My brothers keeper, an OC/SI as the twin of Stalin

[Taps148]

I personally like flash forwards, get me curious about future Russia

 

[orion_053]

If he's going for a full split between church and state he can pull talent that would ignored or discrimination against in their country of birth. Bringing religious, racial and sexual minorities grants the future Soviet a workforce that is grateful to be there

 

[Alenco98]

ПРАВДА – Official Notice of Public Closure and Event Protocol
Issued by the Moscow Committee for Cultural Affairs in Cooperation with the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs
Date: May 30, 1932

COMRADES, ATTENTION:

The People's Committee for Cultural Affairs of the Moscow Soviet, in cooperation with the Ministry of Transportation and the Municipal Directorate of Parks and Public Spaces, hereby announces the temporary closure of Izmaylovsky Park for the purposes of logistical preparation and security arrangements related to the upcoming Moscow concert of internationally renowned vocalist and tenor from our cousin revolutionary republic of Mexico, Juan Arvizu.

As part of the ongoing First Five-Year Plan for Cultural Exchange and Socialist Upliftment, the performance of Comrade Arvizu is regarded as a significant milestone in the promotion of international proletarian solidarity through music and artistic appreciation.

Closure Schedule:

Izmaylovsky Park will be officially closed to the general public beginning at dusk on June 9, 1932, and will remain closed until dawn on June 12, 1932.

During this period, access to the park and its surrounding premises will be restricted to authorized personnel, stage crews, national guard, and technical staff responsible for sound, lighting, and maintenance operations.

All unauthorized persons found within the restricted perimeter will be subject to removal and possible administrative penalty in accordance with Article 127 of the Public Assembly and Safety Act (1930 revision).

Ticket Sales and Distribution:

Concert tickets for Juan Arvizu's performance at Izmaylovsky Park will be made available for public purchase at designated kiosks beginning the morning of Friday, June 10, and continuing through the end of Saturday, June 11, or until the allocation of tickets has been fully exhausted.

Tickets will be issued on a first-come, first-served basis, with priority access reserved for the elderly, the disabled, and veterans of the war of national liberation.

Notice on Speculation and Resale:

In accordance with directives from the People's Commissariat for Economic Planning and Supervision, the resale or private exchange of concert tickets for personal profit is strictly prohibited. This includes, but is not limited to:

The resale of tickets at inflated prices;

The hoarding or stockpiling of tickets for speculative purposes;

The use of proxies or third parties to circumvent rationing or distribution guidelines.

Any individual found engaging in speculative activity or violating this ordinance will be subject to criminal prosecution under the Anti-Speculation Act of 1926, with penalties including up to one year of corrective labor in the Siberian districts, loss of party membership, and permanent disqualification from future positions in the party apparatus.

Let this serve as a reminder that the fruits of culture belong not to the profiteer, but to the collective laboring masses of the Soviet people.

By order of the Moscow Cultural Committee
Approved by the Secretariat of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks)
Glory to the Soviet Union – Glory to the Workers of the World!

---

December 25, 1917
Finland Station
Petrograd, Russia

Almost two weeks on the rails, and now the grey skeleton of Petrograd finally rose out of the snow like a tired old ghost trying to remember its name. Finland Station—I recognized it by it's surroundings, the crooked skyline, the half-collapsed chimneys, the church spires leaning like drunkards. The signs hung motionless in the frost, frozen in mid-sentence, while the smoke curled upward instead of sideways like it was offering a prayer. That's how you knew you were back in Petrograd: even the smoke had given up.

It should've taken four days from Tyumen. Five, maybe six, if your conductor was a coward or you packed a samovar and a priest. But this was post-revolutionary Russia, and the trains didn't so much move as lurch. They creaked. They stopped. They groaned like they were reconsidering every life choice. Time no longer moved forward. It staggered like a dying horse—loud, slow, and liable to drop dead in a ditch without warning.

But hey—we weren't attacked. That's something.

Turns out, when your private train car holds over 300 Revolutionary Guards, a tsar and his family, and several locked crates containing confiscated Fabergé eggs, even the boldest Siberian bandits suddenly remember their grandmothers and choose to stay home. Even the wolves gave us space. Good animals, wolves. Smart. Better instincts than half the officers I used to serve with back in my old police days.

I spent most of the journey drifting between reports, inspections, and harmless psychological warfare. Read Marx to the children. Sang folk songs. Performed card tricks. Conducted a mock trial where Nicholas II was found guilty of being himself and sentenced to mop the floor. Made Alexei act as court stenographer with shaking hands. They thought it was theater. It was. But they didn't get the joke.

I don't believe in cruelty without rhythm.

And now, as the frozen silhouette of Finland Station crept closer through the icy mist, I felt a touch of—what was it? Melancholy? Sentiment? Maybe indigestion. Either way, I did what any self-respecting revolutionary warlord would do in my position.

I started to sing.

A soft, warm melody to cut through the frost. My voice at first low, barely above a whisper—just loud enough for the imperial family to wonder whether I was joking.

I wasn't.

"Ohhh baby, you're my baby… so happy Christmas tonight…"

Yes. That song. Singing in the Snow, by Mikiko Noda, a charming little city pop tune from 80s Japan I found on YouTube. Most of it was in Japanese, which the Romanovs of course did not speak. Not that they needed to understand the words. The melody was cheerful, the tone romantic, the context entirely unhinged. That was the point. That and I was so happy to see my wife.

I didn't care that it was Christmas. I didn't care that I was carting the last Tsar of Russia like a sack of potatoes into the capital he used to rule.

"Shining down free in your eyes… hold me tightly in your free arms…"

I tapped the rhythm on the window glass, boot bouncing gently on the floorboards. The train swayed with me, like we were dancing. I imagined myself a lounge singer on the Titanic, if the Titanic had been hijacked by a communist militia and the first-class passengers were shackled to their seats, stewing in the faint aroma of powdered soap and disillusionment.

To their credit, they didn't scream.

They just stared. A gallery of pale wax faces. Olga and Tatiana rigid, lips tight. Maria blinking too often. Anastasia glaring with that teenage fury that made her briefly likable. Alexei coughing quietly into a handkerchief embroidered with a crest that no longer mattered.

And Nicholas…

He looked at me like I was a dream he couldn't quite wake from. Like he kept expecting me to disappear.

I paused between verses, turning my head just enough to meet his eyes.

"What?" I asked in English, tone light and airy. "You didn't know I spoke English? Or that I could sing?"

Nicholas blinked. "You never told us."

I smiled, thin as a knife. "You never asked."

Silence followed. A long, cold silence, broken only by the soft mechanical wheeze of the train and the faint clatter of distant pistons. Then—clang—the bell echoed down the corridor.

Arrival.

Minutes now.

I stood slowly, adjusting the collar of my greatcoat, brushing imaginary lint from my lapel like a man preparing for a recital. I cleared my throat theatrically, stepped toward the aisle, and let my gaze sweep the length of the car.

"Well then," I said, raising my voice. "Get your coats on."

The guards stiffened. The Romanovs didn't move.

My smile dropped, clean and sharp.

"Welcome home," I said in Russian now. "Now get your shit and get off the train."

I gestured toward the doorway with a casual flick of the wrist.

Then I turned to Alexei, the boy shaking in the corner like porcelain on the verge of cracking.

"Except you. My men will get your things. Can't have you dying on me yet. Once you're in the Winter Palace, you're no longer my problem."

He stared up at me, eyes wide and wet as his family began packing. I almost felt bad for a moment. He looked a lot like my little brother back in my old life before I died. I remembered them again, and I just sighed and shook my head.

I'd accepted long ago this was life, but the memories occasionally hit me and it just got me. I guess this is probably why people don't normally remember their old lives when they reincarnate. It's like going in and out of depression at random times. But I had a job to do, and I supervised the Romanovs as they packed their shit.

It only took them two minutes—just two minutes—for the Romanovs to bundle themselves in their coats, gather their imperial rags, and shuffle off the train like miserable ghosts in a snowfall.

We disembarked into a world of crisp uniforms, frostbitten tension, and the gray breath of revolution curling in the air.

"Salute!" a young voice barked. I looked up—and there they were. One hundred guards lined up like chess pieces, steam rising from their nostrils. The lad in front gave a perfect revolutionary salute. His posture was sharp enough to cut steel.

I returned the gesture.

"At ease."

Hands dropped. Boots shifted. Eyes forward.

And then the Romanovs emerged, one by one, draped in fox furs and failure. They looked smaller outside the train. Like they'd shrunk in the cold. It was hard to believe these were once the ornaments of an empire. Now they were just excess luggage in a changing season.

I pointed at the young man who'd called the salute. "You. You're in charge, I assume?"

He stiffened. "Yes, Comrade."

"Good. Get the Romanovs and their belongings into one of the armored cars. Do not help any of them carry their own suitcases. Not one. Except the boy—he's got hemophilia and if he dies before Lenin sees him, I'll be explaining that to the Party with my head in a box. Once they're loaded, take them straight to the Winter Palace. And reserve a second car for me. Lenin's probably already pacing barefoot in a conference room and muttering in German about me."

"Understood." He snapped another salute.

I squinted at him. "What's your name, by the way? You look like you were just weaned off your mother's tit."

"Tukhachevsky. Captain Mikhail Tukhachevsky."

I grinned wide. "Well, fuck me bloody."

He blinked.

"My name's Mikheil. Seems we've got a thing going. Mikhail times 2. Tell you what—I'll hitch a ride in your car. I like hearing new voices before they disappoint me."

I left him standing there, gears turning behind his eyes, and turned toward the reason I still believed in something better than execution squads and ideological purity.

"Aleksandra!"

I practically shouted her name and ran into her arms like I hadn't just spent two weeks terrifying a former monarch and reciting Das Kapital at gunpoint. Her warmth hit me like a Georgian summer. I buried my face in her neck. God, I missed her. The way she smelled—like vanilla, ink, and something else I could never name. I missed her laughter, her scolding, her hands, her hips, everything. I missed waking up next to her and not next to a bolt-action rifle and a stack of communiqués. I missed making love without worrying about when the next telegram would arrive.

She kissed me. Then kissed me again.

"You miss me?" I murmured into her hair.

"Shut up." She laughed, then pulled me into another kiss that should've been illegal under martial law.

The family came next. Keke, crossing herself three times and hugging me like I was still a child. Aleksander, my brother-in-law, who always looked like he was trying not to roll his eyes. The kids—Kato, Iosif, and Aleksander—all wide-eyed and bouncing. Besarion stayed behind at Smolny. The cold was too much, and this wasn't 2025—here, the flu could still kill a baby faster than a bayonet. I wanted more kids, not potential dead baby jokes.

And then, of course, there was Joe.

Stalin.

My brother.

We hugged. Brief but tight. His arms were hard. His coat stiff. His eyes were heavier than I remembered.

"You look like shit," I said in Georgian, smiling like I wasn't half-worried he'd stab me for hugging him too hard.

"Negotiations went as well as they could," he replied curtly.

"Germany will lose," I said. "I promise. By this time next year, they'll be chewing boot leather in Berlin."

"If they don't," he said, "Trotsky will be the least of my problems."

We both knew what that meant.

The moment passed. I turned to my family and told them to return to Smolny. Joe, Aleksander, and I moved toward the car where young Tukhachevsky waited, straight-backed and eyes alert.

He opened the door for us like a good soldier, letting us in one by one, then entering last and shutting it behind him.

I slid in second to last. Wanted the window seat. Also wanted to talk to the kid. See what kind of steel he was made of.

As the car began to rumble through the icy streets of Petrograd—quiet now, watchful—I turned to him.

"So, Captain Tukhachevsky?" I said, stretching out my legs, cracking my knuckles, and giving the boy my most dangerous grin. "You look awfully young to be a captain. You'd better impress me. I've killed men for less than a boring answer."

I leaned forward slightly.

"Let's start simple, shall we? What kind of woman is your type?"

There was a moment of silence so thick you could've buttered bread with it.

I glanced at Joe, his eyes narrowed like he'd just bitten into a lemon. Aleksander turned his head and stared out the window, suddenly deeply invested in the snow-covered buildings of Petrograd. I could feel them both radiating the same thought:

What the actual fuck are you even doing?

Idiots. Cultural illiterates. They'd never had the joy of watching Jujutsu Kaisen. They didn't know the name Aoi Todo, the philosopher-king of friendship and fists. But I did.

And today—I was Todo.

"And before you answer," I added, wagging a gloved finger, "don't give me some boring, generic shit like 'someone nice' or 'someone who's kind and loyal.' That's drivel. That's something you say to a priest before he sends you to war. No. I want something real. Specific. From the heart. A man's type reflects everything about him."

I thumped my chest.

"My type, for example? A proper Georgian woman. Classy. Keeps herself looking good. Keeps the kids in line. Knows how to party when it's time to party, and when we're in public? Always takes my side. Always. But behind closed doors? She'll beat my ego into submission with a wooden spoon and call it foreplay."

I looked over at the young captain.

"Now, your turn. Impress me."

Tukhachevsky didn't blink.

Didn't even hesitate.

He crossed one leg over the other, smoothed a wrinkle from his coat like he was sitting in a café on the Nevsky with a glass of wine instead of sharing an armored car with three men, two of whom. had personally shot people.

And then he said:

"My type?" His voice was cool, confident, and laced with that hint of challenge only young men with dangerous ideas carry.

"A woman who can shoot straighter than me, walk faster than me in boots, and knows how to fake requisition forms by the time I've finished breakfast. Someone who doesn't flinch or cry when I say we might not come back alive. Who irons her own uniform, not mine, because she has her own medals to polish."

I grinned.

He kept going.

"She's ambitious, but not loud about it. Doesn't smile unless it's real. Carries a revolver in her purse and a copy of Tolstoy in her coat. A woman who only calls me 'Misha' when I've done something truly unforgivable. Someone who would smuggle me out of Moscow one day and hand me over to the National Guard the next—if she thought I'd become a threat to the revolution."

A pause.

Then, he added, almost as an afterthought:
"And if she can fence? I'll propose on the spot."

I couldn't help myself.

I let out a loud, delighted cackle that echoed off the car walls.

Joe rolled his eyes and muttered something in Georgian that was probably a prayer or a curse. Aleksander looked like he was considering opening the door and throwing himself into traffic.

I clapped my hands once, sharply.

"Now that's an answer. Goddamn! You've got taste, kid. I like you."

Tukhachevsky smirked, but just a little. Just enough to show me he knew exactly what he was doing.

That was the moment I decided I liked him. Not trust—never trust—but like. A rare thing.

"You pass," I said, leaning back. "For now."

He gave a small nod. "I intend to keep passing, sir."

"Don't call me sir," I grunted. "It makes me feel like a Tsar."

"Then what should I call you?"

"Comrade, obviously." I grinned again. "Or Mikheil. Just not boss—I already have enough men trying to polish my boots with their tongues."

Outside, the streets of Petrograd passed by in quiet reverence. The Winter Palace loomed ahead—dark, vast, and filled with questions.

Inside the car, I rubbed my hands together and chuckled again.

"Now," I said, "next question: if you had to execute a traitor in front of their mother, would you do it before or after dinner?"

Aleksander audibly groaned.

And Joe just sighed.

Tukhachevsky didn't even flinch.

He leaned forward just slightly, resting his elbows on his knees like a man preparing to recite poetry or describe an artillery drill.

"Before dinner."

"Why?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn't hesitate. "Because if I do it after dinner, I'll be distracted. Too much blood, stomach's full, might get sleepy. But before? That's clean. Efficient. Besides—" and here he tilted his head slightly, "—the mother will cry harder on an empty stomach. Easier to read her sincerity."

I burst out laughing.

Joe muttered something about "burguois humor" under his breath.

"Goddamn." I said. "You really are a monster."

Tukhachevsky gave a polite shrug. "Only on the clock, Comrade."

I pointed at him like I'd just found a new pet snake that could juggle.

"All right, next one. Imagine you're betrayed. Stabbed in the back by a man you trusted. You've captured him. He's bound. Helpless. Do you kill him with your own hands? Or do you hand him to the Party for a show trial?"

He took a breath.

"Depends," he said. "If it's personal? I kill him myself."

"And if it's political?"

"Show trial," he said. "Make it public. Make it poetic. Let the people see that even betrayal has structure."

"Smart boy," I muttered, narrowing my eyes.

"But," he added, "I'll make sure he knows that I chose the poet who writes his sentencing statement."

That made me grin like a wolf.

"You know, most men sweat when I do this."

"I'm not most men," he said.

I exhaled, slowly. "That's what they all say."

Another bump in the road. Aleksander grunted as the car jolted.

I leaned forward again.

"Fine. Let's go deeper. If your best friend—your comrade, your brother in arms—starts slipping. He's getting lazy. Soft. Dangerous to the movement. What do you do?"

This time, there was a pause.

A long one.

Good.

He looked at me dead in the eye.

"I talk to him first. Once."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then I shoot him." His voice was flat now. "Quickly. Publicly, if I must. Privately, if I can. But I do it myself."

"You wouldn't warn him twice?"

"No," he said. "Because if he's really my friend, my comrade, he'd only need once."

We stared at each other for a moment—two men separated by age, rank, and a half dozen war crimes. And yet…

I saw something in him. Arrogance, yes. But beneath that—a coldness that hadn't calcified into cruelty yet. Still flexible. Still growing.

Good.

I leaned back again, smiling.

"All right, another question," I said. "This one's important."

He nodded.

I gave him a moment.

Then said, in the most serious voice I could muster:

"If you could only bring one condiment to the front—one, and only one—which would it be?"

Aleksander nearly choked.

Joe actually turned and looked at me like he wanted to throttle me.

Tukhachevsky didn't blink.

"Mustard."

"Mustard?" I asked. "Explain yourself, Captain."

"Versatile," he said. "Hides the taste of canned meat. Keeps the sinuses clear. Symbol of strength. Napoleon's favorite, too."

"Didn't Napoleon die in exile?"

"Yes," he said. "But with dignity."

I howled. Full belly laugh this time.

"Holy shit. You might make general before you hit puberty."

He smiled, just a little. "That's the plan, Comrade."

The car turned a corner.

The Winter Palace came into view—gray, looming, half-lit by dying sun and revolution.

But I was still thinking.

Captain Tukhachevsky. Bright, dangerous, confident. Good taste in hypothetical executions and mustard. A little too good. A little too poised. Something about him scratched at my brain like a fingernail on glass.

I studied him again. Young. Calculating. Ruthless. Ambitious. Clever in that performative, low-key way. The kind of clever that made you forget how clever he really was. I'd seen it before.

In the mirror.

So I decided to test the most insane theory I had.

A long shot. The kind of idea that only creeps in when you've been an outsider looking into this world for decades.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, voice low.

"Hey, Tukhachevsky," I said. "Can I ask you a few weird questions?"

He straightened slightly, not alarmed—curious. "Go ahead, Comrade."

I gave him the grin I reserved for people I liked enough to eventually destroy.

"You ever heard of this one novel… Fullmetal Alchemist? What about code Geass?"

He blinked. "Is that… German?"

"Nope. Japanese."

Pause. "No, never heard of it."

"Huh," I nodded. "Okay. What about The Outsiders? It's American. Young adult fiction."

He frowned, puzzled. "We're… talking about American youth literature now?"

"Sure. Humor me."

"No. Not familiar with it either."

"American Idol?"

"Is that… a religion?"

I barked out a short, sharp laugh. Stalin stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Aleksander groaned quietly into his gloves.

I leaned back against the seat, exhaled.

"I'm fucking with you."

Tukhachevsky gave a polite chuckle, but I could tell he was off-balance now. Good. I like to keep people off-balance. Makes them easier to throw.

But inside?

Inside I was disappointed.

Not much. Just a flicker.

For a moment I really thought—maybe. Maybe he was like me. Another ghost from the future stuffed into a character from history and trying to survive. Another lunatic with Google, YouTube and too much anime in his bloodstream.

But no.

He was just smart.

That made him dangerous.

Smart men don't sleep well in revolutions. They either die early or live long enough to become problems. Tukhachevsky might be a general someday. Or a martyr. Or a traitor.

I'd keep him close. Keep him useful. But I'd never forget he existed.

And if I ever had to?

I'd kill him.

The thought made me laugh inside.

God, I sound like Stalin.

I glanced at my brother, sitting in the corner like a human glacier wrapped in wool and suspicion. Always watching. Always calculating. I used to think he was paranoid. But now?

Now I understood.

Power isn't a throne. It's a balance beam above a pit filled with people you used to love.

You survive by assuming everyone will push you. Because eventually, they might.

The car rolled to a stop. The brakes hissed. The door clanked.

We had arrived.

Tukachevsky reached for the handle and opened the door. He held it open for us.

"Let's go see the boss," I said as I walked out. "Maybe he'll give us medals. Or a lecture. Or just a list of people to shoot. And Tukachevsky, you'll be my adjutant from now on. Get ready, I'll be working you to the bone. You might regret sucking up to me."

He gave me a cocky smile. "I'll manage."

Manage to get himself killed if he pisses off Joe. I thought to myself.

 

[Project Black Souls]

Mikheil, the absolute LAD be like:

 

[Xodarap]

Wow just Wow
Man played the role almost perfectly perfectly as a amoral monster but is still budding into a Mikheil copy

 

[iceknight90]

Sorry Bear, but there's a new sidekick in town!

And it's Mikhail 2!

 

[Alenco98]

December 25, 1917
Winter Palace
Petrograd, Russia

We entered the Winter Palace at dusk, stepping over the palace grounds like intruders in a cathedral desecrated by its own parishioners. Stalin walked first, as always—prim, stiff, pretending not to enjoy the sound of his boots on imperial marble. I followed behind, half a step off, as protocol—and fraternal politeness—demanded. Then came my newly minted adjutant, Mikhail Tukhachevsky, who towered over me at 6'1 like some Aryan opera villain, all cheekbones and ambition. His face looked like it had been carved with a bayonet and powdered with arrogance. He made me look like his half-Georgian, bastard little brother who had gotten into daddy's vodka stash. Charming.

Trailing in the rear like a forgotten ghost was Aleksander Svanidze—our brother-in-law, our Georgian ballast, part of the old Troika: Stalin, Svanidze, and me. The band was back together. How festive. Like a Christmas special, if Christmas had been co-written by Nietzsche and a pack of jackals.

The throne room was colder than a nun's corpse and dimly lit, with the chandeliers swaying slightly from the draft. The once-lavish imperial hall had been stripped down to its bones—porcelain vases gone, velvet banners burned, and the Romanov throne itself removed. A tragedy, really. I had plans for that chair. Something theatrical. A pig, perhaps, or a performing circus bear trained to relieve itself ceremoniously while the former Tsar was made to watch, nose to filth. But no, the stage had already been cleared for "dignity" and "professionalism." Dull, practical men ruin everything.

The long conference table had been dragged to the center of the room. Around it sat the new lords of Russia, the revolutionary equivalent of the Legion of Doom, if they swapped capes for peacoats and ideals for paranoia. The Bolshevik Central Committee: some of the most dangerous men in the world... and also Joffe.

Attendance was taken. Fifteen voting members, counting myself, Joe, and Svanidze. Non-voters—Teodorovich, Kalinin, Milyutin, and Krestinsky—sat in silence, decorative and inert, like potted plants in a boardroom. They would speak only if spoken to, and even then, preferably not.

I scanned the faces of my comrades. Only a few mattered: Lenin, Trotsky, Kamenev, Zinoviev, Sverdlov, Bukharin, Dzerzhinsky, Stalin, myself, and Aleksander. The rest were static. Especially Joffe. God, Joffe. The man was a parasite with a pocket watch, Trotsky's pet parrot who squawked whatever line the messiah of Mezhraiontsy fed him. I would've respected him more if he had a spine, or even just a unique opinion. But no—always nodding, always defending, always fucking Joffe.

Still, my loathing could wait. Tonight's entertainment was the fate of the Romanovs.

Lenin cleared his throat and leaned forward, fingers templed in that signature pose of his—half messiah, half mortician. "Comrade Makarov," he said, his voice calm but sharp, "I would like to formally commend you on the secure and efficient retrieval of the royal family."

I nodded modestly, suppressing the grin clawing its way up my face. "Thank you comrade. How soon can we put them to work in the factories and hospitals? The sooner they're seen sweating in linen smocks, the more valuable they become as living propaganda."

He nodded, approving. "Dzerzhinsky, Svanidze, Bukharin—you'll handle the logistics. Bukharin, have Pravda prepare a series on the Romanovs' arrival and 'transition to proletarian life.' Paint them as penitent, humbled. Icons of the new order. Svanidze, coordinate with local soviets—assign the family to visible and useful positions. Hospitals, textile plants. No desk jobs. Dzerzhinsky, ensure full security. If there's even a breath of defiance, remove the problem... discreetly."

The room murmured assent. Heads nodded. Pens scratched. Revolution by paperwork. I waited a beat, then raised my hand.

Lenin's eyes flicked toward me. "Yes, Comrade Makarov?"

I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming idly, a picture of casual sadism wrapped in civility. "Just one minor item. The boy, Alexei. He's frail. Hemophiliac. If we put him to physical labor, he'll die. Publicly. And a dead tsarevich is worth less than a humbled, obedient one."

Trotsky raised an eyebrow. "You want us to pamper the princeling?"

"Hardly," I said, smiling thinly. "Make him Lenin's personal secretary. Keep him close. Let the people see the former heir to the empire sharpening pencils and blotting ink for the man who shattered his dynasty. It's powerful optics. It humanizes us. Plus, he's pathetic. The boy's practically translucent. He reminds me of a sad puppy."

No one laughed. I wasn't joking.

Lenin stared at me for a moment—judging whether this was sentiment or strategy. I gave him nothing. Just the smile. That waxy, cold smile that doesn't reach the eyes.

"Approved," he finally said. "Svanidze, reassign one of your clerks to train him."

"Of course," Svanizde said, voice crisp as a saber. He looked at me curiously, as if trying to determine whether I was kind or cruel. As if the difference mattered.

The meeting resumed. Rail schedules. Grain quotas. Murders to be done in the dark and called justice in the morning. But there was another elephant in the room—this one armed, stranded, and bored.

The Czechoslovaks.

Tens of thousands of them, scattered mostly through Ukraine, still clutching the rifles we'd so generously handed out when the Tsar's regime and then Kerensky's provisional circus had promised them independence. They'd been told they were heroes. Now they were unemployed heroes, which is the most dangerous kind. With the war over for us, they no longer had an enemy to kill—except, perhaps, us.

"I'll take care of it," I said as soon as their name crossed Lenin's lips. Quick. Firm. Like a surgeon claiming a tumor for himself. If I pulled it off, I'd win prestige for myself and Joe. If I failed… well, I didn't plan to fail. I don't plan for things that won't happen.

Naturally, Trotsky leaned forward with that predatory smile of his, the one that says I'm about to correct you with historical inevitability.

"And what exactly would your plan be, Comrade Makarov?" he asked, in that grating, smug lecturer's tone. I swear, if Trotsky hadn't been born in Russia, he'd have been one of those Paris professors who never pay their tab and seduce their students.

I smiled back at him like I was selling him a house with a body in the basement.
"Simple," I said. Glancing at Tukachevsky and pointing to the nearby map on the nearby wall. "Bring it here."

Tukachevsky complied like a good dog and handed me the map. Which I then put on the table and pointed north.

"We march them north to Murmansk. The British North Russia Squadron is sitting there right now. They're bored, cold, and waiting for a reason to sail somewhere warmer. Let them ferry the Czechoslovaks out. The Entente will need every rifle and body they can find once Germany throws everything west for one last hurrah before the Americans arrive in force. We get the Czechs out, we get the British fleet out, and in the process we secure Murmansk and the entire northern coast against British landings."

Trotsky leaned back in his chair, smirking like a man watching a dog try to play chess. "You trust the British to just leave?"

"No," I said, "I trust them to go where the war's hotter. And they will, because they're rational when it comes to blood and profit."

I could feel the room shift slightly—half listening, half calculating the angles. I pressed on.

"And once Murmansk is ours, we can move on Finland."

That got their attention. Even Trotsky stopped preening for a moment.

"Yes, Finland," I said, as if I were explaining basic arithmetic to children. "They just declared independence last week remember? Brand new state. Barely any army worth the name and a decent Bolshevik presence. If we leave them alone, the Entente will stroll in and turn Helsinki into a launchpad for the counter-revolutionaries. If we take it now, we secure the north and deny the Entente another foothold. Plus, we get a lovely frozen buffer between us and any entente meddling. Think of it as… early spring cleaning."

Lenin was silent, fingers tapping lightly on the table. Dzerzhinsky's eyes flickered with interest; Sverdlov was scribbling notes like an obedient clerk at a hanging.

Trotsky, of course, had to get the last word in. "Your plan assumes the Czechoslovaks will happily march to the Arctic without complaint. It assumes the British won't decide to stay. It assumes—"

"It assumes," I interrupted, "that I can make them march and that I can make the British leave. Which is why you should leave it to me. You have the military to finish organizing then march, the south is on fire with all the lovely cossacks kulaks, mensheviks and everything else in the middle rising up. You may not like me, but we need each other. You clean the south, I'll take the north then help you out down south."

The tension between us was as familiar as an old wound. Trotsky and I had been circling each other since the revolution began. He saw me as a thug with too much rope; I saw him as a narcissist who mistook his own speeches for divine revelation. We were both right.

Lenin finally spoke, his voice flat. "If you can do it, Comrade Makarov, then do it. The Czechoslovaks are a problem. The British are a potential problem. Finland is a future problem. Remove them all."

Trotsky's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. I leaned back, savoring the small victory. Three birds, one stone. And if the stone was me, well, I always enjoyed the sound of skulls cracking.

Outside, the snow was coming down harder. I imagined the Czechoslovaks trudging through it, rifles slung, boots crunching, their breath freezing in the air while I walked among them like a priest leading his flock to salvation—or exile. The British ships would wait, the Finns would shiver, and somewhere in all that frozen geography, I'd carve a little more space for myself in the map of the new Russia.

The meeting ended not with thunderous applause, but with the quiet shuffle of papers, muttered plans, and the scent of cold tobacco. I lingered behind, chatting with Stalin and Svanidze.

Mostly to remind them that Aleksandra was probably making dinner to celebrate my glorious return from imperial babysitting duty—and that if they didn't show, I'd drag them there by their ears. Aleksander, ever the civilized one, agreed at once. Stalin only grunted—his way of saying "yes" without wasting syllables. They'd probably stay here for hours, hunched over maps, grinding their teeth over imagined conspiracies, before showing up late and pretending they were doing me a favor.

I had other business.

"Tuka," I said, turning to my new adjutant. "With me. Time you met the rest of the family. Well, your new coworkers."

He followed me out of Smolny, through the chill, to the armored car convoy idling outside. The vehicles squatted like iron beetles in the snow, engines purring low and dangerous. We climbed into the lead car, and with a lurch we were off—Petrograd's streets flashing by in a blur of grey stone and half-starved pedestrians who paused to watch us pass, like they were waiting for the Revolution to spit out their name next.

The silence lasted about ten seconds.

"So," I said, leaning back against the cold leather seat, "what's your story, Tuka?"

He glanced at me, wary. "My story?"

"Yes. Your… narrative arc. Your sweeping epic. The tragic opera of Mikhail Tukhachevsky. I like to know the people who might end up taking a bullet for me. Or from me."

He hesitated, then began, his voice clipped, professional. "I was in the Imperial Army. Served on the western front against the Germans. Captured early in 1915."

I made a sympathetic noise. "Ah, the joys of being an honored guest of the Kaiser."

He ignored me. "I tried to escape. Four times."

"Four? That's… enthusiastic."

"Failed each time. Recaptured, punished, watched more closely." His jaw tightened. "On my fifth attempt, I succeeded."

I grinned. "So you're the kind of man who learns from his mistakes."

"Yes. Eventually."

I nodded, approving. "That's good. I like persistence in my adjutants. Means if I send you to steal something and you get caught, you won't just give up and write me an apology letter. You'll try again. And again. Until they either shoot you or you succeed. I can work with that."

He gave the faintest smile. "I imagine you can."

I studied him for a moment. "Do you speak anything besides Russian?"

"French," he said simply.

My smile widened. "Magnifique. Then we can talk without the riffraff eavesdropping. Comment vous êtes-vous échappé mon ami?" (How did you escape my friend?)

He told me in French, his accent crisp—about the forged papers, the night march, the border crossing. I threw in the occasional theatrical gasp, just to annoy him.

When he finished, I leaned back, satisfied. "You'll do fine, Tuka. You have the right combination of determination and poor impulse control. Just try not to get killed before dessert."

He shook his head, amused despite himself. "You're insane."

I patted his shoulder. "Yes, but I'm your type of insane."

The cars rolled through Petrograd's icy streets, past shuttered shops and idle factories, until the looming bulk of Smolny reappeared in the distance, lit from within like a lighthouse in a sea of snow.

As we pulled up, I glanced at Tukhachevsky and smiled. "Welcome to the family business, Tuka. Just remember—ours is the kind of family where you're more likely to inherit a firing squad than a fortune."

We then got out of the car and entered Smolny, making for the wing that served as the Guard Corps' nerve center—a cramped but heavily fortified warren of offices, maps, and men who could kill you with either a rifle or an unconvincing accident. The place smelled of damp wool, cheap tobacco, and the faint metallic tang of too much gun oil.

I made a mental note to ask Lenin for our own building once the war ended and Moscow became the capital. Something grand. Something intimidating. The Kremlin itself, perhaps. Let the peasants whisper that the Georgians had moved in like a conquering clan and nailed the doors shut behind them.

I stepped into my office with Tukhachevsky in tow, gestured for him to sit, and rang the little brass bell on my desk. A few minutes later, a young soldier appeared, back straight, eyes sharp.

"Sir?" he said, saluting.

"Get me my command staff. All of them."

"Yes, sir." He saluted again and disappeared.

Fifteen minutes later, they filed in—my lieutenants, my weapons, my insurance policy against boredom.

Yagoda first: head of security, counterintelligence, and the man responsible for keeping me alive… or at least ensuring I didn't die without paperwork. Lenin had recommended him, which meant he was almost certainly a plant. Related to Sverdlov, too. Definitely there to keep an eye on me. Not that it mattered—I wasn't plotting anything.

"Genrikh Yagoda," I said, gesturing. "Mikhail Tukhachevsky—my new adjutant. Mikhail, this is the man who makes sure nobody poisons my tea or puts a bullet in my spine without an appointment."

"A pleasure," Yagoda said, offering his hand. Tukhachevsky shook it.

Next came Voroshilov, Ter-Petrosian, and Budyonny. Voroshilov and Ter-Petrosian each commanded half of the infantry; Budyonny commanded our cavalry with the enthusiasm of a man who believed horses could win the next century. Stalin had sent me these men—loyalists, friends, drinking companions of his youth. They watched me as much as they served me, which was fine. Everyone watches everyone here. It's how we sleep at night.

"A pleasure," they each said in turn as Tukhachevsky shook their hands.

Finally, Sergo Ordzhonikidze—logistics and supplies. Another Stalin man. Smiled like a genial uncle, but if I asked for six hundred rifles and three boxcars of flour, they'd appear before breakfast.

"Nice to meet you," Sergo said, shaking hands with Tukhachevsky.

Once the pleasantries were over, I stood behind my desk and looked them over. "Gentlemen, we have a new assignment."

I let that hang in the air a moment, watching for the flicker of curiosity—or dread.

"I'll be taking some of the Guard Corps," I continued, "Voroshilov's men primarily, to Ukraine. Our friends, the Czechoslovaks, have been loitering there like an unwanted dinner guest. We're going to retrieve them and escort them north to Murmansk. There, the British North Russia Squadron will take them off our hands and sail them far away, where they can annoy someone else."

A couple of nods. Yagoda's pen was already scratching in his notebook.

"While I'm away," I said, "Budyonny will be in charge of day-to-day operations here. As usual, you'll report directly to Stalin. I expect the cavalry to keep the city looking disciplined.."

They all nodded of course, they may be plants but they knew the job description.

"This is a clean job," I went on. "Two birds with one stone—we remove an idle, armed foreign legion from our backyard, and we give the British a reason to move their fleet out of our waters. Once Murmansk is secured, we can look at Finland. They've just declared independence, and I'm not in the mood to let the British buy themselves a Scandinavian summer home."

They were listening now, really listening, which was the best kind of silence in a room full of killers.

"Questions?" I asked.

No one spoke. Perfect.

I smiled thinly. "Good. Pack for cold weather. And remember—this isn't just an escort. It's a statement. We're not here to ask people to leave Russia. We're here to make sure they never come back."

The meeting adjourned soon after. I told Tukhachevsky he'd be coming with me on this little southern holiday, which seemed to make him absurdly happy—as if I'd invited him to a seaside retreat instead of a march through frostbite and potential mutiny. I dismissed him with a wave, telling him we'd leave a little after New Year's. Coordinating logistics takes time, and besides, I wanted the Czechoslovaks good and restless before I arrived. Restless men make rash decisions, and rash decisions make good examples.

I made my way back to my quarters. Dinner was waiting, the table set like some bourgeois painting we'd all pretend wasn't decadent. It was the usual sentimental affair, and yes, I'd missed them—every voice, every face, every scrap of normalcy that kept me from thinking too much about what I'd done that day.

Keke did her prayer. I joined her, as did the kids and Aleksandra. Ironic, given my growing résumé as a war criminal, but God and I have an understanding—He doesn't judge me for the things I do, and I don't ask Him for help getting away with them.

We ate. Stalin and Aleksander arrived late, which earned them a proper tongue-lashing from Keke. She scolded them the same way she'd scold a child who'd forgotten to wash their hands. Stalin, conqueror of factions, scourge of dissenters, nodded solemnly through it like a schoolboy caught cheating. It wasn't often they were late, but when they were, she made sure they remembered it.

I didn't care much about the food or the conversation. My attention was elsewhere. I was watching my wife the way a hawk watches the only warm thing in a frozen field. Like Quagmire eyeing his next target, if Quagmire had the sense to know when he'd already found the best.

Dinner wrapped up. Normally, I'd linger, maybe smoke with Stalin, maybe tease the children until they rolled their eyes. But duty called—different kind of duty.

Soon enough, I was in my room with her.

We made love like we were making up for lost time. I'd missed her—her scent, her hair, her laugh, her moan, her voice. Everything. Being away from her sharpened the hunger in a way that nothing else could. There's no propaganda photo that can capture that kind of truth.

Afterward, I lay there, her body curled against mine. Even after four children and nearing forty, she was still as beautiful as the day we married. More, maybe, because now she carried the weight of our years together, and wore it like a crown.

I loved her. Which, for me, is more dangerous than hating someone.

The snow was falling outside, muting the city into a soft white silence. I found myself softly singing that song—that city pop Christmas tune by Mikiko Noda from my last life, singing in the snow. The notes felt warm in my chest, absurd and out of place in this century, which only made it sweeter.

"Ohh baby you're my baby… so happy Christmas tonight… shining down free in your eyes… hold me tightly in your sweet arms."

If I had died right then—her arms around me, the snow falling outside, the faint warmth of the meal still in my stomach—it would've been a good death.

---------

Excerpt from The Crisis, February, 1931 Issue— W. E. B. Du Bois

It is a curious and bitter thing that I, a Negro born beneath the shadow of the Stars and Stripes, may tread the boulevards of Moscow without once hearing the diminutive "boy" spat at my back; without being told, in some shop or café, that they "do not serve my kind." Here, in this land so long caricatured by our American press, I may enter where I will, sit where I please, and walk the streets without the furtive terror that my glance, should it fall too long upon a white face, might earn me a rope and a tree.

This is not to paint Russia as a paradise, nor to forget that she, too, struggles with her own sins. But it is to indict, with all the weight of my pen, a Republic that dares call itself the land of liberty while, in its own cities and countryside, the Black man lives as a stranger—suspect in his own home, despised in his own land.

If such courtesy, such human recognition, can be extended to me here, under the red flag and far from the soil of my birth, why is it denied in Georgia or Mississippi? Why in the very streets of New York or Chicago? The shame does not belong to Moscow, nor to me; it rests squarely upon America's conscience. And it is upon that conscience that I now knock, and knock loudly.

For until the Black man may walk unmolested through the streets of his own country—until he may eat at any table, drink from any cup, and meet the gaze of any man without fear—then the words "freedom" and "democracy" are but a hollow echo, mocking the land that utters them.

-------

Note: Imagine Mikheil humming and singing this while executing/torturing prisoners or just commiting war crimes in general:

 

[AAAustinYu]

He's my favourite psychopath, and with good taste!

 

[Xodarap]

Mikheil actually has turned his minders into assets simply from trusting them always acting out his orders he can explain to Lenin as a collar he willingly puts on while making enough rope for his brother Stalin to come from outside then untie any knots MIkheil makes on his potential Noose.

 

[Alenco98]

December 30, 1917
Petrograd, Russia

The morning frost clung to the church steps like stubborn parishioners refusing to leave after Mass. Father Sergey Eldarevich Patruchev swept at it with slow, deliberate strokes, his broom squeaking against the stone. In one hand, the broom; in the other, the duty of smiling politely to each congregant shuffling inside.

It had been a little over two months since Mikheil Jugashvili had appointed him Deputy for Religious Affairs. A strange appointment, considering that the Bolsheviks and the clergy were usually about as friendly as cats and buckets of water. Yet, much to Patruchev's quiet relief, Mikheil had kept his word: no burned churches, no priests strung up in town squares, no mobs smashing icons. The job was mostly paperwork—registering parishes, cataloging property, ensuring sermons didn't get too political. Compared to what he'd feared, it was… almost merciful.

But mercy from men like Mikheil was like spring in Russia: it came late, stayed briefly, and could vanish overnight.

Today felt different.

As he stood there, broom in hand, a cold ripple passed through his stomach—a priest's intuition, the same instinct that told him when a funeral was coming before the telegram arrived. He looked about. Nothing amiss: same dull-eyed workers filing past to get their seats before mass started, same faint smell of coal smoke from the factory chimneys, same Revolutionary Guards posted by the door like gargoyles with rifles.

Then he heard it.

That sound.

The rhythmic stamp of boots—not the aimless tramp of Red Guards on patrol, but the deliberate, percussive goose-step of them.

The Revolutionary Guard Corps.

They came into view moments later, black uniforms and red armbands cutting through the winter air like a blade through bread. At their head was Mikheil himself, his wife, his children, his elderly mother, and his brother-in-law. Stalin—Mikheil's twin—was conspicuously absent, as always.

"Hi, Father Patruchev!" Mikheil's voice was warm, almost boyish, as he strode forward and embraced him with the easy familiarity of an old friend. The hug was firm, not crushing—Mikheil didn't need to squeeze you to remind you he could kill you. "Sorry I couldn't see you when I arrived. I'm planning another expedition soon, so time's tight. Once again, my deepest thanks for your assistance."

"Of course, Mikheil," Patruchev replied, keeping his voice smooth, almost courtly. Yesterday's Pravda was still fresh in his mind—Mikheil had brought the Romanovs back from whatever hole they'd been hiding in. No firing squads for them, no Parisian-style guillotines. Instead, they'd been assigned to factory shifts—public humiliation in place of execution. In some ways, it was a mercy. In others, perhaps worse.

"You need anything by any chance?" Mikheil asked, casual as a shopkeeper. "Funds? Assistants to help you run the church? Security?"

"No, thank you. Your men have done a wonderful job."

"Perfect," Mikheil said, satisfied. "I'll see you at confession, then. I've got some stuff for you."

A chill went through Patruchev's bones. Stuff. The word hung in the air like incense in a sealed chapel. In Mikheil's mouth, it meant atrocities—sins he would recount with the same tone other men used for hunting stories. And yet, despite himself, Patruchev felt that gnawing, shameful curiosity. He was a priest, sworn to hear and absolve. But with Mikheil, absolution was a strange and slippery thing.

And as he watched the Revolutionary Guard march inside with Mikheil and his family, their rifles stacked in front of the church doors, the frost seemed to settle deeper into the stones beneath his feet. Something was coming. He could feel it. And in this city, under these men, that was never good news.

Mass passed without incident. Candles flickered, choirs sang the familiar hymns, and the faithful made their signs of the cross as though the world outside were not slipping further into madness with each passing week. Patruchev delivered his homily with the steady voice of habit, yet his mind wandered to the Revolutionary Guard standing at the back—silent, statuesque, and entirely out of place among the icons and incense.

When the service ended, he retreated to the confessional booth. His hands folded on his lap, he waited. The air inside was still, save for the faint scent of wax and cedar. He heard the familiar tread of boots outside before the door creaked open and Mikheil Jugashvili stepped in, settling himself like a man claiming a comfortable armchair.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he began, almost cheerfully. "It's been, what… three weeks since my last confession?"

Patruchev murmured the expected words, though his voice caught slightly.

Mikheil wasted no time. "So, the expedition went well. The Romanovs are settling into factory life. I've given them work that's… how shall I say… character-building. I visit from time to time. I don't hurt them—physically, at least. I talk. I remind them of what they used to have, and then I tell them what they have now. You'd be surprised how fast a man's eyes dull when you ask if the Tsar ever pictured himself packing rivets."

He chuckled, low and warm, as if sharing a fond anecdote. Patruchev said nothing.

"Of course, there were bandits along the way," Mikheil continued. "Filth, really. Some got the tree treatment—nailed them right up, arms out, like unwilling saints. You can tell when the voice goes, it's not from pain anymore, it's from the throat just… giving up. Others, I sent swimming. Icy river. Held them under until the current carried them off. The smart ones fought—those I respected. The stupid ones went still right away, and that's just disappointing."

Patruchev's stomach knotted. His hands tightened in his lap, but he kept his tone even. "And the rest?"

"Oh, those," Mikheil said, as if recalling a minor chore. "Some we burned. Small fires, so it lasted. The forest smelled like roasted pork for hours. Others we strung up naked by the arms for slow hangings—let them dance on their toes until their legs quit. My men smoked and joked the whole time, like it was an opera. Sometimes they burned the prisoners with the cigarette ends. I didn't stop them. You have to let soldiers have their amusements."

The booth felt smaller now, the air heavier.

"As for the Romanovs' guards," Mikheil went on, "I paid them off. Not much—vodka, some rubles, promises of things they'll never collect. Makes life easier. And when the guards wouldn't play along… well, they did eventually."

He laughed again, but there was no mirth in it. "And a few executions, of course. Quiet ones. Sometimes you have to prune the tree to keep it healthy."

Patruchev closed his eyes. He had heard every sin a man could confess—infidelity, theft, drunkenness, even murder—but never spoken with such casual warmth, as though Mikheil were describing a fishing trip. The priest gave the penance because it was his duty, murmured the absolution because it was his role. Yet inside, he wondered what forgiveness meant when the penitent left the booth fully intending to do it all again.

When Mikheil rose, he placed a hand on Patruchev's shoulder—light, almost brotherly. "Thank you, Father. You keep the church standing. I keep the wolves away. Between us, we'll get through this."

Patruchev forced a smile. He did not tell him that sometimes, it was hard to tell whether the wolves were outside the door—or sitting in the booth.

---

December 30, 1917
Petrograd, Russia

I stepped out of the confession booth like a man stepping out of a steam bath—refreshed, loose-limbed, almost glowing. I wasn't exactly a good Orthodox Christian. Scratch that—if you lined up the worst Orthodox Christians in the Russian Empire, I'd still be the one they'd keep in the back room so as not to scare the others. But confession had its uses.

For most people, it's about cleansing the soul. For me, it was… free therapy. Except instead of working through childhood trauma, I got to unload the latest catalogue of crimes, atrocities, and morally dubious "expeditions" I'd been on. And Father Patruchev—God bless his trembling hands—always sat there in stunned silence, blinking like a man who'd just been told his house was on fire. That, I admit, I found hysterical.

But enough of that. I had better things ahead—dinner, family time, maybe a roll in the sheets with my wife. Next week, another expedition. This one would be different; I'd take Aleksandra with me. We'd gallivant across Russia together, ending the war one bullet at a time. A husband-and-wife tour of carnage. Bliss.

She was still sitting in one of the pews with the children, speaking quietly to Keke. I walked up.

"You need confession next?" I asked.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I went yesterday. Besides…" her eyes glinted, "it's not like I have a laundry list of sins like you."

"Fair enough," I said with a shrug. "Let's go home, then."

The family stood, gathering coats and scarves. Around us, the congregation was thinning—some filing out into the cold, others lining up for Patruchev's confessional. The guards shifted in their posts by the doors, stamping their feet to keep warm.

We made our way to the exit. I walked with my arm wrapped around her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the layers. I looked at her face—still beautiful, even after all this madness. Being reunited with her after everything felt like those first months after Kato died. That same strange mixture of grief and new closeness, forged in the fire of shared loss.

We stepped out into the icy air. I pulled her in front of me and kissed her. And then—

—fireworks. That's what it sounded like at first. A rapid, staccato crack. My brain almost wanted to believe it was a celebration.

Aleksandra jerked against me.

"What—?" she gasped, and then slumped in my arms.

The guards moved instantly, scattering, shouting. Somewhere to my left, I saw them tackle a young man to the ground. But my eyes went to her back. Three neat holes. Blood blooming through her coat.

"No. No fucking way." I eased her down to the ground, cradling her head. Her face was pale, eyes wide, the fear in them as raw as I'd ever seen. "Medic! Now!" I roared.

Keke, the children, Aleksander—they rushed over. My hands were moving before my mind caught up, stripping off my coat, pressing it against the wounds.

"Come on, Sashiko." The name slipped out before I even thought. I never called her that. Why now? "Sweetie, don't. Not like this. Stay with me. Hey—stay with me!"

"Mikheil…" her voice was small, fragile. "I'm cold."

"Hang on," I whispered, though my voice broke. "Just hang on. Please."

But then… nothing. Her chest stilled. Her eyes—still open—lost that light.

"Sashiko?" My voice was too quiet. "Aleksandra?"

No answer. No warmth.

I looked back at the family. Their faces were carved in shock—Keke's mouth trembling, the children frozen like statues. Even Aleksander, usually a rock, looked hollow.

I pressed my lips together, forced my face into something neutral, and handed her body to Aleksander. My legs carried me toward the knot of guards restraining the shooter before my brain told them to.

The man was young, no older than twenty. There was hate in his eyes—pure, uncut.

"Couldn't you have waited a few seconds before trying to kill me?" I asked him evenly.

He spat at me. One of the soldiers cocked his fist, but I raised my hand.

"Take him to Smolny," I said, my voice flat. "Get me Yagoda. And Dzerzhinsky."

I looked at the man for a long moment. He'd taken her from me. At that moment, I felt like a piece of me died. I remembered Joe at the funeral, crying, the grief swallowing him. Wanting to jump into the grave. I didn't fully understand why he did it, it was sad yes, losing someone you love is sad. But feeling it now, and the fact that it wasn't sickness but an assassin's bullet.

"I'm going to kill you slowly." I said. "But first I'll kill every one of your friends and family that I can get my hands on if you have any. Wife, kids, mom, dad, friends, your fucking dog. I'll kill them all in front of you, I'll make you watch as I torture them. Then I'll work on you."

The guards looked at me, the assasin looked at me. It was the same look the Romanovs gave me when I fired that shot in Tobolsk. That I was being serious.

-------

Excerpt from Spartan761-History's YouTube video on the life of Mikheil Jugashvili titled - The Red Richelieu

The Red Terror didn't come out of nowhere. Its roots were planted the moment the Bolsheviks decided that democracy was a quaint, bourgeois hobby and dissolved the Constituent Assembly. They didn't just burn the bridge to parliamentary politics; they salted the ashes, then posted armed guards to make sure no one rebuilt it.

But while the machinery of repression was being prepared in the background, it took a personal tragedy to let the beast out. That tragedy arrived on December 30th, in the form of a botched assassination attempt that didn't kill its intended target, but instead took the life of Aleksandra Jugashvili—wife of Mikheil Jugashvili.

To say Mikheil took it personally would be like saying the Black Death was a minor inconvenience. Aleksandra's death didn't just wound him—it gave him the perfect pretext to do what he and Dzerzhinsky had been itching to do since the Revolution: purge the living hell out of everyone who so much as breathed in a way they found suspicious.

And so, the first shots of the Red Terror were not fired by some anonymous KGB agent in a basement. No, they were fired by the left SRs. What followed became known as Bloody January, a grim week long overture during the first week of the new year. It was a warning to Russia: the gloves were off, the knives were out, and the new regime had no intention of letting go of its enemies—at least, not until those enemies stopped moving.

 

[iceknight90]

Jesus christ. Oh things are going to get so much worse now.

 

[death734]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.

Goddamit Makarov, you were supposed to make it so Stalin wouldn't purge everyone, not become him!

 

[Xodarap]

Oh fuck now there's always going to be that one intrusive thought in his family's thoughts Did he Intentionally make Aleksandra a human shield.

 

[TheOuroboros1]

I honestly should have guess it from the start. It's not an Alenco fic if the MC doesn't lose the love of their life in one way or another, which then change their decline towards insanity from a steady fall to a nosedive. Here's to hoping that Mikhail would atleast still be some what of a good father for his kids and nephew

 

[Aureus]

I honestly should have guess it from the start. It's not an Alenco fic if the MC doesn't lose the love of their life in one way or another, which then change their decline towards insanity from a steady fall to a nosedive. Here's to hoping that Mikhail would atleast still be some what of a good father for his kids and nephew

Click to shrink...

Probably. This showed him his family is vulnerable so he'll be paranoid about losing them next.

 

[TrahKartolo]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.

Goddamit Makarov, you were supposed to make it so Stalin wouldn't purge everyone, not become him!

Click to shrink...

Nah nah. Just as usual for Russia, it will get worse before it could go any better (seemingly). Then, after reaching the mythical 'better', Russia will go off the cliff, going way, way worse.
We will stop seeing Mikheil doing casual purge from now on. He will be going for ranked purge competition with Stalin, Mao, and the worst of them.

 

[George Mathew]

Couldn't be a realistic Russian SI without a massacre.

 

[Alenco98]

December 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

Night had fallen in the city, and in my heart, but that didn't matter. The room I was in smelled faintly of dust and old paper—a bureaucrat's tomb. A single bare bulb swung overhead, its light cutting sharp angles across the walls.

The boy—Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky—sat tied to the chair, rope biting into his wrists, a gag in his mouth. I had promised I wouldn't touch him. Yet. Promises are important to keep—until they aren't. The only thing between us was a table. And there was an empty chair next to the one I sat in.

I wasn't sad. I wasn't mourning. What I felt was pure, undiluted rage, coiled tight in my chest like a steel spring. I could shoot him now, end it quickly—but that would be like throwing away a fine wine without savoring it. No, this had to be slow. He had to taste his death.

A knock at the door.

"Enter." My voice was flat, controlled. A pane of glass over a volcano.

Dzerzhinsky came in first—expression carved from stone—followed by Yagoda, whose eyes flicked briefly to the bound boy, then away. Stalin trailed them, leaning against the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching as if this was just another meeting about grain quotas.

"Dzerzhinsky," I said without looking at the boy, "did you get what I asked for?"

"I did." Felix approached the table, set down a brown envelope. His fingers lingered a second too long on the paper before letting go, as though to remind me this wasn't his style.

I opened it, scanned the contents. Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky. Nineteen. Parents: Natassia and Andrey. Sister: Irina. Brother: Alexei. Friends. A lover. A whole life, neatly typed and now mine to dismantle.

I handed the envelope to Yagoda. "Did you gather them?"

"They're outside," he said, his voice neutral, but his gaze darted to Stalin for a fraction of a second—looking for some kind of approval or permission. Stalin gave none.

"Bring his lover in first."

I finally looked at the boy. His eyes had gone wide, pupils like pinpricks. His chest rose and fell faster now. Good. Fear was seasoning—it made the meat tender.

The door opened again. A woman stepped in—young, pretty, the kind of pretty that doesn't last long in this city. Probably Joe's age when Kato died. Maybe younger.

Without a word, I drew my pistol and shot her in the head.

The crack snapped through the air. She folded to the floor like a ragdoll, her blood creeping toward the leg of the table.

Yagoda flinched—just a twitch—but quickly smoothed his face. Stalin didn't move, didn't blink; his gaze stayed fixed on me, as if measuring the efficiency of what he'd just seen. Dzerzhinsky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes flicking to the body, then back to me—judging, not shocked.

"Ungag him," I said.

Yagoda stepped forward and yanked the cloth from the boy's mouth.

"You—" Pavel's voice cracked. "You bastard!!!"

"Careful," I said softly. "You're on thin ice already, and I've got your whole family to work with."

He spat on the floor. "You think this will make a difference?"

I smiled, thin and sharp. "No, Pavel. This is just me venting my anger. Look at your lover, you killed her the second you pulled the trigger and my wife died." I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table. "And vengeance… is best enjoyed slowly."

I turned to Yagoda. "Bring in his mother."

The boy thrashed in his chair, shouting curses. Stalin's lip twitched—the faintest suggestion of approval. Dzerzhinsky's eyes narrowed, arms crossed, already weighing how much of this was revenge and how much could be justified as state security. Yagoda simply nodded and stepped out, but I saw the stiffness in his shoulders; he wanted this over quickly.

Then I started with a song, Singing in the snow because my wife liked it when I sang the English part at the beginning. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight."

Unfortunately this was interrupted when Natassia Solkovskaya entered, flanked by two guards. She was mid-forties, still holding herself with the composure of a woman who believed manners could protect her from reality. Her eyes darted from me to her son, then to the body on the floor.

"Sit her down next to me," I said.

No ropes—yet. I wanted her to have the illusion of safety for just a moment.

I leaned forward again, fixing Pavel with my gaze. "There are two ways this ends for you, boy. And for the rest of your charming little family. Option one—you tell me everything. Who your associates are. What group you work with. Where they live. You talk, and I give you all a gift: a quick death. One bullet. You, your mother, your father, your siblings—fast. Clean. You'll all look like you fell asleep."

Natassia's lips trembled. She said nothing.

"Option two…" I let the silence stretch. "You don't talk. And then, Pavel, we do it my way. I will have them all tortured. One by one. Right here. While you watch. I will make you watch until you're crying blood. And then—when they are nothing but screams and broken bones—I will burn them alive in front of you. One by one. All of them. And when the last one is ash… then your torture starts."

The boy's breathing quickened. His mother turned to him, voice breaking: "Tell him."

"Mama—"

"Tell him for god's sake!"

"Oh, don't bring the lord into this," I said lightly, almost amused. "He left the room when your son decided to murder my wife."

Stalin's eyes stayed on me, cool and appraising, like a man watching an experiment he expected to work. Yagoda avoided looking at the boy, staring instead at a crack in the plaster. Dzerzhinsky's mouth was a hard line; I could feel him filing this away for a later conversation about discipline and the Revolution.

I steepled my fingers. "So, Pavel… which ending do you want? Quick and easy or slow and painful. And please, please choose the slow option. I want to see you suffer like I am right now."

Pavel's chest heaved, the ropes creaking with every strained breath. His mother's hand was trembling on the table. The silence stretched until it was nearly unbearable.

Finally, his voice cracked. "It was the Left SRs."

I cocked my head. "The Left Socialist-Revolutionaries?"

"Yes," he spat. "You're a tyrant. All of you. You and your brother and every damn Bolshevik. We knew this was coming. You were just the first. There are others. Lists. Names. You're all—"

I raised my hand slightly, and he went quiet—not because he wanted to, but because he saw the smile spreading across my face.

"Oh, Pavel," I said, almost tender. "Spare me with the whole, you're all so and so bit, it's boring."

Stalin shifted slightly in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but I could see the gears turning—Left SRs, organized assassination plots, lists. He wasn't thinking about the morality; he was calculating the counterstroke.

Dzerzhinsky's gaze snapped to Pavel, the first flicker of genuine interest I'd seen in his eyes all night. "Names," he said flatly. "Now."

Pavel laughed—a raw, ugly sound. "I don't know them all. But I know enough. And when they come for you, no one will stop them. Not even you," he added, looking straight at me.

I leaned in until our noses were almost touching. "Pavel… I'm not going to stop them. I'm going to find them. I'm going to bring them here. And then—" I gestured lazily toward the cooling corpse of his lover, "—I'm going to do this, and worse, until they wish they'd died before they were born."

Yagoda finally spoke, voice low. "If he's telling the truth, this is more than a personal matter."

I chuckled. "Oh, it's still personal, Genrikh. It just has the bonus of being professionally useful."

Pavel tried to meet my eyes without flinching. He almost made it. "You can't kill an idea," he said.

I patted his cheek. "No. But I can kill everyone who has it and their families, down to the fucking babies. Now, names, locations. Or I'll stab one of your mother's eyes out. You have 30 seconds, one."

Pavel's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. His eyes flicked to his mother, then back to me. The defiance started to crumble—rage giving way to something else.

"They're here," he muttered.

I leaned back, folding my arms. "Names, Pavel."

He hesitated, and then it poured out in a rush. "Grigori Stepanovich Shilov. Ivan Dorofeyevich Markov. Yevgeniya Pleshko. All in Petrograd. Safehouses on Bolshaya Morskaya Street, one near the Haymarket. They got their orders from Moscow—from Yakov Blumkin's people. He's running it with Spiridonova's blessing."

Dzerzhinsky's head tilted almost imperceptibly at the mention of Blumkin. Yagoda's eyes narrowed, his mind already mapping the raids. Stalin, still leaning in the doorway, let out a quiet hum. "And Moscow?" he said slowly.

Pavel nodded. "You're all targets. Petrograd first, then Moscow. You were the first."

I let the words hang there. My pulse didn't quicken—if anything, I felt calmer now. The outlines of my evening's work were sharpening into something much bigger, something with more legs.

"Felix," I said without looking at him, "I guess you know what needs to be done?"

Dzerzhinsky stepped forward, his voice clipped. "They'll be taken alive. Interrogated properly."

"Of course," I said, smiling faintly. "Alive. At first."

Yagoda spoke up, almost cautiously. "And in Moscow?"

Stalin finally moved from the doorway, stepping closer. His voice was quiet but carried weight. "In Moscow, we send a message. This ends before it starts."

I turned back to Pavel, resting my hands on the table. "Thank you, Pavel. You've just upgraded yourself from 'slow and brutal death' to 'quick and painless.' That's progress. Not much, but progress."

He glared at me, but I could see the fear now—thin cracks running through the defiance. "Bring the rest of the family in."

The door opened again, and the rest of the Solkovsky family was marched in under guard. Father, sister, brother. All pale, silent, eyes darting to the body on the floor, then to Pavel, then to me.

"Line them up," I said.

The guards arranged them against the far wall. Natassia's eyes were glassy but fixed on her son. The father stood stiffly, as if refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing him shake. The sister was trembling so hard she could barely stand, and the brother kept trying to catch glimpses of the gagged Pavel.

I walked slowly down the line, hands behind my back, boots clicking on the floor. "You're all going to die," I said plainly, as if I were informing them of a change in train schedules. "The only question is whether you do it with a priest or with cigarettes."

They stared at me in stunned silence.

I turned to Pavel. "And you, boy? Priest or cigarettes? It's a courtesy you never spared my wife when you shot her in the back."

He swallowed hard, eyes wet. "Priest," he muttered.

I looked back at the rest of them. "Well? Speak up."

"Priest," Natassia said quickly, voice breaking. The others nodded.

"Very pious family," I said with a mock warmth, clapping my hands together softly. "Felix, make the arrangements."

Dzerzhinsky's face was unreadable, but I caught the faintest tightening of his jaw as he turned to one of his men and murmured an order. Stalin watched from the side, expression impassive—this wasn't about mercy to him, only procedure. Yagoda didn't meet anyone's eyes; he seemed intent on the far wall.

I strolled back to the table, leaning on it casually. "You'll all have your prayers. And then, once your souls are tidied up… well, we'll move on to the part Pavel's earned all for himself."

Pavel tried to hold my gaze but couldn't. The moment his eyes dropped, I smiled.

"Good. Then it's settled."

Stalin, Dzerzhinsky and Yagoda left the room. It was only me and the guards along with the family I was going to murder. I didn't speak to them, no need to speak to corpses. But I sang, over and over again. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes hold me tightly in your sweet arms."

Over and over again, Mikiko Noda'a singing in the snow. Only now I didn't have my wife with me. Only this anger, only this emptiness in my soul. So what if I killed them, it wouldn't bring her back. Hell, Aleksandra was a gentle woman, she probably wouldn't have minded letting them go if she survived.

But she didn't, and I was angry.

So I kept singing. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms." Over and over, that same intro. All while remembering my wife's face when I sang it. A few tears streaming. The guards looked unsettled, the family even more so. I just wanted to hold Aleksandra, tell her how much I loved her and make love until the sun came up.

Around 15 minutes later, the door opened again and in shuffled Father Sergey Eldarevich Patruchev, still in his cassock, snow clinging to the hem. His eyes darted from the family lined up against the wall to me, and I could see it—the flicker of recognition, followed by disapproval so strong it almost radiated heat.

I composed myself and I grinned. "Father Sergey, thank you for coming on short notice. You've got some last rites to handle."

His lips tightened. "You know I don't approve of this, Mikheil."

"Of course you don't," I said lightly. "But you'll do it anyway, because if you don't, I'll find someone less squeamish and they'll botch it. Besides…" I gave him a mock-confiding smile, "I'll just confess next week anyway. You know how this works."

He closed his eyes briefly, then stepped forward, murmuring the prayers. I stood beside him the whole time, arms folded, watching each family member bow their head in turn. Pavel kept his gaze fixed on the floor, jaw clenched.

When Sergey was done, I patted him on the shoulder. "Excellent work, Father. Truly dignified."

Then I began.

One shot. The father dropped like a sack of flour.

Another shot. The sister crumpled to her knees before falling forward.

A third shot. The brother's head snapped back, and he slid down the wall.

Natassia was last before Pavel. She didn't plead, didn't scream. Just crossed herself and waited. The shot was clean.

Now it was just Pavel.

I walked over slowly, savoring the sound of my boots on the wooden floor. "Your turn. What was it again? Priest or cigarettes?"

His voice was hoarse. "Priest."

I gestured toward Sergey. "Go on, Father. One more soul for the road."

Sergey hesitated, then stepped forward, speaking the words with the same gravity as before. I watched Pavel's lips move faintly along with him—whether in prayer or just trembling, I couldn't tell.

When it was over, I looked at Sergey. "Thank you, Father. That will be all. You can go."

He lingered for a moment, meeting my eyes. There was no fear there—just the heavy weight of judgment. I smiled at him.

Then I raised the pistol and put a single round through Pavel's gut. His body jerked, then he screamed.

"You should be grateful, better to bleed out on the floor than being burnt alive after a torture session. Think about what you've done as you bleed out. Guards. Make him look at his family's corpses as he bleeds. Once he's dead, bayonet him to make sure he's dead then burn his and the families bodies. Throw them in the Neva."

The guards only nodded as I walked out.

The rage was there, it was only blunted. But it wouldn't go away.

December 30, 1917
Winter Palace – Throne Room
Petrograd, Russia

I walked in and could almost hear my boots echo on the polished floor, though the Committee was already seated around a long, scarred table hauled in for the meeting. I didn't slow my stride. I didn't smile. I probably still smelled of gunpowder and charred meat. Good. Let them smell it. Let them remember what I'd done an hour ago.

I didn't say a word at first. I slid into my chair — directly across from Lenin, just off-center from the massive throne itself — and let the discussion wash over me: food shipments from the Volga, shortages of coal, worker morale in the Vyborg district. The usual revolutionary small talk.

That pressure in my chest was still there. Sashiko. Aleksandra. My wife. My anchor. The warmth in my life. Lying on the cold stone of a church floor with blood blooming through her coat. A part of me was already dead, and the part still alive was sharpening its bayonets.

Then I noticed them watching me — half the table had gone quiet, eyes flicking in my direction.

"Do I have so—" I stopped, sniffed once, and wiped at the corner of my eye. My fingers came away damp. "Sorry about that." My voice caught briefly. I took a slow, deep breath, made a show of steadying my hands, then wiped the tears again. "Carry on. Don't worry about me." My voice was as flat and monotone as I could manage.

No one looked reassured.

Stalin was seated further down, one arm resting lazily on the table, his eyes on me for just a beat too long. It wasn't pity — it was calculation. Is he in control enough to be useful? Or is he about to take the whole building down with him?

Dzerzhinsky sat ramrod straight, pen scratching against a pad, not looking up. But his shoulders were tenser than usual. I knew exactly what was behind that blank face — disapproval. Not of the killing. Never the killing. But the fact I'd done it hot, not cold. Felix preferred his terror like a surgeon preferred his scalpel — clean, exact, impersonal. Mine was a butcher's cleaver.

I let the silence stretch, then said, "The Left SRs need to be crushed. Completely. Pavel Solkovsky gave us names, addresses. Petrograd first — I'll work with Dzerzhinsky to clean it up, hard and fast. No speeches. No warnings. Then I take five thousand of my Guard Corps to Moscow. We hit their leadership before they have a chance to scatter. After that, Ukraine — I start escorting the Czechoslovaks to Murmansk."

Kamenev shifted uncomfortably. "Five thousand? That's a large deployment—"

"Better large than dead," I cut in.

I leaned forward, eyes sweeping the table. "And for that escort, I want Lenin's full authorization — in writing — to do whatever is necessary. If Red Guards or Soviets interfere, we put them in the ground. The Czechoslovaks are disciplined, armed, and dangerous. Piss them off, and they'll start killing our men in retaliation. We treat them carefully, or we don't bother."

A few murmurs passed around the table.

"And since we're talking about security for the revolution," I went on, "The Revolutionary Guard Corps is a guard corps. An attack on me is an attack on all of you. From now on, every member of this Committee and their families are to be guarded at all times — minimum of five guards. Not the factory type. Mine. And you all wear what my men wear: helmets and bulletproof armor. You might think it's excessive — until you hear the fireworks outside your church."

The silence that followed was thick.

Lenin finally spoke, leaning forward, fingers steepled. "You've acted decisively today, Mikheil. The Left SRs must be repressed, yes. Moscow especially. But personal grief is not the same as Party necessity. We must ensure your… methods… serve the Revolution, not private vengeance."

I smiled faintly. "Comrade, my private vengeance and the Revolution's needs just happen to be holding hands and skipping in the same direction right now. You can call it whatever you like."

Trotsky's eyes narrowed. "We can't have Petrograd turned into a theatre for your vendettas. Yes, crush the Left SRs — but under the Party's authority, not as some Georgian morality play where you're both judge and executioner."

I met his gaze and held it until he looked away. "Don't worry, Trotsky," I said softly. "I'll make sure the curtain call says approved by the Central Committee."

Bukharin, ever the optimist, tried a different tack. "We have to be careful not to alienate the workers with… heavy-handed repression. We can't afford to look like the Okhrana."

I leaned back, smirking. "Nikolai, if the workers see us wearing helmets, maybe they'll think we plan to stick around long enough to help them. Or at least to make sure the Left SRs don't get to them first."

Sverdlov tapped his pen. "The Petrograd purge should proceed immediately. The Moscow operation… we should authorize troop movements but finalize plans after Petrograd is secure."

Lenin nodded. "Agreed. Petrograd purge — approved. Mikheil and Dzerzhinsky will coordinate. Moscow — preliminary approval. Czechoslovak escort with full discretion — approved. Committee security: minimum three guards, five for those under direct threat, armor optional."

"Optional armor is still armor for the smart ones," I said.

The vote went quickly:

Petrograd purge: unanimous.

Moscow strike after Petrograd: approved, Stalin and Sverdlov to monitor.

Czechoslovak escort with full discretion: passed, Trotsky abstaining.

Committee security: passed, Kamenev muttering about "militarizing the leadership."

I sat back, folded my arms, and let my eyes wander around the throne room The Tsar had sat here once, surrounded by courtiers and gold. Now it sat empty, dusty, and irrelevant. Like my heart.

---------

December 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

The meeting was over, but it didn't feel like a victory. No one walked out talking strategy or boasting about decisions. It was just footsteps echoing down the marble halls, each man wrapped in his own thoughts.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The long table in Smolny's dining room felt more like a funeral reception than a meal. Stalin sat at my right, silent, his eyes occasionally flicking toward me but never lingering. Across from him, my younger brother Aleksander methodically cut his food into tiny pieces he didn't eat. My mother, Keke, cradled baby Besarion in her arms, rocking him gently. Iosif and Kato sat stiffly beside each other, their eyes fixed on their plates, chewing without appetite.

I didn't speak. None of us did. The clink of cutlery was the only sound until Keke softly hummed a lullaby to calm the baby.

When the plates were cleared, I stood without a word and made my way down the dim hallway to my quarters — the same ones I had shared with Aleksandra.

The air in the room was colder than I expected. I closed the door, and the latch seemed louder than it should've been. The bed was still made the way she liked it, the blanket folded back with that little crease at the corner. Her hairbrush sat on the vanity, a few strands of her dark hair still tangled in the bristles.

On the desk was our wedding photograph — the one with the two of us standing stiffly, unsmiling in that formal Georgian way, but with our hands clasped tight. I picked it up, my thumb tracing the outline of her face.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at it for a long time before I realized I was humming. No — singing. Mikiko Noda once again, singing in the snow.

"Oh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms."

The words came slow, unsteady. My voice cracked halfway through the verse, and I kept going anyway. By the time I reached the Japanese part of the song my throat had tightened, and the picture frame was wet in my hands.

It was ridiculous, really — a song about snow, here in Petrograd, where it never stopped falling.

My vision blurred. I pressed the picture to my chest, bent forward, and the sound came out of me — low, raw, almost a growl at first, then breaking into something closer to a sob.

I stayed there for what felt like hours, singing in fragments, stopping when my voice gave out, starting again until the words dissolved into silence.

When I finally set the picture back on the desk, my hands were shaking.

I wasn't done with the Left SRs. Not by a long shot.

But for the first time all day, I felt the weight of what they'd actually taken from me.

 

[a guy1013]

Nice and why is this only at qq

 

[Project Black Souls]

Nice and why is this only at qq

Click to shrink...

It's on the alt history site as well.

 

[Xodarap]

The leadership is going to be reevaluating Mikheils usefulness and decisions now that he's suffering from grief shortening the usual rope he has probably mid way through Ukraine

 

[Project Black Souls]

The leadership is going to be reevaluating Mikheils usefulness and decisions now that he's suffering from grief shortening the usual rope he has probably mid way through Ukraine

Click to shrink...

Mikheil is still alive in the 1937 Spanish Civil War as a Field Marshal so he 'recovered' somewhat....probably.

 

[Fellow Human]

Funny and better than the Mussolini one, not sure if if it's natural improvement or did you listen to advice.
There's less repetition, but still some. For example, in the early chaps SI kept listing the books he reads, I think he did it 3 times in a single chapter.

There's less song references, but ideally there should be none or counted on fingers...
Still no one cares about your music taste, even if we like it, it's pointless.
And realistically, there's no way SI would remember lyrics of dozens of songs, decades after hearing them last. Maybe if he wrote them down when he was 3-5, but he didn't.

I like the future excerpts the most, and looking forward to the revolution's end, so we can move to the reforms and building.

 

[death734]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.

It's on the alt history site as well.

Click to shrink...

May i get a link for that site? I would like to have a few more fics on my roster to read.

 

[orion_053]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.


May i get a link for that site? I would like to have a few more fics on my roster to read.

Click to shrink...

It's alternate history.com it should be under the Alien Space Bats forums

 

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from Memorandum – American Embassy, Moscow
Date: September 7, 1988
Subject: Observations on Non-American Cultural Influence and State Media Policy in the USSR

Since the Start of Stalin's rule, the Soviet Union has allowed and encouraged the circulation of foreign cultural products, primarily from Europe, Japan, and Latin America. This trend continues in the present decade and, in some respects, has accelerated significantly. While American cultural imports are not formally banned, their circulation remains subject to significant restrictions. U.S. books, films, and music may be possessed only for private use, and all such materials must be registered with the Committee for State Security (KGB). This requirement—effectively a form of surveillance over cultural consumption—applies exclusively to American content; media originating from other nations is exempt from this process, with the exception of politically charged media that is perceived to a challenge to Soviet ideology, which is subject to the same registration requirements.

In recent years, the global popularity of Japanese and European animation, comics, and music, as well as Latin American television dramas and pop culture, has created a strategic opportunity for Soviet authorities to increasingly marginalize American cultural influence without resorting to overt repression. Rather than relying solely on confiscations, prosecutions, or police raids—methods typical of other authoritarian regimes—the Soviet government appears to be employing a deliberate policy of cultural saturation. By flooding the domestic market with non-American foreign entertainment, officials can effectively dilute demand for American media, pushing it to the fringes of the black and grey markets.

Japanese and Latin American exports have proven especially popular among Soviet citizens. Brazilian and Mexican telenovelas, Spanish-language pop singers, and various television serials from across the Southern Hemisphere are broadcast regularly on state television and have even toured the country. In many cases, the original language audio is preserved, ostensibly as a nod to authenticity and cultural exchange. However, by retaining the original soundtrack, Soviet censors are able to control public interpretation via subtitled translations that omit, soften, or entirely reframe politically sensitive dialogue. In practice, this allows the regime to claim openness while still exerting tight editorial control.

A recent and illustrative example is the nationwide theatrical release of the Japanese animated film Akira. The film was screened widely across Soviet cities earlier this summer. As with other imported works, the authorities permitted the original Japanese audio but carefully edited the Russian subtitles to remove or neutralize politically charged content—particularly dialogue that might be construed as commentary on state power, social unrest, or generational disillusionment. The result is a version of the film that retains its visual and technical appeal while muting any elements that could provoke political reflection.

By embracing non American foreign imports, the regime can present an image of cultural openness to its citizens and the international community while safeguarding ideological boundaries. The broader effect is a gradual erosion of underground demand for American cultural products, not through fear of punishment, but through the calculated offering of sanctioned, state-filtered alternatives.

---

December 31, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

I woke to the pale light of winter crawling across the ceiling, the kind of light that made the air feel colder just by existing. This room — a former classroom with peeling chalkboards and cracked plaster — had been our home inside these walls. Mine and Aleksandra's.

I sat up slowly, my eyes drawn, as they had been every morning, to the side of the bed where she used to sleep.

No more Aleksandra. No more leaning over to kiss her awake. No more burying my face against her shoulder after a long day. No more of her laugh cutting through the gloom. No more of her scent.

I leaned over to her pillow and pressed my face into it, inhaling. The faint trace of her scent and perfume was still there — floral, warm, unmistakable. And then it hit me again, like a bayonet sliding between the ribs. My throat tightened, my eyes burned.

"Sashiko…" The word came out as a whimper, a plea. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The smell wouldn't last. I knew that. Scents are treacherous — they fade, like morning dew burning off in the sun. In a few weeks it would be gone entirely, and all I'd have left would be her memory. And memories were crueler than death because they stayed long enough to mock you.

I stood and crossed to her drawer, pulling it open. Everything was still there, untouched since the night before. Her clothes were folded in the same meticulous way she always insisted on, like even fabric deserved dignity. I let my fingers rest on each piece.

The beautiful red dress she wore when we stayed in, the one that seemed to glow under candlelight. The polka-dotted dress I gave her for her thirty-fifth birthday — she had laughed at it at first, then wore it until the seams threatened to give. And tucked neatly in a box at the corner, the jewelry I'd bought her with the money I skimmed during my time as a cop. Stolen rubles turned into silver and gemstones — a fitting transformation, I'd thought at the time.

I lifted the box, ran my thumb over the clasp, and opened it. The pieces caught the morning light, throwing little shards of red and gold across the wall. They looked just the same as the day I gave them to her. The only difference was that she'd never wear them again.

The grief was a physical weight pressing down on my chest. For a moment I wanted to smash the box against the wall, scatter the jewelry across the floor like shrapnel. But I didn't. I closed it gently, set it back in place. It was going to be a long day, I went and got changed then went to get breakfast, I couldn't murder on an empty stomach.

The walk from my quarters to the dining room felt longer than it ever had, every step echoing in the stone hallways. I passed guards in black helmets who snapped to attention when I walked by. And saluted. I didn't return the gesture. I didn't even look at them. I just kept moving until I pushed open the heavy double doors and the smell of porridge and black bread drifted out.

They were all there already. Aleksander — my brother-in-law — sitting stiffly with his hands folded on the table. Keke, my mother, rocking Besarion in her arms with a slow rhythm, her eyes downcast. Stalin was seated off to one side, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling up toward the chandelier, I didn't bother to stop him like I always did, what was the point? Yakov — the nephew I'd raised like my own — stared down at his bowl, not touching the spoon. Across from him were my children: Aleksander, Kato, and Iosif, all quiet, all staring at their plates like they were afraid to make eye contact with me.

The room was silent except for the scrape of a spoon against a bowl.

I took my seat at the head of the table. My voice came out low, even. "I'm sorry."

Every head turned, except for Stalin, who just kept smoking and watching me through the haze.

"My carelessness got Aleksandra killed." The words tasted like metal in my mouth. "I let her be exposed, and I let someone close enough to do it. That won't happen again. To any of you."

I set my elbows on the table, leaning forward, eyes moving from face to face. "From now on, all of you have guards. All the time. Five minimum. Helmets. Bulletproof vests. No exceptions. If you don't like it, too bad. This isn't a debate."

Keke's eyes lifted, just for a moment. "Mikheil—"

I cut her off with a glance. "No exceptions, Mother."

She closed her mouth and looked back down at the baby in her arms, stroking his hair.

I went on. "I'll have my men teach the kids how to shoot. How to defend themselves. If someone comes for you, you put them down and you don't ask questions. The only way I'm burying any of you is if you die in bed, of old age, surrounded by family or illness. Anything else, and I'll make the man who caused it wish he'd never been born and kill his whole family."

The silence was heavier now.

Aleksander (my brother in law) gave a slow nod, though his eyes were shadowed. Yakov looked uneasy, like he wanted to say something but didn't dare. Kato's hands clenched in her lap, a mix of fear and excitement flickering across her face — she liked the idea of learning to shoot, but not why she'd have to. Iosif just nodded, sniffing a little.

Besarion gurgled softly in Keke's arms, the only sound in the room that wasn't soaked in tension.

I leaned back, exhaling slowly, my hands curling into fists in my lap. "I feel like someone tore my heart out," I said, my voice low, "and I refuse to feel that again. For anyone. You hear me? Anyone touches you, I will kill them and everything and everyone they ever loved. There will only be corpses to bury."

Nobody answered. They didn't have to.

We began to eat.

The silence that followed my words was almost physical — a thick, pressing thing that settled over the table.

They didn't argue. They didn't even nod. They just… kept eating. Spoons scraping bowls, teeth tearing at black bread. Even the sound of Stalin's cigarette tapping against the ashtray seemed loud in the room.

Aleksander (my brother-in-law) focused on his food like it was the most important job in the world. Keke fed Besarion with her free hand, never looking up. Yakov's jaw worked steadily as he chewed, but I could see him glance at the children every so often, worry etched in the corners of his eyes.

Kato ate slowly, mechanically, like a soldier on rations. Iosif picked at his bread more than he ate it. The younger Aleksander — my brother in law's namesake — finished quickly but stayed seated, staring at his empty bowl and sobbing a little. Besarion babbled softly in Keke's arms, blissfully unaware of the lead weight in the air.

Nobody said a word. Breakfast had become an exercise in pretending the man at the head of the table hadn't just laid down rules with the finality of a firing squad.

When the plates were empty, chairs scraped back one by one. I stood, pushing mine in slowly. Stalin rose too, smoothing his coat, and Aleksander followed, buttoning his jacket.

Before leaving, I stepped around the table. First to Keke — I bent down, kissed her forehead. She smelled of bread and soap. "I love you so much mom," I told her quietly. Her hand squeezed my arm, but she didn't speak.

I moved to my children. I kissed the top of Iosif's head, gripped Kato's shoulder until she looked up at me, hugged Aleksander hard enough that he squeaked. "I love you so much," I said to each of them. Not goodbye. Just the truth, as raw as I could make it.

Besarion was still in Keke's arms. I kissed him gently, feeling his tiny fingers curl around mine. "Especially you, little one," I whispered.

Then I straightened, nodded to Stalin and Aleksander, and the three of us walked out together. The doors shut behind us, leaving the smell of bread and tobacco behind.

The cold hit me the second we stepped outside of Smolny— that sharp, dry winter air that felt like it could slice your lungs if you breathed too deeply. Stalin walked at my right, silent and watchful as ever, a faint plume of smoke trailing from the cigarette clenched between his fingers. Aleksander was on my left, his collar turned up against the wind, his face tight and pale.

We crossed the courtyard toward the main gates, the frost crunching under our boots. Beyond the iron bars, a convoy waited — black-lacquered trucks idling, their exhaust curling into the air like lazy ghosts.

Yagoda stood at the head of it, wrapped in his heavy overcoat, his hat pulled low. Tukhachevsky was beside him, looking as immaculate as always, his gloves spotless, his posture the sort of thing that made parade-ground instructors weep with joy. Behind them, men stood in formation, rifles slung, black helmets catching the pale sunlight.

I walked straight up to Yagoda. "Genrikh," I said flatly, "you're expanding the guard."

He gave a small nod. "How far?"

"Five guards minimum for every Central Committee member and their families, down to the fucking babies. Mandatory bulletproof vests and helmets. No exceptions."

I jabbed a finger at his chest. "Pick the best of the best. Separate them from the Revolutionary Guard Corps entirely. They'll be their own unit — the Guard Regiment. Elite. Unbreakable. You organize it however you want, but if you fail me…" I let the pause hang until his eyes met mine, "…it'll be your head on a platter."

Yagoda's lips pressed into a thin line. "Understood."

I stepped past him to Tukhachevsky. "Mikhail, are the men ready?"

He gave a sharp nod. "They're equipped and standing by."

"Good," I said, my voice dropping into something darker, almost casual. "We have SRs to massacre."

Tukhachevsky didn't flinch — if anything, I caught the faintest flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Behind me, Stalin exhaled smoke through his nose, the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. Aleksander glanced between us, his jaw tight, but said nothing.

"Let's get moving," I said, stepping toward the lead truck.

---

December 31, 1917
Winter Palace – throne Room
Petrograd, Russia

The Winter Palace throne room was colder than Smolny, and it wasn't just the draft. The high ceilings and marble floors seemed to suck the heat out of the air. Dzerzhinsky was waiting when we arrived, flanked by his National guardsmen — hard-eyed, in long coats that hid their weapons but not their intent. A table had been cleared, maps of Petrograd pinned down by pistols and paperweights.

He didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Per Lenin's orders," he said, his voice flat and clipped, "they are to be taken alive unless they resist."

From inside his coat, he produced a folded sheet of paper and handed it to me. I unfolded it slowly. The names glared up at me in neat handwriting — each one a Left SR leader, each one walking around this city right now, breathing air Aleksandra would never breathe again.

I read the list once, committing each name to memory. My eyes didn't leave the page, but my mind was already walking into their apartments, already hearing the screams, already deciding which ones would 'resist.'

I looked up at Felix. He was watching me with that granite face of his, trying to read whether I was going to follow Lenin's orders or my own.

I didn't say a word. I just nodded once.

Dzerzhinsky gave a short nod in return and stepped back, signaling his men to start preparing. The room moved into motion — boots on marble, the click of rifle bolts, the scrape of chairs as maps were pulled closer.

Stalin, standing off to the side, watched me over the rim of his cigarette. Aleksander was by the door, leaning against the wall, silent but alert. Tukachevsky had taken up a position by the maps, already tracing routes with his finger, his mind turning over logistics.

I slipped the list into my coat pocket, close to my chest. I could feel it there like a second heartbeat.

Alive unless they resist.

By the time the trucks rolled out, the city was still half-asleep under a sheet of frost. The streets were quiet except for the growl of engines and the crunch of tires on snow. The Guard Regiment rode in the lead trucks — red helmets, black coats, rifles resting between their knees. Behind them came Dzerzhinsky's National guard detachments, their long overcoats hiding the steel underneath.

The list in my pocket was warm from my body heat, every name etched in my mind.

We hit the first address just as the sun was turning the snow on the rooftops to gold. The guards went in hard — no knocks, no warnings. Doors splintered, boots slammed against the floorboards, shouts in Russian and Georgian filling the air. Most of them froze when they saw the rifles. A few ran. One pulled a pistol and got a bullet through the arm for his trouble.

The orders were to take them alive unless they resisted. My men knew how to make "resisting" a very broad category, but we stuck to Lenin's line for now.

The trucks filled quickly. The arrested were shoved inside, wrists tied, heads down. Some tried to shout slogans — "Long live the Socialist Revolutionaries!" — but it always trailed off when a rifle butt nudged their ribs.

By midday, the convoy was a chain of trucks snaking back to the Winter Palace. The gates opened for us, and the guards waved us through. The snow in the courtyard was already churned into dirty slush by boot heels and tire treads.

Inside the throne room, the arrests were funneled into lines. The imperial grandeur made it all the more obscene — the Left SRs standing where the Tsar once greeted ambassadors, now with their hats in their hands and the cold still clinging to their coats.

They were herded into groups under the chandeliers. Dzerzhinsky stood off to one side, clipboard in hand, calling out names and checking them off. I walked the lines slowly, hands behind my back, letting my eyes sweep over each face. Some glared at me. Some wouldn't meet my gaze at all.

One of them — an older man with a thin, ragged beard — muttered, "This isn't justice."

I stopped in front of him. "No," I said evenly. "It's not. It's vengeance."

I moved on.

By nightfall, the throne room looked less like a seat of empire and more like a holding pen. The air was thick with sweat, tobacco, and fear. The list in my pocket was almost completely ticked off — a few names still at large, but they wouldn't get far. Not in this weather. Not in this city.

The throne room was different in the dark. The chandeliers still glowed overhead, but the light felt harsher, throwing the shadows longer. The gilded walls and painted ceilings looked less like symbols of imperial grandeur and more like a stage set — and tonight, Dzerzhinsky was directing the play.

The men from the KGB had set up tables at one end of the room, papers neatly stacked, chairs pulled up for the prisoners. One by one, they were led from the lines, sat down under the watchful eyes of guards, and questioned in that clipped, mechanical style Felix preferred. Meanwhile the national guardsmen surrounded the room, guns ready. And the same questions were asked.

Name. Affiliation. Associates. Safehouses. Weapons.

The questions never changed, only the answers — and often not even that. Some lied, some stonewalled, some tried to bargain. Every time, Dzerzhinsky noted something on the sheet, passed it down the table, and gestured for the next one.

I stood off to the side, hands in my pockets, watching. The air in here was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, tobacco smoke, and fear.

Felix worked like a clock — steady, methodical, no wasted motion. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His men knew when to step in. A tap on the shoulder meant a guard would lean in close and whisper something in a prisoner's ear that made their face go pale. Probably a threat against their families, looks like Felix picked up a few things from me. But aside from that, a simple nod could send a man to a side room from which no one returned that night.

I found myself studying the faces. The ones that sweated. The ones that trembled. The ones that still tried to glare like they thought it meant something. I wasn't looking for guilt — that was certain. I just wanted to savor it, anything to forget the pain.

A young woman — one of the names from my list — sat down in front of Dzerzhinsky. She gave her name without being asked, and then launched into a tirade about "true socialism" and "betrayal of the revolution." Felix let her talk. Didn't interrupt. Just wrote something down and passed the paper to a guard. She was pulled from the chair and led out. Her voice echoed off the marble for a moment before the heavy doors shut.

When there was a lull between interrogations, I crossed the room to where Felix was making notes on one of the case sheets. "I don't care how you get the information," I said quietly, "but I want control over the executions."

He didn't even look up from the paper. "That's not standard procedure."

"Neither is shooting my wife in a church," I said. "And yet, here we are."

Felix's pen hovered for a moment, then scratched across the paper again. "Fine. But it will be done cleanly."

"Clean enough," I said. "We'll start at midnight."

That got his eyes up. "Why midnight?"

I smiled without humor. "It's symbolic. New Year, new slate. The first sunrise of 1918 will shine on a Petrograd with fewer enemies in it. Consider it… a gift to the revolution."

Across the room, a guard slammed a prisoner's head down onto the table to stop him from spitting at the interviewer. The man groaned, blood dripping onto the polished wood. I almost laughed.

I glanced at the tall clock in the corner. The hands crept toward eleven. The air in the throne room was thick with tension and the faint smell of powder from the rifles stacked near the wall. The prisoners in the lines had gone quieter as the night wore on. They knew something was coming.

I turned back to Felix. "When the clock strikes twelve, I want them lined up in the courtyard. No speeches. No ceremony. Just the sound of rifles. We'll start the year as we mean to go on."

Felix gave a curt nod and turned back to his work. I walked away, hands in my pockets, whistling something tuneless.

It was almost time to celebrate.

---

January 1, 1918 – Midnight
Winter Palace Courtyard
Petrograd, Russia

Snow fell in lazy spirals, settling over the cobblestones and the boots of the guard detail. The prisoners were lined up in two neat rows, their breath fogging in the frozen air. Guards stood behind them, rifles slung, bayonets glinting in the light of the courtyard torches.

I stepped forward, revolver in hand. No speeches. No last-minute appeals to the Revolution. That wasn't why we were here.

One by one, I stopped in front of them. The routine never changed.

"Priest or cigarettes?" I asked the first man. His face was pale, eyes darting to the line of guards.

"Priest," he whispered.

I gestured, and Father Sergey stepped forward from the shadows. The priest's murmured prayers mixed with the faint jingle of the clock tower gearing up for midnight. When Sergey stepped back, I raised the revolver and put a single round through the man's forehead. He collapsed into the snow without a sound.

Next.

"Priest or cigarettes?"

"Cigarettes." His hands shook as a guard lit one for him. He took two deep drags before I shot him in the chest.

Third. "Priest or cigarettes?"

No answer, just a defiant stare. I shot him without comment.

It went on like that, the same rhythm — question, choice, bullet. Father Sergey moved like a shadow at my side, giving last rites to some, looking away for others. His eyes were hollow, but he kept doing the work.

By the time we reached the last few, the snow around us was no longer white. The smell of blood and burnt powder clung to the air. My hands didn't ache, my arms didn't tremble.

By the end of the first batch, I felt nothing. No satisfaction. No release. Just empty.

The last one fell into the snow as the great bells of Petrograd began to toll midnight, marking the start of the new year. The sound rolled through the frozen air, echoing off the palace walls.

I holstered the revolver, tilted my head back, and began to sing.

Slowly, quietly at first —
"Ohh baby you're my baby… so happy Christmas ton-"

I stopped, rhe words hung in the cold, my breath turning them to fog. I kept going, my voice flat, almost monotone, as the bells kept ringing. Not even Mikiko Noda's songs could cure how empty I felt right now.

The guards shifted uncomfortably. Father Sergey crossed himself.

I didn't bother finishing the verse as the last bell faded, the final body cooling at my feet.

A new year had begun. And there was still so many more to shoot.

The courtyard became a machine that night, reload, line up, question, shoot, repeat. The only sound was the crunch of boots in the snow, the click of the revolver's cylinder, the occasional snap of a guard lighting a cigarette for a condemned man.

"Priest or cigarettes?"
"Priest."
Bang.

"Priest or cigarettes?"
"Cigarettes."
Bang.

Over and over, my voice never changing, my aim never wavering.

At first, I thought I'd start feeling it after the first dozen, or maybe the first fifty. But the feeling never came. Instead, my mind drifted — not away from the courtyard, but somewhere deeper inside it. I thought about Aleksandra. The way her hair would fall forward when she bent to read. The way her eyes crinkled when she smirked at one of my worse jokes. The way her breath felt on my shoulder in the middle of the night.

And then the sound of the revolver brought me back. Always the same sharp crack, the same faint jerk in my arm, the same collapse of a body into the snow.

By the middle of the night, the snow wasn't white anymore. The red spread in uneven blotches, soaking into boots, freezing in thin crusts along the cobblestones. The bodies were dragged aside in piles by the gate — quiet, methodical work from the guards, like men hauling sacks of grain.

I didn't keep count. I didn't want to.

Sometime past dawn, when the sky had just started to pale, I lowered the revolver and looked at the courtyard — at the heaps of bodies, the trampled snow, the steam rising from the blood-warmed ground.

I turned to one of the guards, a young one whose eyes darted anywhere but at mine. "How many tonight?"

He hesitated. "Comrade, I… I lost count after a hundred."

I stared at him for a long moment. Then I laughed.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't joyful. Just a dry, ugly sound that came from somewhere too deep to be healthy.

And then, before I knew it, I was crying. Still laughing, but crying — tears freezing on my cheeks as I stood there with the revolver in my hand, bodies at my feet, and Aleksandra's face in my head.

The guard stepped back, like he wasn't sure if I was about to hug him or shoot him.

I holstered the revolver, wiped my face, and kept laughing until the tears were gone.

There were still names left on the list. But I was tired, I needed breakfast. And maybe some sleep.

I walked over, revolver still in hand, Felix stood in the entrance to the courtyard, watching me in silent judgement. "Felix," I said, "spread the word about what I did. Every detail. Let it go through the whole city. No. All of Russia. Continue with the executions, I'm going to take a small break and come back later."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"

"Because it'll concentrate all the fear and hatred on me," I said simply. "And the more it's on me, the less it's on the rest of the Central Committee. Let me be the monster they see in the dark. Makes your job easier. Makes them and you safer."

Felix studied me for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Fear is a useful weapon, if you can carry it without it destroying you."

I gave him a crooked grin. "Hopefully an assassin's bullet does the job before that happens. Then I can see my wife again. It's only been a day, Felix, but…" My voice dipped just slightly, "…I miss her."

He didn't reply right away. He just looked at me with that stone-faced expression of his, the one that didn't give away whether he was agreeing, judging, or just filing the moment away for later. Finally, he said, "At the rate you'll going you'll probably end up seeing her soon."

I laughed — short, sharp, and humorless. "Don't threaten me with a good time."

Felix didn't smile. He rarely did. But he nodded again, and that was as close to approval as I'd ever get from him. Then I walked back into the palace, breakfast, sleep, then back to killing.

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

 

[iceknight90]

Personally executing the enemies of the state? Hundred of them? Methodically like clockwork?

My god he's going to have an absolutely terrifying reputation.

 

[Xodarap]

Since the Start of Stalin's rule,

Click to shrink...

Now this is a loaded statement for me as with no mention of year it could be years after someone else besides Lenin and go vastly differently then IRL

Wonder what the rest of the party thinks of Mikeheil tossing Revolutionary guards at them and their families for protection is it good or bad that they are now within purge radius for their protection.

 

[George Mathew]

I need a different perspective of Mikail from the angle of other nations or from the opposite side or from the angle of the people.