FN Story Contest– The Stories!

At last. The long awaited (and slightly delayed) next part of this challenge!! A few of you sent in some really lovely stories and I thoroughly enjoyed them. Thank you so much, this really means a lot to me. Now, it's time to share these stories with all of you!

They will be judged blind, so the authors will not be revealed until the ranking is announced! I plan to, (Lord willing) announce the results of this challenge on OCTOBER 23rd 2025.

Y'all have until then to read and vote on the stories!

How To Vote

Please follow these steps to vote on a story!

1. Read all the stories
   

2. Title your comment "My Vote"
   

3. In the comment write the number belonging to the story. (each story will have a number on it. 1, 2, 3, etc)
   

4. Please only vote once.
   

5. Cast a vote for your favorite story only, don't vote for 2nd or 3rd place etc. Those will be decided by how many people rank said story as their favorite.
   

6. AUTHORS! You may cast 1 vote as well! You may vote for your own story, or for another author's story.
   

7. If you would be so kind, please include a message to the author about why you picked their story as your favorite when you cast your vote. Author's love to hear feedback about their work. (I should know. ☺️)
   

8. You have from today until Friday, Midnight of October 22nd to cast your votes!

And now... the long awaited moment....

She and her sister had been working so hard—days, weeks, and months—towards this very day. They had practiced and perfected for hours every day. They performed at home in front of their parents, graciously excepting critiques and criticism, their graceful little bodies turning into beautiful yet muscular figures.

Sweat, blood, and tears were poured into their work. Today was the day where it would show for itself the tireless hours that were spent doing something they both loved.

Having twins was a miracle, but even more so the passion they shared for ballet. A passion past from mother and father to Natasha and Yuliana, gifted with an even desire to dance.

“Mama? Mama?” Natasha needed help lacing her outfit and Yuliana was to busy with hers to help out.

“I’m in the kitchen. What do you need?” Her mother called.

“Can you come our bedroom? I need help with my costume.” Natasha asked.

“Oh. Sure, one second.” Her mother replied.

Natasha could her a bustle of dishes clanking together and things being moved around as her mother fumbled in the kitchen. She smiled when her mother finally appeared around the corner.

“You need help with your costume?” Her mother asked,

“Yes Mama. I can’t lace it.” Natasha replied, turning around to show her mother the obvious problem.

Mama pushed her into the room and shut the door behind her. Yuliana was still messing around with her outfit, trying to figure out which way it went. It was rather confusing, Natasha had to admit. This was the first time they had ever worn something so fancy and intricate.

“Alright, let me see here…” Mama gently took up the ribbons which laced the back and began weaving them with no problem. When she was finished, she help Yuliana put her outfit on and laced her up.

The girls were dressed.

“Do you want me to do your hair?” Their mother asked them.

“We have a professional hairstylist doing all the girls’ hair at the theater.” Yuliana said. “Also, how are we supposed to ride in the car with these big skirts on?”

“Oh look.” Mama approached Yuliana and showed her how to unbutton and remove the skirt.

“Nice!” Natasha responded and quickly began unbuttoning hers.

“We’d better get going.” Their mother said, looking at her watch. “Don’t you have to get there an hour early?”

“Yep.” Natasha nodded.

Is Papa coming to watch us?” Yuliana asked as they made there was to the door, carrying their skirts.

“As soon as he’s finished with work.” Mama answered.

Natasha grumbled. He’d probably be late…again.

“You know he tries very hard to make it to your performances.” Mama soothed. “But he and Uncle Luke have a lot of work to do. It’s hard starting a business.”

“I know.” Natasha kicked a pebble off the porch as they stepped outside. She still didn’t like Papa’s new business, mostly because it took all his time away from them, and also because he was risking his life every day.

“Natasha.” Mama laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Papa is doing this for us. You have to understand that. He loves you and your sister very much and he’s working hard to give us a good life.”

Natasha sighed. “I know. It’s just hard.”

“It’s hard for him too.” Mama replied as she climbed into the front seat of the truck.

“Yeah…” Natasha and Yuliana quickly hopped in the back seats and buckled up.

Mama started the engine. It grumbled and roared. She said over the din, “Aunt Kat and Uncle Leo will be there though! That should be fun!”

Natasha and Yuliana lit up. They smiled at each other. That would be really fun.

“Maybe we could get ice cream afterwards!” Mama said.

That sounded delicious.

They pulled out of the gravel driveway, leaving their perfectly situated little home behind them.

The drive was beautiful. Natasha and Yuliana always looked forward to the views they would see on the way to town, which was about 15 minutes south of them. The rolling hills, the cows, the wooden fences and the flowers. Natasha especially loved the wide expanses of golden grass that gracefully swished back and forth with the wind. It reminded her of the way a ballerina moves and bends with the cascading thrills of the violins and cellos, orchestrating a symphony of harmony and beauty.

Natasha’s heart skipped when she realized she would be on stage tonight, she and Yuliana together. They would be performing a ballet written by their director. He called it Mishka. It was a composition the director had written when he was a ten years old boy and had been perfecting it for over thirty years. He was finally ready to present the ballet to the public, and he choose Natasha and Yuliana to be the starring dancers. Natasha would star as the girl nicknamed Mishka, and Yuliana was starring as a women named Vedma who turns Mishka into a bear.

They arrived along with many other girls they would be performing with.

Natasha and Yuliana leaped out of the truck with their skirts in tow and skipped to the back door where all the dancers were already filing in. Mama went for the front door to reserve seats for the family.

“Natasha! Yuliana! Your here!” A woman in a smart suit holding a clipboard in her arm approached them. “We need to get your makeup and hair done immediately. Follow me.”

The girls looked at each other and followed after the woman. She took them to a long room lined with LED lit mirrors and cluttered makeup stations. Many girls were already getting ready.

“Eloise!” The woman waved to a young lady who was setting up her station. “Ms. Eloise! I have the girls! Quick we need to get them ready! Not a minute late!”

“Right on ya.” Eloise winked. She had an Australian accent. Natasha liked her. “Come ‘ere girls.”

The girls walked forth.

“Seems like you know what you’re doing. I’ll be off.” The woman clacked away.

“Now I can’t do both o’ ya at the same time, but I brought on assistant to ‘elp out. Oi! Becky!” Eloise called out.

“Yep?” A young lady appeared behind Eloise.

“Can you do this girls ‘air?”

“You bet.” Becky gaped when she saw Yuliana’s white-blonde head of hair. “Boy, she got a right lot o’ it too.” She was also Australian.

Eloise laughed. “Good luck mate.” She winked.

Becky led Yuliana away to another mirror down the hall that had hairstyling supplies.

“Now. Come ‘ere girl. What’s your name?” Eloise asked as Natasha sat her self in a swivel chair.

“Natasha.” Natasha answered.

“Mind if I call you Nat?”

“Sure.” Natasha shrugged.

“Perfect. Now, Nat, let’s see what we can do with ya.” Eloise began study Natasha’s facial features. She would nod and take notes, hold colors up to Natasha’s face, and scrunch her nose when she didn’t like a combination.

Once she had laid out all the colors she liked, she pulled Natasha even closer and began the long process of transforming her face into the Mishka.

Natasha looked in the mirror when Eloise finished.

“How do ya like it?” Eloise asked.

“Wow…” Natasha was at a lose for words. She had never worn this much makeup in her life. She looked so different—yet—she liked it. “Thank you Eloise.” Natasha answered. “I looks great.”

Just then, Yuliana appeared with Becky. Her hair looked amazing. It was curled and textured and fluffed and pulled in all sorts of directions. Natasha could spot tiny braids poking out here and there too. She looked like what Vedma should look like.

“Alright!” Eloise clapped her hands together. “Switch it up!”

Becky took Natasha down the hall like she had with Yuliana and sat her down at a table with a crazy assortment of hair tools.

“Let’s make you Mishka.” Becky smiled and spun Natasha’s chair around. She pulled and yanked and brushed and oiled and did all sorts of things that Natasha didn’t even know what to expect anymore.

Finally the big reveal. Becky swiveled Natasha’s chair around to face the mirror. Once again, Natasha was speechless. She looked like a doll. Her dark hair was smooth and glossy. It twisted around the top of her head like big shiny ribbons till they met in the middle creating a delicate updo surrounded by a large pancake braid. To finish, her hair was decorated with tiny pearls and gems.

“It looks beautiful.” Natasha breathed.

“You’re ready.” Becky said.

Mishka

Story 1

Everything was quiet. The girls had taken their places, and the big red curtain was yet to rise. Natasha stood beside Yuliana, her head down and arms floating just above her wide skirt. She closed her eyes, her heart racing what felt like a million miles per hour. She breathed, and she could feel Yuliana doing the same.

“You ready?” Natasha asked under her breath.

Yuliana nodded. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Natasha answered.

Just then, she could hear the gears crank as the heavy curtain was being lifted off the floor. Natasha said a prayer under her breath as the lights from the grand auditorium climbed up her body as the curtain was lifted higher and higher. She could hear the hushed voices of the audience, anticipation radiating off of them.

There was a pause. Everything was quiet. Then the orchestra director at the base of the stage waved his arms, 1, 2, 3, now! And the violins trilled up the steep ascent of notes and cords. And that’s when Mishka came alive. She lifted her head and waved her arms in time with the music awaiting the moment when she would move. The trill stopped, everything was once again quiet for 4 beats, and then the whole orchestra exploded in a symphony of sound and Mishka rose to the tips of her toes in a relevé and then gracefully performed a move called a sauté, jumping into the air and landing into a pilé with feet together and toes turned out, with the knees bend as if she were ready to spring again.

She paused in a pilé, awaited her next cue. That’s when Vedma came alive and did the same across the opposite side of the stage in perfect harmony with the music. So, both the girls froze in those places and lights shifted to the back. Trees walking out from both sides of the stage creating a line of dancers with leafy green tops. They hook arms created a large half circle around both Mishka and Vedma. They were in the woods. The spotlight was on Mishka who straightened up and stood on her points, taking tiny steps towards Vedma, looking around her like she was lost and needed directions. Vedma came alive and took two leaps towards Mishka with a wicked grin on her face. Mishka paused as Vedma twirled around her two times. The girls went back and forth dancing around each other in the woods. Vedma led Mishka to an old hut where she lived and wickedly shut her inside. When Mishka was finally let out, she was no longer a girl but a bear. Mishka was horrified and the all the trees were equally horrified. The trees circled around Vedma in anger, creating a cage in which she would never escape. Mishka ran away as fast as she could back home.

As Natasha danced, she felt all the emotions rise from her. It made her move the way she did. It made her cry when she was supposed to and also made her laugh when it was required. She was graceful and swift on her feet and in perfect sync with the orchestra. Her heart burned with an unexplainable passion as she leaped across the stage as if she were a bird let loose from her cage.

The dance ended when Mishka was transformed back into a girl by Vedma’s good sister. Mishka, Vedma and the rest of the dancers formed a line in front of the curtain and bowed. The audience clapped as the curtains fell.

Natasha grinned from ear to ear. She squeezed her sister’s hand, and Yuliana squeezed back.

“We did it!” Natasha said.

“I know! It was amazing! When I danced I felt so alive.” Yuliana replied.

“Me too!” Natasha said. “It was like a dream.”

“Yeah.” Yuliana nodded happily.

The girls walked off stage only to be greeted by an entourage of family.

“You girls were amazing!” Aunt Kat cried as she scooped the girls up into a hug.

“Thank you Aunt Kat!” They answered in sync.

Mama gave them a hug and Uncle Leo gave them each a bouquet of roses.

After hugs and kisses from all there family, they were faced with the last person in line.

“Papa!” The twins cried as they ran towards there father in complete bliss. He was a sweaty monster, covered in black engine oil and muck from his job, but the girls didn’t care.

Papa kissed them each on the head. “You two did amazing. God has blessed you with an amazing gift, and He’s blessed me with amazing daughters.” He hugged them both.

“Thank you for being here Papa.” Natasha said as tears began welling up as she realized how much Papa had worked to get here and see his daughters perform.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He replied softly. “And I know my job is a hard thing to adjust to. I—”

“Papa.” Natasha interrupted him. “It’s okay.”

His eyes were glassy as he replied with a smile. “You don’t know how much I love you both.”

***

The afternoon heat settled on the manicured but sparse gardens behind the Central State Ballet School like a heavy blanket. The grounds were meticulously maintained not out of love for nature, but out of a desire for perfect order. Viktor Rostova sat on the patchy, dry grass, his long, slender frame angled over a worn English textbook.

He was seventeen, and though he was still a student, he had long ago taken on the mantle of father and protector to his younger siblings. His wavy black hair fell over his forehead, and his blue eyes, usually sharp with concentration, were softened by patience as he addressed the girl beside him.

“No, Katerina,” he said gently, pointing at a line of text. “You cannot say, ‘She can dance much good.’ It must be ‘She dances very well,’ or ‘She is a good dancer.’”

Katerina, thirteen and possessing the fragile fairness of a porcelain doll, frowned. Her very light blond hair, usually braided tightly for class, was escaping its clasp. “But if I can do it, why can’t I say ‘can much good’?”

“Because The language of English is a tyrant, my dear sister,” Viktor murmured, flipping the page. “It demands precise execution. Now, try this phrase: ‘Where is the library?’”

Katerina repeated the phrase, her tongue thick with the accent of their homeland. She was shy and small, and Viktor felt a familiar surge of protectiveness. In this school—this palace of discipline where children were honed into national champions and separated from their families—these moments of quiet study were priceless.

He was about to correct her pronunciation when the silence shattered.

First, a sharp, drawn-out yell—the sound of someone falling—followed immediately by a barking peal of laughter. Viktor’s spine went rigid. He knew those voices.

“Here we go again,” he murmured, pushing the book aside.

“Viktor, wait! What is it?” Katerina pleaded, scrambling backwards on her knees.

“Trouble, most likely,” he clipped, already on his feet. He was quick, sprinting across the sparse grass and around the corner of the heavy stone school building.

Katerina followed, her breath hitching in fear.

When Viktor rounded the corner, he stopped dead, half-laughing in disbelief even as his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Two stories above him, perched on the narrow outside windowsill of a history classroom, was his brother, Leonid. With his shock of blond hair and reckless grin, fifteen-year-old Leonid looked like a defiant sparrow clinging to a sheer cliff face. He was leveraging one foot against the stone molding, his blue eyes alight with challenge.

Below, standing on a stone ledge outside the building, was Natalia. Sixteen, dark-haired, and emerald-eyed, she was gesturing wildly, a conductor leading an orchestra of madness.

“Higher, Leonid! The vent is just above your head. You have to clear the ivy first, or Madame Elena will see the scuff marks!” Natalia shouted, then caught sight of Viktor. Her green eyes widened with surprise, but the mischief didn’t leave her face.

“Leonid!” Viktor’s voice was sharp, cutting through the playful chaos. The sound itself held all the authority he had accrued over years of being the one who patched scraped knees and navigated official reprimands. “Get down right now! Are you insane? If someone sees you, they will punish you. They might do worse!”

Leonid nearly slipped, catching himself with a grunt. He glanced down, annoyance crossing his features. “Viktor, don’t shout! You’ll alert the enemy! I'm almost there, just let me finish!”

“Finish what?” Viktor demanded, striding closer, his neck craned so far back it ached. He was torn between wanting to grab Leonid and shake sense into him, and just letting him continue and standing guard in case his brother fell the twenty feet to the packed dirt path.

“The Retrieval!” Natalia threw her hands up dramatically. “He must complete the Retrieval, Viktor, this is crucial!”

“Crucial to what?” Katerina whispered, clutching Viktor’s sleeve.

Leonid leaned precariously to the side, trying to reach a small, darkened vent fixture just above the window. “It’s the Queen’s shawl! I told you, Natalia, I left the purple velvet shawl in the window seat after fifth period!”

Natalia nodded vigorously, taking over the explanation, still shouting up instructions to Leonid. “A little to the left– anyways, Viktor, if we go through the main door, Vlad is stationed in the hall. And if we wait until dinner, the cleaning crew will find it and confiscate it as ‘unauthorized personal property’ because it shouldn't be there! Besides, the material is too rich, they’ll want it for themselves! Oh, you almost have it, Leonid.”

“But why is it there in the first place?” Viktor demanded.

Natalia shuffled her feet. “Leonid snuck it out of the costume department for me because I wanted to try dancing with it. And then we were about to put it away but Madam Volkner was coming, so we had to run.”

“So,” Leonid continued, his voice strained as he stretched higher, “The only logical choice was to secure the outside route! It is completely clear, Viktor, no one uses this wing during the afternoon break! I'll be in and out, and then sneak it back quick as a wink.”

“Logical!” Viktor repeated, running a hand through his hair. The sheer audacity of the scheme was breathtaking. It was ridiculous, dangerous, and perfectly characteristic of his younger brother and the girl who inspired him.

“Yes! I boosted Leonid onto the first ledge and he has been traversing the window sills on the second story. He only has to get the shawl, drop it to me, and we are free! It’s a perfect plan!” Natalia beamed, utterly unrepentant.

Despite the fear tightening his chest, Viktor almost smiled. It was a beautiful piece of idiocy. But the stakes were too high. “No,” he stated, his voice now flat and final. “It is not a perfect plan. It is a one-way ticket to the disciplinary office. Leonid, I am telling you now, climb down. Slowly. The shawl is not worth it.”

Leonid let out a sigh of exaggerated disapointment. “But it is velvet! And purple! It completes the Queen’s costume, Viktor!”

“Leave it,” Viktor ordered. “Now.”

He watched, breathless, as Leonid— though dragging his feet and shooting Natalia a look of shared disappointment— obediently shifted his weight. He began the slow, torturous climb down, moving from sill to sill until he was close enough for Viktor to steady him as he dropped to the ground.

As soon as Leonid’s feet were firmly on the earth, Katerina rushed forward, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. “You scared me, Leonid,” she mumbled, her small body trembling. “It was too high! What if you fell?”

Leonid, instantly contrite when faced with his sister’s distress, hugged her back fiercely. “I didn’t fall, Kitten. I never fall.” He rubbed her back, shooting a defiant look at Viktor, who was still recovering his breath. “Besides, Viktor would have caught me.”

Viktor merely shook his head. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will personally see that you are polishing practice barres until you're twenty.”

Story 2

A Flower In Her Hair

Hours later, the sun had dipped below the high brick wall surrounding the school grounds, bathing the garden in a deep, sapphire twilight. The oppressive heat had lifted, replaced by a refreshing coolness that smelled of damp stone and the faint aroma of flowers.

The four of them were back in their secluded spot, lying on their stomachs, textbooks scattered around them. The silence was broken only by the scratching of pencils.

“I hate geometry,” Leonid announced suddenly, rolling onto his back and dropping his pencil onto his face. “Truly, profoundly hate it. Why must we calculate the trajectory of a rock thrown at twenty miles per hour when the only trajectory I need to worry about is a perfect double turn?”

Natalia, who was diligently sketching a diagram of the human foot's musculature, didn't look up, but her lips curved into a smile. “Because, Rostova, you must prove you are both physically and intellectually superior to the nations surrounding us. It’s in the handbook. Now, stop distracting me, my soleus is far too thick.”

“Your soleus is perfect,” Leonid countered, crossing his eyes to look at the pencil balanced on his nose. “It is my brain that has suffered a catastrophic structural failure leading to mass apathy and inevitable expulsion.”

Viktor chuckled, leaning back on his elbows. Even he felt the exhaustion of the day's end. “A dramatic diagnosis, but accurate. Come on, Leonid, finish the last theorem. If you don’t pass this assessment, you’ll be stuck indoors all summer.”

“He is exaggerating, as always,” Natalia said, tossing her pencil eraser which accurately hit Leonid in the ear.

Leonid yelped dramatically and flicked the eraser back at her. “I am speaking simple truth! You, Natalia, only enjoy this because you are an insidious perfectionist.”

“Of course I am,” Natalia said, turning to give him a wide, confident grin. “Someone has to be in charge when you fly off a window sill and break your neck, you silly goose.”

The brief eruption of laughter felt good and cleansing. Even Katerina giggled behind her history notes.

After they had finished the last of their required reading— a dense political treatise on the glory of the Nation— Leonid rolled onto his back again, letting out a loud, theatrical groan.

“I am going to die here,” he said to the sky. “Tell the school authorities that I perished from an overdose of required reading.”

Katerina sighed softly, resting her cheek on her textbook. “I feel the same. My head hurts from all the English phrases. It makes everything spin.”

Natalia jumped up, brushing grass off her dark skirt. “Enough of this intellectual suffering. Viktor, walk with me for a minute. My legs are stiff from sitting still.”

Viktor nodded, instantly rising. He never refused Natalia. She was the one member of their quartet who hadn't been born into the Rostova name, yet fit into their protective circle perfectly. He had taken her under his wing since she arrived, recognizing a certain wild vulnerability beneath her fearless exterior.

They began to walk slowly, tracing the perimeter of the small garden, their footsteps soft on the packed earth near the high walls.

“It’s beautiful when it’s dark,” Natalia observed, looking at the indistinct shapes of the few bushes and the lone tree. “It feels less like a prison.”

“It’s a garden,” Viktor replied simply, always cautious about language. “The school provides us with excellent facilities.”

“Of course,” she echoed, catching his subtle warning.

“How was the afternoon lessons?” Viktor asked, changing the subject.

“My penché was awful,” Natalia confessed. “I couldn’t hold the line. Too much instability in the lower back.”

“You were fine,” Viktor countered. “The height was good. You just need to remember to breathe into the extension.”

They circled the garden again. Natalia slowed, her voice dropping lower, matching the hushed atmosphere. “I actually enjoyed the English lesson earlier,” she admitted. “Even if the language is confusing.”

Viktor looked at her, tilting his head slightly. “You’re quite good at it, for not having spent much time focusing on it.”

“I practice the phrases in my head sometimes,” she said, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. “I like imagining the places those words describe. The names of the cities feel like music.” She stopped, turning to face him fully, and her next words were spoken in a breathless rush, pushing at the boundaries Viktor meticulously maintained. “I wish I could go to one of those places. A country where they speak it. Just for a visit. To see how different it is.”

The simple, hopeful words landed like a sharp blow. Viktor felt a sudden, cold wave of dread wash over him. In a country where every conversation was potentially monitored and every dream of external freedom was treasonous, this kind of talk was poison.

He reached out quickly, his hand covering her mouth, pressing gently but firmly. “Shh,” he hissed, glancing around instinctively, even though they were alone. The air felt thin and dangerous. “Natalia, you cannot say things like that. Not ever. Do you understand? That is the kind of talk that... that brings unwanted attention.”

He removed his hand slowly, watching her face. The high walls and the heavy silence of the closed school seemed to press in on them both.

Natalia’s emerald eyes, usually so bright and full of fire, looked down at her feet. The sudden, stark realization of their captivity seemed to have shrunk her. For a moment, she looked exactly like Katerina— small, vulnerable, and alone. The image broke Viktor’s careful resolve.

He lowered himself slightly, bending near a small bush that bore a single, late-blooming white flower. He carefully plucked it from the stem.

He turned back to Natalia, offering a gentle, true smile— the kind he reserved only for his family. “You are here, Natalia,” he murmured, his voice soft. “And we are here with you. That is what matters.” He reached up, pushing back the heavy curtain of her long, dark hair, and slid the small, pure white flower just above her left ear. It settled perfectly.

She lifted her head, and in the faint light filtering from the school windows, her deep green eyes met his. She smiled up at him— a genuine, unguarded smile that chased away the vulnerability of a moment before.

And in that instant, Viktor didn't see the fearless mastermind of mischief, the sharp-witted accomplice to his brother, or the girl he had vowed to protect. He saw her—just Natalia. Beautiful, hopeful, and entirely captivating.

A fierce, unfamiliar pounding began in his chest, wilder and more violent than the fear he'd felt watching Leonid on the window sill. It was a dizzying, terrifying realization. He wasn't just protective of Natalia; he was suddenly, fundamentally altered by her. His careful, controlled world had tilted, and his heart beat wildly. For once, Viktor Rostava was speechless.

Story 3

Hope

“For God so loved…”

The words were in English, blurred by wear and tears. Vasily Lyubovitch had to squint to make them out in the dusky light.

“…so loved the world…”

A door slammed shut. His hands shook as he gripped the ragged paper. His shoulder met the cell wall, and he slumped against it.

“…He gave His only son…”

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to focus through the haze. This card, this was important. Please Vasily, take it… He swallowed past the spasm in his throat. Damir Kozlav’s desperate gaze burned, as had his relief when Vasily had quietly slipped the bit of paper into his own pocket. Then the strain, urgency, had been washed away by something… else.

A shot rang out.

Vasily’s throat closed. His chest clenched. The cell walls wavered in and out of focus. His eyes fell to the card, locking on a red smear– no, a thumbprint. He smoothed out the crumpled edge with trembling fingers.

Damir. He’d looked into the eyes of a friend and done nothing, could do nothing, watched the inevitable. Silently handed another friend over to death. Helplessness crashed over him, utter and complete. Anger couldn’t even flare anymore under that wave.

His fingers curled into the paper. He turned it over, studying the patterns days of pain had left behind. And yet, the man whose blood stained the words had walked to his own execution fearless.

“…that whoever believes in him should not perish…”

Heat welled up in his throat. He dragged the back of his hand over his face and stared at the words. His own faulty English surely...

“…Should not perish but have eternal life.”

Breath knotted in his chest. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back against the cold cell wall. The peace in Damir Kozlav’s eyes gazed back at him.

For once, Vasily Lyubovitch wanted what a dead man had.

Story 4

Defection

Leonid Rostova drummed his hand on the steering wheel, the insistent rhythm a counterpoint to the anxious thrumming in his chest. In fifteen minutes, he would pick them up. The knowledge settled deep, a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach that even his usual easy humor couldn’t entirely dislodge. He closed his eyes, replaying the last phone call he’d taken, a lifeline thrown across continents.

“Leonid? Are you there?” Viktor’s voice, rough with static but utterly unmistakable, had cut through the silence of the dark underground cellar. Leonid had been huddled in the damp concrete space, the cold seeping into him despite the heavy coat. This wasn’t some spy movie set; this was the heart of Noinuteivos, a country that wanted him dead.

“Always here, my dear brother,” Leonid had replied with a fake drawl, a laugh bubbling up despite the gravity of the situation. He’d tried to sound light, carefree, the mischievous prankster Viktor knew. “Just enjoying the local hospitality.”

“Don’t you dare joke,” Viktor’s tone had sharpened, the concern a palpable wave even through the crackling line. “This is serious. You’re playing with fire, deeper than ever this time.”

“I know, I know. But I'll be fine,” Leonid had insisted, glancing at the cheap, disposable burner phone clutched in his hand. His companion, a young man named Aleksandr who supplied him with information and safe houses, had warned him. “Quick, Leonid. Five minutes, tops. They have ways of tracing, even this far down.”

So, Leonid had been forced to be quick, to distill years of brotherly affection and the sheer terror of what he was doing into a few hurried sentences. “I’ll be careful, Viktor. You know me.”

“That’s what worries me,” Viktor had muttered, the love and worry etched into his voice. “Your ‘careful’ usually involves some daredevil stunt.”

Leonid had only laughed. He could almost picture Viktor running a hand through his hair in exasperation. Viktor, who had cared for his siblings for years after they were separated from their parents, who had led them out of this very country to a new life in America, was still fiercely protective. “Don’t worry, I’m good. The package is ready. Everything’s in motion.”

“You’ve got the intel?” Viktor pressed, his voice lowering. “The names? The schedule?”

“Every detail,” Leonid confirmed. He’d stared at the blurry photos Aleksandr had given him earlier that day– two young faces, haunted but determined. Ivan and Anya. “They’ll be at the national theatre, performing for the officials. Their usual routine.”

“And the route? The rendezvous?”

“Locked down.” Leonid paused, knowing the unspoken fear that hung between them. “I know the risks, Viktor. I’m not going to be caught.”

A heavy sigh on the other end. “You better not. Natalia and Katerina will be worried sick.”

“Tell them I send my love. And I’ll be home soon enough to annoy them all.”

Viktor actually laughed at that. Then, a new voice, thick with a distinctly American southern drawl, broke in. “Alright, boys, break it up. This ain’t no tearful goodbye hotline.” It was Luke McClain, Katerina’s husband. He got straight to business. “Leonid, how soon can I expect you and this next ‘package’ on American soil?”

“Two days, Luke,” Leonid had replied, the lightness returning to his voice. “They’re getting out tonight. The window is tight, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

“Tonight?” Luke whistled softly. “Cutting it close, ain’t ya? Weather’s clear on our end, but you gotta make it to the pickup point on your side first. Don’t want ‘em thinking we’re staging a full-on invasion. The American government might actually have something to say if you start WWIII.”

“Don't worry, the TLP will never know any outside country was involved in the first place.”

Luke chuckled. “That's what I like to hear. You just focus on getting those kids out safe. We’ll handle the welcome wagon. Any last-minute hitches?”

“Only the usual TLP presence. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s my problem,” Luke drawled. “You always think you can handle it. Just don’t get cocky. We need you back, too, Leonid. Katerina’s already got your favorite pie waiting.”

A genuine smile had stretched across Leonid’s face then, thinking of Katerina. “Tell her I’ll be there for a double slice.”

Leonid had hung up and Aleksandr had immediately dismantled the phone, tossing the components into a bucket of acid.

Now, Leonid was sitting here, waiting. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel again, a nervous habit. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes. The city lights glowed faintly through the windshield. He took a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs, and prayed quietly, simply asking for protection. For himself, for Ivan and Anya, for Viktor, Luke, Katerina, Natalia, for Aleksandr... for anyone caught in this dangerous web of defiance and hope. Let them be safe. Let us be safe.

All at once, like figures emerging from a dream, he saw them. Two slender forms, stepping from the grand, brightly lit entrance of the national theater. A boy of about sixteen and a girl beside him, their poses still radiating the disciplined grace of performers, even as they walked. Ivan and his twin sister Anya. They were dressed in the glittering performance costumes of ice-skaters, silver and blue fabric catching the light, and both had figure skates slung over their shoulders, the wicked gleam of the blades almost hidden by their protective wraps. They moved with a hurried elegance, their heads down, clearly wanting to be anywhere but there.

Behind them, a shadow detached itself from the theater’s looming archway. A TLP Agent. Leonid’s breath hitched, a silent, urgent prayer forming on his lips. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Dark, impenetrable sunglasses, perfectly combed blond hair, and an impeccably tailored black suit coat flashed back at him. His disguise was in place. Perfect. He hoped, with a desperate hope that felt like a physical ache, that they would believe it.

He pulled the car up smoothly beside the skaters, stopping just as they reached the curb. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out, his posture stiff, projecting authority he didn’t feel. He walked around to open the back door, a silent command in his rigid movements. The teenagers, their faces pale and eyes wide with a mixture of fear and dawning hope, scrambled in, their skates clattering. Leonid closed the door behind them with a soft click, a sound that felt deafening in the charged air.

He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod to the TLP agent, who stood a few paces back, watching with unreadable scrutiny. The agent returned the nod, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes that Leonid tried to ignore, and then turned away, resuming his patrol. He bought it. Or he’s playing along. Leonid didn’t wait to find out.

He climbed back into the car. He started the engine, the low rumble a comforting sound, and pulled away from the curb, merging into the stream of traffic. Soon, they were on the main road, the national theatre shrinking in the rearview mirror as they accelerated.

He glanced back at the two silent figures in the rear, their faces still etched with tension, their elaborate costumes out of place in the mundane car interior. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “I'm Leonid. We’re heading to a safer place. Just hang tight, you’ll be safe in a moment.”

Ivan nodded once, a quick, jerky motion. Anya only stared straight ahead, her eyes like frozen pools, reflecting the passing city lights. He knew that look. It was the look of children who had known too much, seen too much. He had worn it once himself.

As he drove, navigating the winding city streets, another voice, soft and melodic, came back to him. Katerina’s voice.

He had been sitting in his small, sparsely furnished apartment in England, a fleeting moment of peace before the chaos of Noinuteivos. He had been preparing to be flown over, the parachute pack laid out on his bed like an ominous promise. She had called him, her voice full of smiles and laughter initially, but he had heard the tremor beneath. He always did, with Katerina. They had a special bond, having been partnered for years in the ballet academy, each other’s confidantes through the rigid discipline and quiet terrors of their childhood.

“Leonid? Are you… are you really doing this one?” she’d asked, her voice hushed, as if fearing someone would overhear her even across an ocean.

“I am, Kat,” he’d said, trying to inject his usual cheerfulness. “The mission’s on. The children need help. Just like we did.”

“I know,” she’d whispered, a catch in her voice. “But it’s so dangerous. This country… it took so much from us. And now you’re going back in. Every time you do this. . .”

“I know, but I've always come back,” he'd replied.

“Please be careful,” she’d pleaded, her voice almost breaking. “Don’t be reckless. Just come home. To us. To me.”

“Don’t worry, Kat,” he’d promised, the image of her blond hair and blue eyes, so like his own, filling his mind. “I’m a professional now, remember? No more mischief… well, only the necessary kind.” He’d chuckled, trying to lighten her mood. “Besides, Victor would have my head if I didn’t come back. And I promised Luke I’d teach him how to properly dance. This swing stuff he calls dancing is entirely wrong.”

She had laughed then. “Just… promise me you’ll come home. We all miss you so much.”

“I'll do my best,” he’d whispered.

Leonid jerked out of the memory, the harsh glare of headlights behind him pulling him back to the present. They were almost to the place, the pre-arranged drop-off point where Aleksandr would be waiting. He glanced back, checking on Ivan and Anya. They were still tense, but a glimmer of something– relief, maybe– was starting to thaw their fear.

Then, his heart sank.

Behind them, gaining fast, was another car. Not a civilian vehicle. This one was black, sleek, with tinted windows that reflected the streetlights like dark eyes. TLP. No mistake. They had been compromised.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, biting his lip hard. He had been so careful.

“What is it?” Ivan’s voice, a thin thread of fear, cut through the silence.

“Trouble,” Leonid said, his voice clipped, adrenaline sparking through him. “Look, we’ve got to be ready to jump. The moment I tell you, you jump. Don’t hesitate. A friend will take you the rest of the way. He’s waiting just ahead.”

Ivan’s eyes widened, but he nodded, a fierce determination replacing the fear. Anya just stared at Leonid, her face a mask of primal understanding.

They came to a sharp corner in the winding road, the city giving way to a more rural, treelined stretch country stretch. Leonid floored the gas pedal, the engine roaring in protest as the car lurched forward, speed building rapidly. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, and wrestled the vehicle around the curve, tires squealing in protest, the scent of burning rubber briefly filling the air.

As they straightened out, the meeting place came into sight—tall grass stretching towards the darkness. The TLP car was still on the other side of the turn, behind the shelter of the hill.

“NOW!” Leonid yelled, his voice raw. He slammed on the brakes, hard. The car shuddered, tires screaming, sending a bone-jarring jolt through him.

The twins didn’t hesitate. They were athletes, trained for quick, precise movements. They burst from the back doors, a blur of silver and blue, their skates clattering as they hit the ground running. Before they’d even cleared the car, Leonid saw Aleksandr rising up from the tall grass, his silhouette stark against the faint moonlight. He waved and the twins sprinted towards him, disappearing into the cover of the darkness.

Leonid didn’t watch them go. He slammed the accelerator back down, the engine catching with a furious roar, and tore down the road just as the TLP car rounded the corner, its headlights sweeping across the empty spot where Ivan and Anya had stood moments before.

The TLP car, a black predator, veered sharply, focusing its hunt on Leonid’s rapidly accelerating vehicle. The chase was wild and immediate. Leonid pushed the car to its limits, the speedometer needle climbing past numbers he'd never dared. He swerved, cut across lanes, whipped around turns. Headlights flashed in his rearview mirror, closer, closer.

He silently prayed through it all, a rapid-fire string of pleas and desperate hopes. Keep them safe. Keep Aleksandr safe. Let me be fast enough. The TLP were gaining, their car faster, more powerful.

If they caught him… The thought was a cold, sharp knife. His hand dropped instinctively to the gun holstered at his belt, the cold steel a small comfort. It was a last resort, but a resort nonetheless.

The TLP car came terrifyingly close, filling his rearview mirror, its grill a monstrous face. They slammed their car into his, a sickening crunch of metal, sending a jolt through Leonid’s spine. The impact sent his car skidding wildly. The world outside became a blur of trees and asphalt. The next moment, everything was sliding sideways. He fought the wheel, trying to regain control, but it was useless. The force was too great.

Leonid’s car slid down the gravel slope on the side of the road, a controlled descent turning violent. It hit a submerged rock with a deafening impact, a sound of tearing metal and shattering glass. The world spun, a dizzying, sickening kaleidoscope of earth and sky. His body slammed against the seatbelt, the air knocked from his lungs as the car flipped over, a cacophony of screeching metal and splintering glass.

When the world finally settled, it was upside down. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber filled the air. Leonid’s head spun, a dull throb behind his eyes. He let out a shallow, ragged breath, testing his limbs. Pain flared in his side, his arm, his head. His nose was bleeding. He wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a smear across his cheek.

He unfastened the buckle, his fingers fumbling with the release, and tumbled awkwardly to the roof—now the floor—of the car. His jacket was caught on a jagged piece of metal, pinning him. He shrugging out of it, leaving the torn fabric behind. Through the shattered windshield, he could see the TLP car, now descending the slope, its headlights cutting through the darkness, pinning him here in the open.

He managed to crawl through the gaping hole where the windshield had been, pulling himself free of the mangled wreck. He staggered to his feet on the uneven gravel, his legs unsteady beneath him, the pain in his side a sharp, insistent stab. His head swam.

The TLP agents were scrambling from their car, dark figures silhouetted against their blinding headlights. He drew his gun, the familiar weight a steadying presence in his trembling hands, raising it defensively.

So this was it then, he thought grimly, the blood staining his teeth as he pressed his lips together. Even as he raised the gun, even as the first TLP agent started out of the car, his mind, in that strange clarity, turned to saying goodbye to his family in America before his flight to England. Luke’s hearty slap on his back, Natalia’s warm, comforting hug, Katerina’s soft kiss on his cheek. . .

And Viktor’s strong, protective embrace, his hand crushing Leonid’s shoulder, his serious face etched with worry. His whispered words, the last he’d heard from his big brother before stepping onto the plane that would bring him back to this cold, unforgiving land:

“Come home, little brother. Please, come home.”

And that's a wrap! Huge thanks to the authors who sent in stories! These were really fun to read and I am sure y'all will enjoy them as much as I did! Can't wait for the votes! Remember, VOTE BY MIDNIGHT OCTOBER 22ND