DUKE KOSLOFF vs. DYLAN ERICKSON
“THE PAST NEVER STAYS BURIED”

Duke Kosloff’s morning started like any other. He woke up before sunrise, sat on the edge of his old wooden bed, and stared at the floor. Outside, only a few cars passed, and the wind rattled the windows. He sat there for almost twenty minutes, thinking about things he’d sworn he wouldn't think about. That was easier said than done. You can leave a place, but it doesn’t always leave you. Duke stood up and went to the bathroom, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. His short blonde hair was growing out at the sides, and the scars on his body reminded him of every fight he’d survived. He touched the old scar above his shoulder and shook his head. He once thought he’d die in Moscow. There was Istanbul, the Bosporus, Asylum Island, and those damned Volcanic Islands. Each place took something from him, blood, friends, and a piece of who he used to be.

Duke Kosloff: "Look at you, Duke. Big tough bastard and you're standing there thinking about things that happened years ago. What the hell's the matter with you?"

He turned on the water and splashed his face. The cold woke him up, but it didn’t stop the thoughts in his head. Some nights, he could still hear the choppers, the gunfire, and the voices of men who were gone. He remembered when the Pentagon finally found him after everything he’d done to bring down Volkov and the Old Architecture. He survived a war that should have killed him, only to end up in handcuffs for something from his XHF days. Eight years. Eight years taken from him, and no matter how often he tells himself it’s over, he still feels like someone might come back and put those cuffs on him again. He walked back to the bedroom and picked up his phone from the nightstand. A message reminded him about the match on Vanguard, Season 5, Episode 8. Kosloff versus Erickson. He read the name a few times, then tossed the phone onto the bed.

Duke Kosloff: "Dylan Erickson. Who the hell is Dylan Erickson?"

Duke let out a small laugh and grabbed the black T-shirt draped over the chair. He wasn’t laughing because he thought the match would be easy. He’d learned long ago that underestimating someone was the quickest way to get beaten. Still, seeing another name on another wrestling card made him wonder how many people really understood what they were signing up for when they stepped into the ring with him.

Duke Kosloff: "Well Dylan, congratulations buddy. You've got yourself a match against Duke Kosloff. Hope you've been told what that means. Because I for one am not going to spend twenty minutes telling you what it means."

He pulled the shirt on and went downstairs, where someone had already made coffee. The house was quiet, and he was glad no one was around to ask questions. Duke poured a cup and sat at the kitchen table, looking out the window. Some days, he really missed Moscow, especially before everything went wrong. He missed his brother Devon and the times they could talk without worrying about being overheard. He missed Dimitri and the others who were with him when Firestorm went after the Old Architecture. Most of all, he missed the days when he could wake up without expecting something bad to happen. Alexis had told him more than once to stop carrying the world on his shoulders, and she was right. But Duke wasn’t the kind of man who knew how to let go. He’d always believed that if he didn’t do it, no one else would. That attitude got him through, but it cost him more than he liked to admit. He took another sip of coffee and glanced at the phone on the table.

Duke Kosloff: "You know what, Dylan? You're probably sitting there right now thinking about how you're going to make your name. You're probably going through the old matches, looking for something you can use against me. You might well be telling the lot of them that you're going to beat the big Russian. That's all right, mate. Everybody's got a dream."

Duke leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw.

Duke Kosloff: "There's a difference between having a dream and actually doing something about it. You can talk about beating me all week, but when that bell rings, you'll have to be there and actually do it. That's where most people start to fall apart."

He wasn’t sure why he kept talking to himself. It had become a habit over the years, especially when he was alone in the house. Sometimes, talking out loud was the only way to keep his mind off dark thoughts. The guards thought he was crazy, but Duke didn’t care. He knew the difference between being crazy and having seen too much. After finishing his coffee, he grabbed his gym bag and headed out. His truck was parked by the house, still covered in dust from the last drive down the back roads. He tossed the bag onto the passenger seat and got in. The engine struggled before starting, and he sat for a moment, listening to it rumble before pulling out. The gym was about thirty minutes away. He didn’t turn on the radio. He liked the quietness, even if his own thoughts were louder than any song. He thought about Dylan Erickson and what kind of fight he’d bring. Duke didn’t know much about him, and he wouldn’t pretend he did. He knew the name, the match, and that Dylan had accepted the same challenge Duke had. That was enough to get his attention.

Duke Kosloff: "I don't know what kind of wrestler you are, Erickson. I don't know if you're one of those guys who enjoys flying around the ring or if you're some kind of tough bastard who just stands there and throws punches. All I can tell you is this, whatever you bring you better bring it in abundance."

Duke stopped at a red light and watched the cars go through the intersection.

Duke Kosloff: "I'm not down at Vanguard to make friends. I'm not down there to shake your hand and tell you how wonderful a wrestler you are. I'm there because I've got a job to do and frankly, you're the piss-poor son of a bitch in front of me."

When he got to the gym, the parking lot was almost empty. Duke liked training early so he didn’t have to deal with people interrupting him. He unlocked the side door, walked in, and turned on the lights. The familiar smell of old mats, leather, and sweat greeted him as he headed to the ring. It wasn’t a fancy place. The ropes had been replaced more than once, and the canvas was worn out, but it had everything he needed. He dropped his bag by the ring and started to warm up. His knees ached when he bent, and his right shoulder reminded him of an old injury. He ignored both. Pain was so normal for him that he’d forgotten what it was like to wake up without it. He warmed up, got into the ring, and moved around the canvas. He worked on his footwork, bouncing on his toes, then dropped into a wrestling stance. In his mind, he could see Dylan across from him, waiting for an opening. Duke moved forward, reached out, grabbed an invisible opponent around the waist, and drove his shoulder forward.

Duke Kosloff: "Right then, Dylan. Show me what you've got."

He went towards the ropes and bounced off them, came back across the ring with enough force to make the canvas tremble under his boots. He stopped in the middle of the ring and shook. He ran toward the ropes, bounced off them, and crossed the ring with enough force to make the canvas shake under his boots. He stopped in the center and shook out his arms. Being in the wrestling ring made everything else fade away for a while. No cells, no helicopters, no Viktor Volkov, and no memories of the people lost because of his choices. Just the ring and whoever stood across from him. Duke stepped out of the ring and dragged a heavy training dummy across the canvas. He lifted it onto his shoulder, turned, and slammed it down hard on the mat. The impact echoed through the empty gym. He picked it up and slammed it down again and again, sweat pouring down his face.

Duke Kosloff: "Life came along and gave me a good kicking in the teeth."

He pulled the dummy up and drove it backwards with a huge suplex.

Duke Kosloff: "Strength isn't just muscles, Dylan. Strength is getting up when every single thing in your life is screaming at you to stay down. Strength is waking up every morning knowing you've lost things you'll never get back and still having the gumption to go on. You get that? You probably don't. You'll get it eventually when we get into the ring."

Duke dropped to one knee, breathing hard. He was staring down at the dummy and laughing.

Duke Kosloff: "Look at me, talking smack to a bag of stuffing. Maybe those prison doctors were right about me after all."

He got back up and kept training for another hour. He practiced takedowns, holds, and the close-range wrestling that always worked best for him. Duke didn’t care about putting on a show. He knew how to throw a punch, take someone down, and make them regret getting caught in his grip. That was wrestling to him. Everything else was just for the crowd. When he finished, he sat on the edge of the ring with a towel around his neck. His breathing slowed, but his body reminded him he wasn’t twenty anymore. He looked at his hands, turning them over and studying the old marks on his knuckles. Those hands had done things he wasn’t proud of, and sometimes he wondered if he could ever make up for them.

Duke Kosloff: "Eight years, Dylan. You know what eight years is? Eight years of birthdays, eight years of holidays, eight years of watching the world go by without you. Eight years of wondering if the people you love are going to be there when you finally get out. You spend that much time mulling over your mistakes and you end up questioning whether you deserve another go."

Duke looked across the empty gym, thinking back to the prison walls and the nights he'd spent wondering if he'd ever get out and see the outside world again.

Duke Kosloff: "And then someone hands you one. Someone says 'Here you go Duke, here's another wrestling ring, another opponent, another opportunity to do something with yourself.' What the hell am I supposed to do? Turn it down? Sit at home feeling sorry for myself? No way. I've done enough sitting around. I've done enough waiting. I'm finished with that."

He sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking about the last days of the war against the Old Architecture. Viktor Volkov thought his network was too strong to fall, that Duke and Devon would give up or die trying. But they didn’t. They fought until it all collapsed. Duke paid a price for that victory. He could still see the men who never made it home, and sometimes he wondered if winning was worth what they lost. He also remembered Alexis waiting for him. She had been through enough because of him, and he knew she deserved better than a husband always chasing ghosts. That was another reason this return to wrestling mattered. He wanted to prove he could still be Duke Kosloff without dragging everyone he loved into another fight.

Duke Kosloff: "That's the thing you don't get, Dylan. To you this might just be another night's work. You might win, you might lose and then you go home and get on with the next one. To me every time I walk into that ring I'm trying to prove something to myself. I'm trying to prove that all those years weren't in vain."

Duke stood up and climbed out of the ring. He grabbed a bottle of water, took a long drink, and went to the locker room. He was tired, but it was the good kind—the kind that comes from doing something instead of just thinking about what can’t be changed. As he changed, he saw himself in another mirror. The big Russian double-headed eagle tattoo covered his chest, a reminder of where he came from and the family name he carried through everything. He traced part of the tattoo with his fingers, then reached for his shirt.

Duke Kosloff: "Kosloff. That name's caused me a fair bit of bother over the years. It's still my name and I'm still proud of it."

His phone rings as he's just finished packing his bag. Looks at the screen, it's Devon. Answers it and leans against the lockers. Devon asks how training went and Duke says it's been the same as ever really, loads of sweat, a bit of aches and a wrestling ring that's probably had enough of him just beating the crap out of it. Devon laughs and asks if he's ready for Dylan Erickson.

Duke Kosloff: "Ready? Well, I've been ready. The question is whether Erickson knows what he's walking into."

Devon reminded him not to underrate the man and Duke just rolled his eyes (his brother couldn't see it of course).

Duke Kosloff: "Right, right. I know. Don't underestimate a single person. You've been telling me that since we were kids. You sound exactly like Uncle Levi."

They talked for a few more minutes about family and the things happening back home. It felt good to hear Devon. They talked for a few more minutes about family and what was happening back home. It felt good to hear Devon’s voice without worrying that someone was listening or that one of them might not make it to the next call. Before hanging up, Devon reminded him why he came back to wrestling. Duke sat quietly for a moment after the call, staring at the phone in his hand. home and settled into the living room. The television was on, but he paid it little attention. A wrestling program played in the background, and every so often he glanced up at the screen to watch someone get thrown across the ring. He had spent most of his life around wrestling, and despite everything that had happened, he still loved it. He loved the competition, the physical struggle, and that moment when two men stood across from each other knowing only one could walk away with the victory. He picked up his phone and looked at the Vanguard match announcement again. Duke Kosloff versus Dylan Erickson. There it was, plain and simple. Two names on a card, nothing about the lives behind them or why either man wanted to win.

Duke Kosloff: "You know, Dylan, I've been thinking about you all damn day. Right out of the gate there, that's something. I'm a grown man sitting around talking to myself about another grown man who's probably got far better things to do. That's what happens when you've been through what I've been through. You start looking at every fight a bit differently. I'm not scared of losing, Dylan. I've lost loads in my life. I've lost fights, I've lost mates, I've lost years and I've nearly lost it all. So if you think you're going to get into my head by telling me you're going to beat me, you're wasting your time."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face growing more serious as he pictured Dylan Erickson across the ring from him.

Duke Kosloff: "Now don't get me wrong. You might be a hell of a wrestler. You might be quicker than me, you might be younger than me and you might have some move or other that'll put half the roster on their arses. That's all fine and good. But that doesn't mean a damn thing until you've proven it against me. When you're charging at me thinking you're going to knock the old Russian down you'd better make sure I'm down. Because if I get back up and believe me I've got more than my fair share of comebacks in my time, if I get back up you're going to have a right old problem on your hands."

Duke got up and walked to the window. The sun was gone, and the yard was dark. He stood there for a while, thinking about who he was before the war, before prison, and before all the mistakes that nearly ruined him. He knew he couldn’t be that man again. Too much had happened. But maybe that was okay. Maybe he’d learned enough to make better choices now. Maybe he could finally start building something instead of watching everything fall apart. He turned from the window, picked up his gym bag, and took it to the bedroom to get ready for Vanguard.

Duke Kosloff: "Season Five, Episode Eight. Duke Kosloff versus Dylan Erickson. Sounds pretty straightforward, doesn't it? Well Dylan, you're going to need every ounce of help you can get. I'm not here to embarrass you. I'm not here to make you famous. I'm here to beat you. That's it. If you think some massive Russian bastard who's already seen his fair share of hardship is going to just roll over and let you go on and make a name for yourself at his expense, you've got another think coming."

Duke turned off the hallway light and paused. Tomorrow would bring more training, more aches and pains, and another effort to keep the past in its place. No one knew what would happen when he faced Dylan Erickson, but Duke knew one thing for sure—he wouldn’t give anything away for free. For the first time that day, he smiled for real. The war and prison years were behind him, and while he’d never forget them, they wouldn’t decide how this chapter ended. Dylan Erickson was just the next man in front of him, and Duke would give him the same fight he gave every opponent who thought they could beat him without paying the price. As Duke lay down and reached for the lamp, he paused, stared at the ceiling, and spoke one last time into the quiet room.

Duke Kosloff: "Remember something, Dylan. You don't defeat a Kosloff... you survive one."

The light went out, leaving the room in darkness. For once, Duke didn't spend the next hour thinking about Moscow, the Old Architecture, or the years. The room was dark. For once, Duke didn’t spend the next hour thinking about Moscow, the Old Architecture, or the years he’d lost. His mind was on Vanguard, on Dylan Erickson, and the chance waiting for him in the ring. Whatever happened when the bell rang, Duke would make sure his opponent remembered that night. He’d spent too much of his life fighting to survive, but now he was fighting for something that mattered. Dylan Erickson might not get that at first, but Duke planned to make sure he did before the night was over.