, as if stalling for courage.

Dr. Takagi: If this were my decision alone, I would not clear you. You should rest. Two weeks, at least.

Svetlana: We have two days.

He met her stare.

Dr. Takagi: You could lose years for those two days.

Svetlana: Then I will make them expensive days.

A long moment. The ECG in the corner beeped steadily, the only sound.

Mikhail pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, boots dull against the floor.

Mikhail: Doctor.

Takagi turned toward him.

Mikhail: You were not moved from Moscow to this city for your… independent judgment.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a reminder of the architecture around all of them.

Dr. Takagi: I’m aware.

Mikhail: We will go out there whether you sign or not. You know this. All your refusal would do is remove one layer of control from the situation.

He nodded toward Svetlana.

Mikhail: With your monitoring, we have warning signs. We have thresholds. We have a man the Kremlin trusts watching her for collapse. Without you, she fights blind. So do we.

Dr. Takagi’s jaw worked once.

Dr. Takagi: This is how you justify it to yourself? By turning my signature into… harm reduction?

Mikhail: I justify it by winning wars. Your job is to keep my weapon from breaking mid-battle.

The doctor stared at him. Then at Svetlana. Then down at the tablet.

His finger hovered over the digital form.

Dr. Takagi: Any further head trauma during the match, you stop. Immediately. No “one more spot.” No grand climactic bumps. I see you stagger, I stop it. I don’t care if it costs you the belt.

Svetlana: You won’t see me stagger.

Dr. Takagi: If I even think you might—

Mikhail: You have my word.

The doctor’s eyes flicked to him again, weighing it. Studying the man Stalin hadn’t managed to kill.

Dr. Takagi: Your word has killed a lot of people, Mordokrov-san.

Mikhail: It has also kept a few alive.

The ECG beeped on. Takagi sighed, tapped the screen.

Dr. Takagi: Fine.

He signed. The form flashed “CLEARED – LIMITED RISK” in small English letters.

Dr. Takagi: You are medically cleared to compete. I will file the appropriate document with UltraMed and MOX. If they call, I will say what I am supposed to say.

He looked back up, and his voice lost its bureaucratic coat.

Dr. Takagi: But I want you to hear this without Kremlin ears—

He tapped the side of his own head.

Dr. Takagi: This is not their skull. It is yours. They can replace champions. They cannot replace your memories.

Svetlana slid off the cot. For a second, her balance wavered—and then corrected. She looked him in the eye, surprisingly sober.

Svetlana: Doctor… I grew up in Volgograd. My memories are not kind. If I lose a few, I will not mourn them.

She snagged her boots from under the bed, swinging one over her shoulder by the laces.

Svetlana: But I will remember the look on Sato’s face when he realizes his lungs are not enough to save him from us. That one I’ll keep.

Dr. Takagi’s shoulders sagged. He knew he’d lost this hours ago.

Dr. Takagi: I’ll be at ringside. If I raise my hand, you listen.

She gave him a lazy two-fingered salute that somehow still felt respectful.

Svetlana: If you raise your hand, it better be clapping.

She moved toward the door. Mikhail lingered a moment longer.

Mikhail: Thank you, Doctor.

Takagi: Don’t thank me. I’ve just agreed to watch the train wreck instead of reading about it in the morning.

Mikhail: You will see skill, not accident. We are not suicide bombers. We are surgeons.

He turned to go.

Dr. Takagi: Mordokrov-san.

Mikhail paused.

Dr. Takagi: You target his ribs, yes? His midsection. Aggravate what’s already there.

Mikhail: Da.

Dr. Takagi: Then mind his counter. A man who’s been struck in the chest as he has… his reflex is to aim for the same place on others. The “heart punch” is not just show. He knows exactly where it hurts.

Mikhail’s eyes narrowed slightly, recalling footage, angles.

Mikhail: We will make sure his hand never finds the shot.

Dr. Takagi: Or…?

Mikhail: Or we make sure, when he does, it costs him more than it costs us.

He stepped into the hall. Svetlana waited there, half-laced boot in hand, leaning against the cinderblock.

Svetlana: So? Am I alive enough for government work?

Mikhail: You are cleared.

She smirked.

Svetlana: Then let’s talk about how we carve “Russia” across this pretty company’s tag division.

They walked side by side down the corridor, clinic door clicking shut behind them. The bunker sounds swallowed them—iron on iron, a distant laugh from Olga, the faint thud of someone hitting pads two levels up.

Svetlana: We start with Sato’s ribs. The boy has a hero complex. He’ll step in front of anything we aim at Nishimura.

Mikhail: We exploit it. We isolate him. Maki is strong, but she is emotional. She will chase. When she does, we let her run into you. You will not have to worry about high flying when you can simply swat her out of the sky.

Svetlana: (grinning) I like this plan.

Mikhail: We make Sato watch you hurt his partner. Every time he reaches for her, we cut him off. Every time he breathes too deep, we remind him of the last match. By the time he tags in for the final stretch, he will already be halfway finished.

They hit the junction where the hall split—one route toward the ring, another toward the war room.

Svetlana: And Yamamoto?

Mikhail: Yamamoto will get what he wants. A Sato who walks to Dachi already carrying our signature.

He looked at her, expression sliding from strategist to something rarer.

Mikhail: But he will not get the belts.

Svetlana: No.

She tightened the laces on her boot with a vicious pull.

Svetlana: Those belong to the Motherland.

They walked on, their shadows stretching long ahead of them, converging where the corridor bent toward Empire’s End.