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

[LysanderArgent]

I love the tragicomedy nature of this fic. It wouldn't be half as fun to read without the humour.

 

[Xodarap]

So historians look back on Mikheil as the Gomez adams of Revolution.
Such Chad energy against the serious dour leaders of Revolution.

Does Germany ask for Kiev perhaps St Petersburg?

 

[Alenco98]

So historians look back on Mikheil as the Gomez adams of Revolution.
Such Chad energy against the serious dour leaders of Revolution.

Does Germany ask for Kiev perhaps St Petersburg?

Click to shrink...

I was going for a more Hank Scorpio vibe but this is good too

 

[Siryapsalot]

Fellas if any of us were in that room we would be getting a visit from the KGB or Revolutionary Guard for "dissident" laughter.

 

[Alenco98]

August 26, 1917
A Church near the Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

Father Sergey Eldarevich Patruchev stood beneath the stone arch of the church entrance, as he did every Sunday and feast day, his cassock brushing against the steps as he greeted the faithful one by one. Their faces carried the same mixture of weariness and desperate devotion that had become so common in Petrograd ever since the war started. Some crossed themselves hurriedly, others muttered greetings, but all seemed eager to escape the turbulence outside and find a measure of peace within the gilded, candlelit nave.

Then he heard it—the sound that always preceded them. A syncopated rhythm of boots, precise yet almost mocking, like a parody of military discipline. Goose-step. A grim herald of a presence his parishioners had come to recognize too well.

The Revolutionary Guard.

The Bolsheviks' shock troops. Enforcers, black-clad arbiters of order and terror, whose rifles gleamed like icons of a darker faith, who protected and taxed every brothel, opium den, and other criminal activities to arm, fund and supply not only themselves, but the nascent Soviet military and national guard. They filed into the church with unnerving confidence, helmets painted a crude blood-red, adorned with skull and crossbones as though they were not men but heralds of the angel of death itself. At the door they broke their rigid march, relaxing into something looser, as though stepping into the house of God required a casual posture. All while they left their rifles nearly stacked at the door. Outside the church, another battalion, probably 200 or so formed a protective perimeter around the church.

Not only to protect his parishioners of course, but him and his family.

Comrade Makarov. Mikheil Jugashvili. The man whose name whispered through taverns and barracks, half curse, half incantation. He entered not like a warlord but like a genial neighbor arriving at a family gathering. His wife, Aleksandra, on his arm. His children clustered around him: Iosif, eight years old and already sharp-eyed; little Ekaterina, seven years old solemn as a nun; Alyosha, recently turned five who clutched at his father's coat; and the baby—Bessarion—who his friend Anatoly over in the outskirts had baptized earlier this year, despite the irony of christening a child of such a man.

Behind them came Mikheil's mother, old Ekaterina, pious to the bone and stubborn as the stone icons in the church walls. He had come to love her simple devotion, the way her trembling hand clung to the cross at her chest. Then followed his brother-in-law Alexander, stiff and humorless, already scanning the pews for threats. And lastly, the one absent figure loomed like a shadow: Stalin. The twin. The "Man of Steel." The Central Committee member. Sergey had never seen him in person, but he felt his presence whenever Mikheil entered, as though the brothers carried each other's weight like two halves of the same coin.

At least Mikheil believes, Sergey thought, not without bitterness. At least he still bends his knee to God, even if only in appearances.

"Father Patruchev!" Mikheil greeted him warmly, flashing the same disarming grin he used, Sergey suspected, moments before pulling a trigger or extorting a smuggler. That smile—open, easy, almost charming—hid the truth that last week alone he had shot three men dead, broken two jaws in an alley, and shaken down every pimp, gambler, and opium den from the Neva to the Vyborg side. He would no doubt sit across from Sergey in the confessional after Mass and recount whatever atrocities he had done with the breezy tone of a man describing errands.

Mikheil clasped his hand firmly. "Has any of the Revolutionary Guards, the National Guard, or the army been troubling you this week? None of my boys, I hope? Do you need more rations for your soup kitchen?"

The priest forced a nod, half grateful, half afraid. "No, Comrade. Your men have done a… wonderful job keeping the hooligans away from the church. The believers feel safe here. And the soup kitchens—" he swallowed, "—they run well enough, for now."

Mikheil's face lit up. "That's a relief." He patted the priest's shoulder as though reassuring a nervous clerk. "Well then, I'll see you in confession after the service. Don't worry, Father. I'll bring you something good today." He winked, as if sin itself were a gift to be offered.

And just like that, he turned, striding into the nave with his family, settling into the pews as if they had come for a picnic. Aleksandra smoothed her skirt, the children squirmed, and old Ekaterina crossed herself three times as though to cleanse the air around her son.

Father Patruchev exhaled heavily, his hand tightening around the brass cross that hung from his neck. A gangster masquerading as a revolutionary, he thought, and yet a man who kneels at the altar, who prays, who confesses. What kind of faith is this? What kind of world is this, where wolves come dressed not in sheep's clothing, but in skulls and bones, and still kneel beside the lambs?

He sighed, bracing himself for the strange intimacy of the confessional, where Mikheil would unburden himself with a laugh, recounting murders, thefts, and extortions as casually as a farmer speaks of weather.

Patruchev longed, then, for the simple solace of his home that awaited him later today: his wife's stroganoff waiting on the stove, the quiet weight of his newborn son in his arms. Simple joys. A kind of holiness untouched by politics or death. Yet even there, the shadow of men like Mikheil crept in. The soviets practically ran the city ; the provisional government was paralyzed, fighting a losing war on one front while the Bolsheviks built a parallel army in the capital. Something was going to happen. He knew it, his parishioners knew it as well.

As the bells tolled and the choir began their hymn, Father Patruchev closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Not for his flock—though they needed it. Not even for himself. But for Mikheil. For the smiling devil who walked into his church each week like he owned both heaven and hell.

And in the corner of his mind, he wondered—does he?

------------

The incense still hung in the air when the last hymn faded. Parishioners drifted out with hurried bows and murmured prayers, until only a few stragglers remained kneeling in the pews. Father Patruchev moved toward the confessional, every step heavy, as though he were walking into a tomb. He slid into his place, crossing himself quickly, steeling his mind.

The curtain on the other side rustled, and there it was—the faint scent of wine, leather, and blood.

"Bless me, Father," came the familiar voice, cheerful as a man greeting a friend at a tavern, "for I have sinned."

Patruchev shut his eyes, gripping the edge of the seat. O Lord, grant me patience.

"I'll start with the big one," Mikheil said, lowering his voice to something conspiratorial. "Remember General Kornilov? That proud Cossack rooster who tried to march on us? Well—I organized a little parade for him and his boys. Made them march through the streets, stripped of their dignity, while everyone jeered. Marvelous optics, Father. Very festive. If you'd been there, you'd have sworn it was a carnival. Only with more spit and contempt."

Patruchev's hand twitched toward the cross at his neck. He murmured, "This is a grave humiliation of your fellow man."

"Yes, yes, grave humiliation, sinful pride, what have you. Write it down. Now, the second thing. You'll like this—it's very… theological." Mikheil chuckled. "I've been building a little program for the aristocrats, the nobles, even the royal family if we can nab them. Think of it as… rhetorical exercises! They'll get daily instruction in Marx, Engels, Lenin. If they resist? Well, we still have their families. Insurance, you understand. They'll either come out good little Marxists or… their families and themselves will die. Efficient, eh?"

Father Patruchev's mouth went dry. His mind screamed, This is not catechism, this is coercion, this is torture! But aloud, he whispered only, "The Lord teaches mercy."

"Oh, I give them mercy. Submit or die. That's mercy, isn't it?" Mikheil laughed, and the sound rang hollow in the tiny box.

He leaned closer, lowering his tone. "We're also working on something bigger. Don't spread this one around, Father." A pause, then, in a stage whisper: "We're going to surrender to Germany. Just as soon as we seize power, I already planned a coup a while back. Sign the peace, send the Germans packing back to France. Everyone will scream that we're traitors, puppets, but who cares? We'll win the coming civil war while the Allies and the Kaiser bash each other's skulls in. By the time Germany falls—and they will fall, mark my words—we'll be the only power left standing. Smart, eh? Then we'll go and reconquer whatever those Hun bastards took from us. Call it a, strategic retreat."

Patruchev nearly bit his tongue to stop himself from gasping. Dear God in Heaven. He's boasting of treason as if it were clever bookkeeping.

"And of course," Mikheil went on, breezily, "the usual business. I shot 10 people this week for stealing supplies. Not personal, Father—just policy. If you let one man steal bread, tomorrow ten men steal rifles. And about fifteen others roughed up on my orders for not paying their taxes. Don't worry, nothing too serious. Broken teeth, cracked ribs. All fixable."

The priest's hands trembled in his lap. Each word felt like another stone dropped into his soul. And yet Mikheil spoke with the casual tone of a man listing errands: bread bought, boots polished, executions carried out, atrocities and plots being planned.

Patruchev whispered, voice breaking, "These are not sins you confess lightly, my son. These are the gravest of sins. They are… they are the ruin of souls."

Silence from the other side, then a sigh. For a moment, Father Patruchev thought—hoped—Mikheil had been struck by remorse.

Then Mikheil said warmly, almost tenderly, "I know, Father. That's why I bring them to you. Catharsis. Better in your ears than rattling around in my head and drive me mad, eh? Besides, you're the only man I can tell all this to who won't try to shoot me or praise me afterward."

He laughed again, soft and genial, as though they were discussing fishing or the weather.

Father Patruchev pressed the cross to his lips, whispering a prayer so faint it barely escaped him. For mercy. For strength. For the strength not to scream at this man who brought sin into God's house like contraband smuggled in a coat pocket.

"Anything else?" he asked at last, his voice a thin thread.

Mikheil thought for a moment. "Oh, right—nearly forgot. I may have spanked Aleksandra during a dance the other night. Inappropriate, perhaps? Though she smiled, so maybe not a sin at all." He chuckled. "Still, best to be thorough. I think that's all for this week though. Just remember, if anyone gives you or your people trouble, come to me, I'll have them hung before sundown. Or just a stern talking to and a threat to execute them next time if you don't feel like having blood on your hands. As for your soup kitchens, I'll have my men deliver the usual food rations tomorrow and guard your kitchen. Let me know if you need more men to protect them."

Patruchev closed his eyes. For a wild moment he imagined standing, throwing open the curtain, and striking Mikheil across the face. But instead he murmured the absolution, his words trembling as though spoken by someone else.

When Mikheil left, the priest remained in the box long after, clutching his cross, fighting the nausea that rose in him. He prayed for forgiveness—not for Mikheil, but for himself, for being too weak to cry out.

August 26, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
Afternoon

The smoke was thick enough to choke a horse. Everyone had a cigarette, a pipe, or, in Stalin's case, a half-burned cigar that looked like it had been gnawed rather than smoked. Trotsky was pacing, spectacles glinting under the weak lamps. Lenin sat with his head in his hands, listening more than speaking. Dzerzhinsky leaned against the wall like a statue carved out of exhaustion.

And then there was me, Mikheil. Leaning back, legs spread, looking like I owned the place. Which, if you counted who actually held the guns in Petrograd, I more or less did.

"Comrade Makarov," Trotsky began—he always used that damned false name when he wanted to be cold with me—"Attending church again." His lip curled on the word as though it had a smell. "It undermines us. It sends the wrong message. Religion is—"

I cut him off. "Yes, yes, the opium of the people. I can quote Marx better than you, Bronstein." I leaned forward, fixing them all with a grin. "What's the full line, eh? 'Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.'"

I spread my arms. "So what do you want me to do Lev? Shoot the sigh out of them? Ban the soul out of their conditions? Confiscate the only bloody opium keeping them sane until we build the paradise we keep promising?"

Lenin rubbed his temple. Trotsky looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"I don't see in the Communist Manifesto where Marx said 'shoot priests.' I've read it cover to cover, more than once. Nor do I recall a footnote that says 'burn down soup kitchens if the clergy run them.' What I do recall," I jabbed a finger at Trotsky, "is that we need the people. And the people like their churches."

Zinoviev shifted nervously. "But it gives an image of superstition. Of backwardness. The revolution must be—"

"Must be alive first, Grigory," I said sharply. "Alive, fed, and not rioting against us because we closed the only place that gave them bread and hope. My men stand guard outside and protect Father Patruchev's church and every fucking church in Petrograd every Sunday. You know what that does? It makes babushkas cry with joy, and makes people think twice before smashing windows. Good optics. Very good optics. Even the priests bless us. Imagine that: the men of God bless the men of Marx."

Kamenev gave a thin smile. "You sound almost proud, Mikheil."

"I am," I shot back. "We run our soup kitchens, the priests run theirs while we protect them. We look like protectors, not looters. Even Christ himself would have liked it." I smirked, couldn't resist it. "After all, who was it that chased the moneylenders from the temple? Who said it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven? Sounds like a good Bolshevik to me."

The room went quiet. Lenin pinched his nose, muttering something about blasphemy. Trotsky, meanwhile, was practically shaking.

"So you suggest," Trotsky spat, "that we attend mass? That we, Marxists, sit in pews like good little Christians for the sake of 'optics'?"

"I don't see why not." I said with a shrug. "Stand there, arms crossed, looking solemn while Father Patruchev talks about loving thy neighbor. Then afterward, we go back to planning how to murder and/or reeducate every noble and their families in Russia. Two birds, one stone. They see us in church, they trust us more. They hear us quoting Christ against the rich, they trust us more. And when we finally confiscate the estates, they'll say, 'ah well, Jesus warned the rich, didn't he?'"

That got a few uneasy laughs. Even Dzerzhinsky cracked half a smile before coughing into his sleeve.

Lenin finally looked up, eyes sharp but weary. "You're turning religion into a tool."

"What about it?" I asked. "And tools are useful. Unlike useless debates."

Trotsky slammed his fist on the table. "This is opportunism! It is—"

"It is pragmatism, Lev." I interrupted again, leaning back with my hands behind my head. "And unless you'd like me to pull my men from the churches and let them get smashed to pieces by hooligans, I suggest you shut your mouth, Bronstein. The people love their priests. And for now, the priests love me. That's worth more than your rousing speeches."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the scratch of Stalin's cigar. He hadn't said a word the whole time, just sat watching me with those narrow eyes of his, unreadable, like a man studying a horse before deciding whether to shoot it or ride it.

Trotsky looked furious, Zinoviev and Kamenev almost as livid, Lenin conflicted. Dzerzhinsky looked like Dzerzhinsky. And me? I was grinning like a boy at his first communion.

Because I knew I had them. They couldn't touch me. Not with my men holding the guns, and not with the people whispering thanks to me in their churches.

------

Later that night
Smolny Institute
Lenin's office

The committee had dispersed, most muttering about vodka or cursing me under their breath. But not me. Oh no. I got the invitation: a little private talk.

It was just the four of us. Lenin, pale and thin, looking like a corpse who'd sat up for one last argument. Stalin, slouched in the corner, smoking and staring at me like he was trying to decide whether to strangle me or shake my hand. And Dzerzhinsky, leaning against the wall, hands folded like a patient undertaker, which wasn't far from his day job.

And me—Mikheil, a ghost from the future, gangster, revolutionary, amateur stand-up comedian.

Lenin started, voice sharp but tired:
"You create problems, comrade. The Party cannot look like it encourages religion."

I grinned. "Not encourage—control. There's a difference. You shoot them, they become martyrs. You fund them, you own them. That's my point."

Lenin squinted. Stalin blew smoke rings. Dzerzhinsky blinked slowly, like a reptile.

I leaned forward, hands spread like a salesman unveiling a shiny new product:
"We confiscate their wealth, their lands, their valuables. Then we create a commissariat—call it the Commissariat of Religious Affairs. Every church, mosque, synagogue, temple, buddhist monastery—they all have to register. They want to build a soup kitchen? They ask us. They want candles for Christmas? They ask us. They'll be eating from our hands. We'll own them."

Dzerzhinsky raised an eyebrow. "So you propose to subsidize superstition."

"Subsidize? No. We leash it. You can murder men all day, Felix, but an idea is harder to strangle and bullets are expensive. This way we hold the leash. We make religion a pet. Harmless, declawed, fed just enough to survive."

Stalin finally chuckled, low and humorless. "Like a dog on a chain."

"Exactly," I said. "A very holy dog. We let it bark, maybe even wag its tail at us, but it never bites. And if it does? Off with its head. Simple."

Lenin tapped the desk with his fingers, thinking. The man looked half-dead, but his brain still whirred like a machine. "It is… pragmatic. The people will not give up their faith overnight. You suggest to control it."

"Of course," I said. "You use what you have. Jesus condemned the rich. Mohammed preached against usury. Buddha renounced wealth. They're practically writing Party leaflets for us already. Why waste bullets and men putting down rebellion and shooting priests when we can quote scripture?"

Stalin's eyes narrowed. "But you believe it, don't you? You kneel. You cross yourself."

I smirked. "I do." I nodded. "What about it? Optics, remember? And besides—" I couldn't resist, I leaned in conspiratorially, "—between us, I've probably killed more people in the past three months than all three of you combined. God's definitely very pissed at me."

There was a silence. Lenin stared at me like he wasn't sure if I was joking. Dzerzhinsky actually coughed a laugh, the driest sound in history. Stalin muttered something in Georgian that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

Lenin finally nodded, almost grudgingly.
"Very well. We will consider your commissariat. But mind this, Mikheil—if you build yourself a power base in the Church, if you turn priests into your own guard… then you will be the one we must put down."

I grinned, leaning back. "As you wish comrade."

Then I took a long look at them. Sitting there, facing Lenin, Stalin—all these names I'd read in history books—and realizing I was the one lecturing them? That was funny. Too funny. The kind of absurd joke that made me want to laugh out loud in their faces.

And the best part? I probably did have a higher body count already.

History, it turns out, has a dark sense of humor. And I fit right in.

 

[George Mathew]

Awesome work man. Keep it up.

 

[menace4time678]

I like the story but I feel like not enough old bolsheviks have been integrated into the story. Feels like he talks to the same few characters every chapter, there were a lot of interesting character's in the Bolshevik ranks at this time and it feels underexplored

 

[Xodarap]

Decades later Mikheil will be the one who's life is most documented simply from how much of his true thoughts he says to people

 

[George Mathew]

In a way the guy has officially made himself the bogeyman of the Soviets. I would be interested in reading what other nations think about him.

 

[Arrowman]

The MC is outStaling Stalin!
At this point they will put Jow in power, because he is the tame twin, if not the most reasonable

 

[George Mathew]

Unlikely that the SI would allow for himself to be placed in a position of power. I think he prefers being the background guy too much.

 

[Alenco98]

September 17, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

I woke, as I always did, at precisely 5:30 a.m. Not a second later. To sleep longer would be sloth; to wake earlier would be masochism. I am neither a pig nor a monk. I am Mikheil.

I rose, placed a pillow on the floor, and did a headstand against the wall. I counted to one hundred in a whisper, steady and calm, as though communing with some cruel God who cared only for numbers. Then I collapsed, deliberately, onto the wooden floor with a thud loud enough to wake the mice. I don't just do this for "health." Health is an abstraction. I do it so my hair doesn't fall out. All that blood rushing to the scalp—natural medicine. Thick hair is a symbol of power, immortality. Lenin has a bald head. Stalin has a pockmarked face. I, however, will never surrender my hair. I would rather die.

Next came my morning routine. I strapped on a backpack I had stuffed with ten kilos of contraband paperweights, and did thirty push-ups, thirty squats, and fifteen pull-ups on the bar nailed above the door. Every grunt echoed through the hall like a threat. Keke stirred awake from my exertions, glaring at me with the face of a long-suffering saint. Sashiko and Aleksander groaned as well. Joe—my brother, Stalin—slept on, oblivious, dreaming perhaps of pamphlets, bribes, and endless meetings with factory men who smelled like kerosene and lies. He really should regulate his sleep, but explaining the concept of "wellness" to him is like explaining opera to a sack of potatoes.

Afterwards, I went to the communal washroom. The plumbing groaned like an old revolutionary who had been shot but insisted he was still alive. I washed myself thoroughly, first the body, then the hair—always the hair. I massaged it like a prized mink stole. Then I dried off, walking back to my quarters wearing nothing but a towel, carrying my crumpled nightclothes like the relics of a saint.

I changed into my revolutionary guard uniform. Before leaving, I combed my hair with precision, washed my face with lavender-scented soap—handcrafted, naturally, dipped in hot water until it softened into a perfect mixture of purity and decadence. It makes me look young, ethereal even. Stalin and I are both 39. Stalin looks 50. I look 25. Grooming, long hair brushing my collar, and a skincare routine that would shame Parisian courtesans—these are my weapons. Too bad for me I'm still shorter than Joe, he stands at whopping 5'7 while I'm barely 5'4 on a good day, truly there are some things you can't escape even in death, but it is what it is, short king for life.

There is an idea of a Mikheil Jugashvili. Some kind of abstraction. A concept more than a man. You can shake my hand and feel flesh, you can hear my voice, but you cannot touch me. I am not here, not really. I am from the future. A place more advanced, slightly more civilized, slightly less violent. Only slightly. I am above you all.

Except my wife, my mother, and my close family. Even Joe. I have grown… fond of them. Perhaps even love them, though love is such a tedious word, so bourgeois, so sticky. Call it possessiveness, if you prefer. And I would kill every single man, woman, and child in this building without hesitation if it meant keeping them safe and happy. With a smile, no less.

As I stepped back into the hall, Keke muttered about my vanity. I explained, very kindly, that aesthetics are not vanity—they are survival. Lenin has his speeches, Trotsky his pen, Stalin his paranoia. I have my hair and my face along with my men and their menacing drip. In a few years they will all be dead or irrelevant, but people will still remember me as handsome. That is immortality.

I hummed softly as I walked out of the building. Not a Russian tune, not a revolutionary anthem, but something from far ahead: "Puzzle" by Meiko Nakahara. City pop, neon humming through the void, longing pressed into vinyl. A song about yearning for love you cannot reach.

I yearn too. For the future. For the world to catch up with me. Until then, I will stay here, in the Smolny Institute, surrounded by men with bad haircuts and worse ideas.

And I will be beautiful.

But for now—vanity rituals complete, hair gleaming like a bayonet—I had work to do. Revolutionary work. Important work.

Helping Trotsky build his grandiose Soviet military, which he treated like a personal orchestra—he the conductor, the soldiers the instruments, always trying to drown out the tune of reality. Helping Dzerzhinsky hammer together his National Guard, a paranoid man creating an institution for even more paranoid men. And, of course, my own duties: shaping and expanding the Revolutionary Guard; strangling the criminal underworld until it squealed rubles and supplies that would then use to upkeep my guardsmen, the national guard and military; inspecting factories.

Yes. Mondays. Always Mondays. Tax day.

I left the Smolny like a tsar leaving his palace, Revolutionary Guard stationed at the gates. They saluted. I saluted back, gracious as a monarch humoring peasants. All with the funny mustache man salute. One handed me a helmet. I put it on. Another handed me a rifle. I slung it over my shoulder. A third presented a bulletproof vest, which I strapped on ceremoniously, as if being dressed for war—or a particularly aggressive dinner party.

The men hated the vests, hated the discipline, hated the drills, especially under the fading summer heat. But hatred is useful. Hatred is discipline. And a civil war was coming. Better they sweat today than bleed tomorrow.

A battalion of my Guardsmen—about a hundred, give or take—waited in formation. They saluted. I returned the gesture, magnanimous. We marched to the street, where a dozen armored cars waited like steel beasts. I claimed the front seat of one in the middle of the convoy. Half the battalion piled into the cars, the other half mounted horses that arrived a few minutes later, snorting, stamping, shitting. Democracy on four legs.

We had two stops today in between collecting taxes: Obukhov Factory and Petrograd Imperial University. Priorities. Hooray.

Obukhov first. Weapons production is always more important than academics. After all, you can't educate a man who's already been shot in the head.

The ride took half an hour, though Petrograd traffic made it feel like half a century. Still, the crowd parted for us eventually. They always do, when a hundred armed men demand it.

We dismounted at Obukhov. Guards flanked me as I strode inside. Technically, Trotsky had absorbed the Red Guards here into his embryonic "army," but they remembered me. I had organized defenses against Kornilov, defended the party in July, and, most importantly, made sure wages were paid and vodka flowed. Logistics is love. Logistics is respect.

Just as I was about to enter the factory floor, I spotted a commotion: a group of guards barking at a man and woman who looked decidedly foreign. Wrong clothes, wrong posture, wrong everything. Spies? Journalists? Diplomatic lice? I wandered over, curious.

The guards straightened immediately.

"What's the problem?" I asked, voice smooth, like oil ready to ignite.

The ranking guard stepped forward. "These two claim to be journalists. They want to interview the workers. Trotsky ordered us to keep anyone like that out. Could be spies."

The man spoke up, his Russian accented like a drunk trying to play the balalaika. "My name is John Reed. I am a journalist, here to cover events in Russia. I only seek a statement."

"Where are you from?" I asked flatly.

He looked at me and turned pale. Even foreigners knew who we were. Revolutionary Guards were not known for their warmth.

"I'm American," he stammered. "Portland."

"Ahh, Americans!" I replied—in flawless Mid-Atlantic English. The crowd blinked in collective shock. I hadn't spoken English since… well, since before I died. It felt refreshing, like brushing your teeth after biting into someone's jugular.

"Is your wife American too?"

The woman nodded quickly. "Yes. From San Francisco."

"Lovely," I said. "West Coast royalty. My name is Mikheil Jugashvili. Founder and head of the Revolutionary Guard Corps. I was here to inspect the factory anyway. Why don't you wait here? We'll do an interview afterwards."

Reed lit up like a child offered candy and opium at once. "Yes! Of course."

"Perfect." I nodded. Switching back to Russian, I ordered my men: "Keep them here. Make sure no one disturbs them. Not even themselves."

The guards chuckled nervously. The Americans didn't understand.

Then I turned to the factory overseers, beckoning them forward with the gesture of a man who owns time itself. "Well then, gentlemen," I said. "Let's inspect production ."

And into the factory I went, humming "Puzzle" again under my breath. Always "Puzzle." Because in this city of corpses, betrayal, and smoke, I longed for a future that did not yet exist.

And until it came, I would build it—with bullets, taxes, and perfect hair.

The overseers shuffled forward as I entered the factory floor, nervous as altar boys caught stealing communion wine. They led me through the factory gates, past a gauntlet of guards and foremen, into the belly of the Obukhov Works.

The air inside was a cocktail of smoke, oil, sweat, and desperation. Sparks leapt from furnaces, machinery roared like starving lions, and men in soot-blackened overalls hammered metal into the shapes of death. Glorious.

"This factory," the senior overseer began, voice trembling with a mix of pride and fear, "was producing munitions for the war effort—rifles, ammunition, shells, artillery—for the Provisional Government. But now, comrade, every shipment, every piece, every bullet is directed to the Bolsheviks."

I smiled thinly. Like a father hearing his son finally admit he wants to become an executioner, not a doctor. I felt bad for Kerensky and his men. Worried? Nah, the Petrograd garrison, while on paper over 60 thousand men strong, was a rabble of sick, demoralized and undisciplined men who were more likely to receive rations that payment this month.

We had Dzerzhinsky's agents embedded within the guard, many of them were defecting to us on a daily basis. Trotsky now had 25 thousand men under arms, Dzerzhinsky 3 thousand, and little old me 7 thousand. All paid, armed, and supplied reliably thanks to the underworld and my now suffering brother in law who so graciously took the weight off my shoulders. Though I admit my men were better armed than Trotsky's and Dzerzhinsky, and Dzerzhinsky's were better armed than Trotsky. But Trotsky's men compared to the Petrograd garrison were far better off.

In short, Petrograd was a rotting house, one kick at the door and they would crumble. Bliss.

"We have diversified," the overseer continued quickly. "Not only rifles now, but bullets, shells, and artillery pieces. By the end of next month we estimate we'll have produced enough to arm another ten thousand men and sustain them for 3 weeks."

Ten thousand men. Fully supplied. Armed by my factories. Ten thousand opportunities to kill ten thousand more of someone else's men.

I paused by a workbench where a half-assembled Machine gun rested. I ran a gloved hand along its cooling jacket, savoring the oily residue left behind. I could almost hear it purr.

"Ten thousand men," I repeated slowly, as though tasting a rare wine. "That is enough to win a small war, gentlemen. But not enough for what we're looking to do."

The overseers laughed nervously, not sure if I was joking. I wasn't. Not entirely.

We walked deeper into the cavernous shop floors, where the din of hammering and grinding was deafening. I noticed a worker welding artillery parts without goggles. His retinas will probably melt in a few weeks. I sighed and glanced at one of the overseers. "Get the damn boy some googles. A blind welder is a useless one." One of the overseers nodded nervously and ran off while I continued.

I inspected crates of newly manufactured rifles stacked neatly against a wall, each stamped with the factory mark and serial numbers. Rows upon rows of them, like coffins waiting for occupants.

"You've done well," I said at last, turning back to the overseers. "I am pleased."

Their faces relaxed in visible relief. Being told "I am pleased" by me was the equivalent of a papal blessing—except the pope can't have you shot if the incense smells wrong.

I clasped my hands behind my back, strolling down the rows of rifles, humming "Puzzle" again, almost under my breath. The machines pounded in time with the beat. Metal, smoke, longing.

"This city bleeds, and you are the veins," I said absently. "Keep the guns flowing. Ten thousand men. By the end of October."

The overseers nodded violently, swearing they would work day and night.

Good.

I don't ask much. Just loyalty, discipline, and the ability to turn Petrograd into an arsenal of nightmares.

And I always, always, ask nicely first.

----------

We left the factory to the thunder of machines still birthing weapons behind us. My men fell into step, boots clattering against the cobblestones, armored cars rumbling like angry beasts chained to the revolution. Reed and his San Franciscan bride hurried alongside, scribbling in their notebooks like diligent undertakers preparing a eulogy for a still-living man.

"Comrade Jugashvili," Reed began carefully, "could I ask you—what exactly is the Revolutionary Guard's role in this… movement?"

Ah, the opening volley. I smiled, a politician's smile sharpened into a razor.

"Our role, John," I said in flawless English, "is simple: defense against Bonapartism and counter revolution. We are not here to plan coups, or seize power for ourselves. No, no. That's it. Think of us as a fire brigade—except instead of water, we use rifles, and instead of fires, we put out reactionaries and anyone within the Soviet Military that styles himself as a wannabe Napoleon."

They laughed nervously. I pressed on, enjoying myself.

"You see, just weeks ago, we defeated General Kornilov's putsch. A Thermidorian attempt if ever there was one. A general marching on Petrograd to restore 'order'—bah. We stopped him. Ordinary men, workers, Revolutionary Guards, the Soviet military, the national guard standing shoulder to shoulder. A victory, yes, but also a warning. The forces of Thermidor are always waiting. Always circling. Always one telegram away from strangling history in its cradle."

Reed scribbled furiously. His wife simply stared at me, eyes wide, like she couldn't decide if she was listening to a statesman or a lunatic who might start foaming at the mouth.

I decided to indulge them with biography. Everyone loves a confession from a dangerous man.

"My name, as I said, is Mikheil Jugashvili. I am the younger twin of Iosif Stalin. He is a member of the central committee. He is the brains, the thinker, the man with the plans. I am…" I spread my arms modestly. "The builder. My brother Stalin sketches and plans the house. I make sure it has walls and a roof. And perhaps a few well-stocked cellars."

Reed chuckled. He wasn't sure if I was joking. He wasn't wrong.

"I stepped back from party activity for some years. After Stalin's wife died, someone had to raise his boy, Yakov. I did. Married my sister in law, had a family of my own. Five children now. I count Yakov as my son. My mother lives with us too. We are very… domestic. Imagine it: me, my wife, the children, Stalin's boy at the table, our mother muttering prayers in the corner, all while I'm hiding rifles beneath the floorboards. A normal Russian family."

They blinked. I grinned.

"I moved here to Petrograd some years ago. Became a policeman, if you can believe it. Yes, Mikheil the Bolshevik, Mikheil the revolutionary, walking a beat, whistling at drunks, handing out fines and taking bribes. But I was clever. I built contacts in the underworld. Smugglers, thieves, black-market men. I kept weapons hidden, organized networks. When the time came, I had the tools. And when I reunited with my brother here—when Stalin came into his own—I began to organize the Guard. Workers, veterans, gangsters. A motley crew, yes, but disciplined. We run factories, we run soup kitchens, we run the city's veins, we protect churches and keep order. And occasionally, we run out of patience."

Reed swallowed hard. His wife scribbled now too, though I wondered if she was writing words or just drawing escape routes.

"You see, John, history requires both dreamers and janitors. Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin—they dream, they plan. I sweep the streets, load the rifles, collect the money, break the bones when necessary. Division of labor, efficient."

I adjusted my rifle strap, gestured for them to follow me as I climbed into one of the armored cars.

"Now," I said, clapping Reed on the shoulder in what I imagine felt like a bear trap disguised as affection, "you're welcome to accompany me. It's Monday. Tax day. Today we collect revenue from factories, brothels, and other businesses that owe loyalty to the revolution. A revolutionary state needs funding, after all. And the world will learn soon enough that Petrograd's criminal underworld and honest businessmen now reports to me. In exchange for protection, they pay their share. Just like everyone else."

Reed hesitated, then nodded, smiling thinly, already imagining his Pulitzer—or whatever passed for one in this time.

"Excellent!" I said brightly. "Consider this an exclusive tour of the revolutionary economy. Guns, factories, taxes, prostitutes. It's all very modern. America could learn a thing or two."

I leaned back in the car as the engines roared to life. My men saluted. I returned it casually, like Caesar blessing the Senate before a massacre.

Reed leaned forward with a final question. "And if someone refuses to pay these… taxes?"

I smiled wide, teeth white, eyes empty. "Then, John, we first politely ask they pay us. They must be fed. And if they refuse again—well…" I glanced out the window at the passing city. "We shoot them."

The convoy rolled through Petrograd like a steel centipede, armored cars and horsemen in neat formation. I sat shotgun, Reed and his wife behind me, scribbling furiously. Poor things. They thought they were observers. No, they were participants now—extras in my little morality play about the revolution.

Our first stop was a bakery. The smell of stale rye and desperation clung to the air like mildew. The baker, a fat man with flour-caked fingers, greeted me with a forced smile and a trembling ledger. I smiled back, shook his hand warmly, asked about his wife and children. Then I asked for the money.

He produced it quickly—stacks of bread, yeast, and a few gold coins, tied neatly with string. Polite, efficient. I patted him on the cheek. "Good man. You feed the revolution, we feed you. Remember: Lenin dreams of bread for all, but I am the man who makes sure no one steals the loaves." He laughed nervously. Reed scribbled.

Second stop: a gambling den tucked behind a butcher shop. Cards, dice, vodka. The place smelled of tobacco, fear, and cheap perfume. The owner, a gaunt fellow with the eyes of a starving wolf, tried to hand me half of what was owed. I leaned in close, whispered in perfect English so only Reed and his wife could hear: "Do you know what happens to men who shortchange history? They become history."

Then, louder, in Russian, I snapped my fingers. My men stepped forward. The owner, suddenly realizing his error, produced the full amount. I smiled, took it, kissed him on the forehead like a priest giving a benediction. He nearly wept with relief. Reed's wife looked like she wanted to vomit. Good. She was learning.

Third stop: an opium den. The air thick with smoke, bodies sprawled like corpses in soft piles, eyes glazed over in chemical paradise. The owner, a Chinese man with perfect posture, handed me the tribute without hesitation. "You're efficient," I told him. "Like me. If only more Russians were like you, we'd have built socialism last week."

Next came the brothel. Always my favorite. The madam—a formidable woman in her forties with more rouge than dignity—curtsied as though I were some czarist prince instead of a revolutionary gangster. Her girls peeked from behind velvet curtains, wide-eyed and half-curious. I told her gently, "Your business thrives because the revolution protects it. Imagine if the Whites came back—they'd shut you down, or worse, make you their wives. Think about it." She thought about it. She paid in full.

Halfway through, a thief decided to test his luck. Some half-starved wretch slipped a handful of coins from a gambling den's pile into his ragged coat while my men weren't looking. But my men always look. He didn't make it two steps before they had him pinned against the wall.

I strolled over, Reed in tow. "My friend," I said kindly, "do you know what this money is for? This is for rifles. For bullets. For artillery. For the survival of the revolution itself. When you steal from this pile, you steal from the cause. You might as well be stealing from Lenin's pockets, or from the hands of the workers themselves."

He stammered, cried, begged. I nodded sympathetically, then I shot him after we dragged him outside. A single shot. His body slumped to the cobblestones, coins scattering like bloodstained confetti. Reed froze, his wife's pen clattered to the ground. I looked at them both and smiled.

"Taxes must be collected," I said softly. "Or else what is the point of government?"

We continued on—workshops, banks, smugglers' hideouts, black markets, even a soap maker. Each had their tribute ready, some cheerfully, most fearfully. The system worked because I was polite first, terrifying second. That is the true balance of revolution: a smile, a handshake, and the occasional corpse as punctuation.

By the time the sun dipped low, our wagons bulged with cash and contraband. Reed finally dared to speak again. "This… this is extraordinary. I've never seen—"

"Yes, yes," I cut him off smoothly. "Extraordinary. Historic. Necessary. You will write about this, John. You will tell your countrymen that the Bolsheviks are not anarchists or bandits, but organizers. We impose order. We collect taxes. We build an army. We win."

I leaned back, stretching, then added casually: "When we return to Smolny, I'll see if I can arrange something for you. Perhaps you'll meet the Central Committee. Lenin, Zinoviev, Kamenev, Trotsky. You can interview them. Imagine the headlines. And if you've no place to stay, you can stay at Smolny. Comfortable beds, revolutionary atmosphere, plenty of rifles to keep you warm."

Reed quickly shook his head. "Thank you, Comrade Jugashvili, but we've already taken rooms at the Angleterre."

"Ahh, the Angleterre," I said with a grin. "Very bourgeois. Very respectable. Yes, yes, stay there, drink their coffee, write your little notes. But while you're here, you'll wait in Smolny until I finish one more stop. One last errand. Then I'll deliver you to Lenin himself like a pair of rare foreign birds. How does that sound? Interviewing our leader."

Reed nodded eagerly. His wife said nothing, eyes fixed on the cobblestones still dark with blood.

"Wonderful," I said brightly. "Now, let us be on our way. History doesn't wait, John. And neither do I."

---

Later that afternoon

The convoy lurched to a halt outside the hulking facade of Petrograd Imperial University. Students in threadbare coats shuffled past in twos and threes, clutching notebooks like talismans. The war had hollowed them out—boys who should have been memorizing Pushkin now memorized ballistic coefficients.

I left Reed and his delicate wife behind at Smolny—better for them not to see this part. Journalists like to believe in noble revolutions, not the mechanics of mass death.

Inside, the chemistry department smelled like vinegar, chlorine, and academic desperation. The laboratory was a forest of glass tubing, bubbling flasks, and chalkboards scrawled with equations no worker would ever understand. Young men in spectacles and white coats stood at attention as if I were a visiting czar. In a way, I was.

"Good afternoon, comrades," I said, switching to Russian, my voice warm, almost paternal. "Tell me—how far along are we with the chlorine?"

A thin professor with nicotine-stained fingers cleared his throat. "Comrade Jugashvili, the production is… progressing. We've achieved stable yields. The gas can be compressed into cylinders, but—well—the issue is the shells. We are working on methods to fill artillery rounds safely without corroding the casings."

I paced slowly between the benches, trailing my fingers across the cold metal of the apparatus, listening to the hiss of the pipes. "And how soon until you can? Weeks? Days? I like punctuality, professor. It reassures me that civilization is not entirely doomed."

The students shifted uneasily. One finally spoke up—brave or stupid, it was often the same thing. "Perhaps by the end of October, Comrade. The design for the shells is almost ready. The problem is sealing them—if they leak, even storage is dangerous."

I stopped and looked at him, smiling faintly. "Dangerous? My boy, everything here is dangerous. Walking outside is dangerous. Speaking the wrong word is dangerous. Do you think the Whites will be merciful if they march into this city? Do you think they'll hand you your diploma and a pat on the head? No. They'll conscript you, starve you, hang you from the nearest lamppost."

Silence. Only the sound of liquid dripping into a beaker.

"Good," I said finally, clapping the nervous student on the shoulder. "So you understand. This is not a game of textbooks and chalk. You are soldiers now, even if your weapon is a pipette instead of a rifle. Produce me shells, gentlemen. Ten, twenty, a hundred. Let the counterrevolution breathe their own death when they charge at us. History will not remember the squeamish chemists—it will remember the survivors."

The professor nodded stiffly. "Yes, Comrade Jugashvili. We'll accelerate the work."

"Excellent." I turned toward the door, adjusting my gloves. "If you succeed, you'll arm the revolution. If you fail…" I gestured vaguely at the beakers, the acrid fumes. "Well. Just try again, I understand chemistry is rather dangerous."

They all nodded in terrified agreement.

I left them with that thought, the scent of chlorine stinging my nose as I stepped back into the crisp evening air. My guards fell into formation, rifles at the ready. The day was nearly done, and so was I.

Another errand completed. Another piece of the machine oiled with fear, discipline, and a promise of progress.

------

Later, 7 PM, the same day

Smolny smelled of ink, wet wool, and cigarette smoke thick enough to be cut with a bayonet. The corridors buzzed with typists hammering communiqués, runners shouting for Lenin, Trotsky, Kamenev, Zinoviev. History in its larval stage, crawling noisily toward metamorphosis.

I stepped into the meeting chamber where the Central Committee was gathered around a battered table littered with papers, maps, tea glasses, and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. Lenin sat forward, bald head gleaming, scribbling furiously; Trotsky leaned back, pince‑nez glinting, looking smug as a man who believed he had personally invented the revolution; Kamenev puffed his pipe nervously; Zinoviev muttered something about the Germans.

"Comrades," I began, removing my gloves, "I stumbled into a problem today. Or perhaps an opportunity. Two Americans—journalists—at Obukhov. John Reed, and his wife Louise Bryant. They wanted to interview the workers. The factory guards didn't know what to do, so I intervened."

All eyes turned to me. Lenin's pen stopped mid‑scratch.

I continued, matter‑of‑fact. "I spoke to them. In English. Perfect English. Shocked the hell out of them, I think—they probably expected a Bolshevik to grunt like a peasant. I explained we are not coup plotters, but defenders of the revolution against counter‑revolutionaries. Cited the Kornilov affair as a Thermidorian attempt we defeated. Nothing about our planned coup, nothing about treaties with Germany. Just—enough to make us look organized, principled, not deranged."

Trotsky leaned forward, lips twitching in amusement. "You gave them a little morality play, then?"

"Yes Lev. I also gave them a sketch of myself—my role here, my family, Stalin as the brains while I build the muscle. Nothing dangerous, nothing compromising. Just the sort of narrative that looks good in a foreign newspaper."

Lenin tapped the table with his pen, considering. "And you believe they should be allowed to interview us?"

"Yes," I said simply. "Legitimacy, comrade. Abroad, they do not know us, except through the lies of the bourgeois press. Reed and his wife are sympathetic—they worship revolutions the way priests worship relics. If they write favorably, the world will see not criminals, but statesmen."

Kamenev frowned. "And if they publish details we don't want revealed?"

"I gave you all a complete account of what I said, word for word, so you may decide if any of it should be censored. I avoided all talk of October, of the Germans, of power seizures. It was polite conversation about defending the revolution. A bit of family story for color. If you wish, I'll sit in on their interviews. Their Russian is terrible—like cats fighting in a sack. I can translate their questions and our answers into proper English."

Trotsky smirked, exhaling smoke. "A revolutionary, a tax collector, and now an interpreter. Truly, Mikheil, you are the Renaissance man of Bolshevism."

I grinned back. "Better me than some translator from the old ministries who'd sell every word to the Provisional Government for a hot meal. Isn't that right Bronstein?"

Lenin nodded slowly, drumming his fingers. "Very well then. If Reed is truly sympathetic, his pen may be as valuable as a rifle." He scribbled a note and tucked it aside. "Go and get him."

Business resumed—supply shortages, rail strikes, the endless question of bread and power. But the Americans lingered in the air like cigar smoke. They were here, and they would write. And if they wrote well, perhaps the revolution would echo further than Petrograd's frozen streets. Meanwhile, I stood up and went to get the Reeds

---

8 PM

I ushered John Reed and Louise Bryant in, both looking anxious but feverishly alive. Reed's eyes darted about the room like a man stepping into scripture. He wanted to see saints, and here they were: bald, bearded, nicotine‑stained, overworked saints.

I cleared my throat. "Comrades, these are the Americans I mentioned—John Reed, journalist, and his wife, Louise Bryant. They wish to record what is happening here, to explain it abroad. I have spoken with them already. I believe they are sympathetic."

Lenin leaned forward, studying them the way a surgeon studies a patient. "They speak Russian?" he asked in clipped syllables.

I shook my head. "Badly. Like two chickens debating bread crumbs. I'll translate."

Trotsky smirked. "Then let us hope your English is as sharp as your tax collections."

I gestured for Reed to begin. He adjusted his spectacles, voice tremoring with excitement: "What do you see as the ultimate goal of this revolution?"

I translated for Lenin: "He asks where this all leads, what the purpose is."

Lenin's face twitched into that familiar half‑smile that could curdle milk. "Tell him: the transfer of power to the soviets. The destruction of the bourgeois order. Bread, peace, land."

I nodded and relayed smoothly in English: "The goal is simple—power to the workers and peasants, food for the hungry, peace for the weary, and land for those who till it. Everything else is noise."

Reed scribbled as though taking dictation from Christ.

Louise Bryant cut in: "And what of democracy? Elections?"

I translated; the room bristled. Zinoviev muttered something unprintable. Lenin leaned forward, tapping his pencil on the table. "Tell her: bourgeois democracy is a mask for exploitation. Ours is the higher democracy—direct power through soviets."

I gave it to her politely: "The current system is a fraud. What matters is the soviets—councils of workers and soldiers. That is real democracy, unfiltered, uncorrupted."

Bryant frowned, but Reed's eyes lit up. He was falling in love with the revolution, probably already drafting chapters in his head.

Then Reed asked, tentatively: "And if your enemies resist?"

I translated. Trotsky perked up, his moment to thunder. He straightened his jacket and let loose: "If they resist, we will break them. History does not tolerate hesitation. We will answer counter‑revolution with the Red Terror of the people!"

I hesitated—too much honesty, too soon. So I softened it: "If they resist, we will stand firm. History is on our side, and no enemy will prevail against the will of the workers."

Trotsky shot me a look, realizing I'd shaved off the terror. I smiled blandly back. That's what interpreters are for—making monsters sound like statesmen.

Bryant, ever sharper, asked: "And what of women in this revolution? What future for them?"

Lenin paused, then answered quickly, as though this had been rehearsed: "Women are equal in the struggle. They will be equal in the soviets. They will be free."

I translated it faithfully. Even I couldn't improve on that—it was the one thing Lenin meant sincerely. Louise looked impressed, for once not scribbling but thinking.

The interview wound down after an hour. Reed's notebook was fat with prophecy; Louise looked thoughtful, wary but intrigued. Lenin rubbed his temples. Trotsky preened. Zinoviev yawned.

I escorted the Americans out into the hall. Reed turned to me, eyes blazing. "Do you realize you're living through history?"

I smiled politely. "Yes, but unlike you, I'll be the one writing it in blood."

He laughed nervously, thinking it was a joke.

It wasn't.

-------

9:30 PM

The Americans left with their notebooks stuffed like geese before a Christmas feast along with a continent of my guardsmen led by bear. They were smiling as though they had just bought stock in destiny. I watched them walk out the door and thought: there go two people who will probably get us killed with adjectives.

The Central Committee reconvened in one of the smoke‑filled rooms upstairs. The chairs were mismatched, the table was missing a leg and propped up with a pile of old Pravdas. Lenin sat at the head, rubbing his temples as though democracy itself had given him a migraine.

"Well?" he said.

Trotsky leaned forward, his mustache twitching with self‑importance. "They will spread our message abroad. America will know the revolution is here, inevitable, glorious. It was good—very good—that they came."

"Yes," Lenin muttered, "good. Except that you sounded like Robespierre with a hangover."

Trotsky bristled. "I told the truth."

I interrupted before they could start bickering like two opera divas sharing one spotlight. "I softened your truth," I said, lighting a cigarette. "Otherwise, the Americans would have run screaming into the Neva and drowned themselves rather than publish you."

Zinoviev chuckled through a cough. "The interpreter saves the revolution, comrade Mikheil."

"Of course," I said. "My brother Stalin makes the plans. Lenin makes the speeches. Trotsky writes the poetry of blood. And I"—I flicked ash into the corner—"make sure the foreigners don't hear the word 'terror' before we're consolidated."

That earned a few laughs, though Trotsky glared as though I'd compared him to an actor in cheap vaudeville. Which, in fairness, I had.

Lenin tapped the table. "Jokes aside, this is important. We need legitimacy abroad. Not for the bourgeois governments—they will never accept us—but for the workers, the socialists, the ones who still think we are nothing but fanatics."

"And are we not?" Kamenev muttered.

Lenin ignored him. "These Americans will write their little articles. They will tell the workers in New York, Chicago, San Francisco that something new is born here in Petrograd. They will plant seeds. That is what matters."

Trotsky folded his arms. "Yes. Though one wonders how much 'legitimacy' we gain when our interpreter edits my words like a censor."

I leaned back in my chair. "Lev, if I had translated you word for word, we would already be surrounded by French bayonets, American Marines, and a British orchestra playing 'Rule Britannia' while they shelled Smolny. Consider me the birth control on your revolutionary cock: unpleasant, necessary, prevents messy consequences."

Silence. Then Lenin laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Zinoviev wheezed until he had to spit in a cup. Even Kamenev smiled.

Trotsky did not laugh. He muttered something about "vulgarity" and stared at the wall like a man plotting revenge against wallpaper.

Lenin wiped his eyes and composed himself. "In any case, well done. You handled them. If they ask again for interviews, we will allow it. With you present, comrade Mikheil. Always with you."

"Of course," I said. "I'll make sure they see us as the noble defenders of liberty and not the lunatics sharpening guillotines in the basement."

Trotsky growled. "We don't need guillotines."

"No," I said. "We need bullets. They stack better."

Another round of laughter—nervous, but laughter all the same.

The meeting adjourned. Lenin went off to write, Trotsky to sulk, Zinoviev to cough, Kamenev to wring his hands. I lingered, staring at the empty chairs. It struck me, not for the first time, how fragile this all was—this band of half‑starved intellectuals and conspirators pretending to be a government.

And yet, with a few rifles, a few factories, and a few journalists willing to swallow our lies, we might just pull it off.

History, I reflected, is written not by the victors, but by the fools who believe the victors' press releases.

And tonight, we had just hired our first ghostwriters.

But now I had to get dinner with my family.

---

Late evening

Dinner round two. The family gathered like a small parliament nobody voted for. Keke at the far end of the table, reigning over the soup pot with the authority of a Roman senator. Alexander and Aleksandra had joined us—our brother‑in‑law and my beloved wife, both too polite to admit they regretted saying yes. Stalin, as usual, sat like a lump of granite, eyes darting around the table as if he expected a spy to crawl out of the bread basket.

We had just started on the pickled fish when Stalin broke his silence.

"These Americans," he said slowly, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Reed, and his wife. You trust them?"

The table went still. Keke's spoon clattered against her bowl. Aleksandra blinked like she'd been slapped. Alexander, poor bastard, shifted uncomfortably, clearly wondering if he was allowed to breathe.

I smiled. Always I smiled. "Trust? Joe, I don't even trust my barber. But the Americans? They're useful. Reed is desperate—he thinks we're the new French Revolution. I'll feed him just enough rope to strangle himself."

"You're too casual," Stalin muttered. "Foreign journalists are snakes. They print one wrong word, we have trouble."

"Then," I said, cheerfully cutting into my black bread, "I'll cut out their tongues. Problem solved. No tongue, no bad articles."

The children—mine and Yakov—stared at me wide‑eyed. Aleksandra gasped. Alexander looked like he wanted to vomit into his soup.

"Mikheil!" Keke snapped. "The children!"

I patted my youngest on the head. "Don't worry. Papa's joking. Probably."

Stalin didn't laugh, but he didn't scold me either. He just sipped his vodka, as if weighing whether my joke was actually a proposal.

I leaned back in my chair. "Look, if Reed betrays us, I'll kill him myself. Then I'll make his wife write a glowing obituary about the man's tragic accident while chopping beets. You'd be amazed how many journalists slip on turnips in Russia."

Keke slammed her fist on the table. "You cannot say things like that at dinner!"

Alexander tried to change the subject, god bless him. "So… the factory inspection went well?"

"Marvelously," I said. "Obukhov will have enough rifles and shells to arm ten thousand men by the end of October. Isn't that reassuring?"

Aleksandra looked faint. "Ten… thousand?"

"Yes sweetie," I said brightly. "Ten thousand rifles, ten thousand bayonets, ten thousand ways to make our enemies shit themselves in terror. Honestly, it warms the heart."

The children were now whispering to each other. One asked: Papa, are you going to kill the Americans for real?

"Only if they deserve it," I said, smiling like a kindly priest. "And if I do, I'll comb my hair nicely for the occasion. Presentation matters."

Keke buried her face in her hands and sighed. Stalin chuckled under his breath—the kind of low, dry chuckle that told me he was enjoying this far more than he'd admit.

Finally, Stalin raised his glass. "To the Americans," he said. "May they write what we tell them."

I clinked my glass against his. "And if they don't, may they meet a tragic fall from the Smolny staircase."

Keke hissed. Aleksandra gasped again. Alexander nearly dropped his drink. The children laughed nervously, unsure whether it was a joke.

But Stalin and I—well, we drank.

Because for us, the line between joke and plan has never really existed.

 

[Xodarap]

Wonder how the family is handling Mikheil being extremely honest about the violence crimes and schemes?
His mother thinks them devils
His brother in law is terrified of his bosses
His kids are growing up admiring his cruelty
While his wife both loves him and looks to be horrified at the devious devices he's creating of the world around her.

 

[Alenco98]

Mr. Jugashvili is the only sane man in Moscow according to the ambassador. I will pray for the future of the people of Russia the day he dies.

- Excerpt from a US cabinet meeting on April 12, 1935 said by Cordell Hull, Secretary of state.

PROJECT RED REBIRTH
FINAL DRAFT

Manual for Class Redemption and Revolutionary Transformation

By Mikheil Jughazvilli
Date of Writing: September 3, 1917

---

Objective

To utterly dismantle the self-conception of Tsarist officers, aristocrats, and royalty, erasing all vestiges of loyalty to throne, church, or nobility. Survivors will emerge either as broken shells made useful through servitude—or as corpses whose deaths serve as revolutionary warnings.

---

Phase I: Isolation and Fracture

Family Hostage Amplification

Families separated immediately, but not merely "protected":

Spouses are forced to write confessions denouncing the subject.

Children are photographed in peasant clothing, smiling while performing labor.

Once a week, the subject receives a "letter" (fabricated if necessary) where their family blames them for their suffering.

Guards periodically whisper:

"Your wife is sweeping barracks floors for peasants. Your children say they prefer potatoes to your luxuries."

This drives guilt into every thought.

---

Environmental Torture

Cells are stripped of identity: no mirrors, no clocks, no personal possessions.

Lighting alternates between 24 hours of glare and total blackout, never predictable.

White noise, dripping water, and intermittent banging on cell doors destroy all sense of time.

Guards rotate speech patterns—sometimes screaming, sometimes whispering sweetly, sometimes silent for days—ensuring no stability.

---

Phase II: Regiment of the Broken

Wake-Up (05:00)

Instead of merely being shouted at, subjects are dragged from their cots, slapped, doused in freezing water, and forced to crawl to breakfast.

Breakfast of Silence

Gruel deliberately salted or unsalted unpredictably to disrupt body rhythm.

Any movement out of order = food removed and redistributed to others.

Speech Control

Silence enforced except for mandated chants.

Any unapproved words: gagged for 12 hours, or forced to wear a spiked collar preventing comfortable sleep.

---

Phase III: Ideological Bombardment

Lectures (07:00–12:00):

Readings of Marx, Engels, Lenin—broken by interruptions of guards screaming insults.

Subjects must copy entire texts by hand, pages confiscated daily.

Essay Rituals:

Essays are not only critiqued but burned in front of the subject while peers laugh.

Rewrites required until ideological phrasing is flawless.

Shame Amplification:

Nobles must read aloud their own degrading essays in monotone, while others throw scraps of bread at them.

---

Phase IV: The War on the Self

Counter-Ideology Destruction (12:00–16:00)

Instead of merely critiquing Sun Tzu, Machiavelli, and Hobbes, subjects must:

Tear pages from old books with their teeth.

Spit on family crests or portraits of monarchs.

Burn symbolic items (epaulettes, jewels, crosses) while shouting:

"The Revolution burns my past, and I am nothing without it!"

Punishment for hesitation: stress positions, forced kneeling on sharp stones, or flogging.

---

Comrade's Court (16:00–19:00)

Struggle sessions elevated:

Subjects forced to slap and spit on one another.

Rewards (extra bread, an hour of sleep) given to the most vicious denunciations.

"Class trials" held where peers must accuse each other of imaginary "counter-revolutionary" thoughts.

Failure to denounce others = labeled "enemy accomplice," punished twice as harshly.

---

Phase V: Ritual Humiliation

Labor of the Ashamed (19:00–22:00)

Subjects ordered to lick floors clean before scrubbing.

Forced to wash peasant underwear and hang it like flags.

Bow before peasants drafted into guard duty.


Every hour, saluting Marx's portrait is not enough—they must kiss the floor in front of it, chanting louder each night.

The Naked Readings

Subjects stripped bare and ordered to read State and Revolution aloud, voices trembling while guards mock their bodies.

---

Phase VI: Night Terror Protocols

Mock Executions (22:00–02:00)

Enhanced cruelty:

Guns discharged near ears to simulate killing.

Graves actually half-dug, then filled back in after subjects collapse.

Occasionally, one prisoner is executed to reinforce credibility. It must be the most defiant and stubborn prisoner.

Witnesses are forced to applaud the "justice" of the execution.

---

Sleep Deprivation (02:00–05:00)

Beds removed, prisoners must stand in freezing corridors, singing revolutionary anthems until collapse.

If one falls asleep: group punished with cold showers and food withdrawal.

---

Phase VII: Rebirth or Disposal

The Redeemed

Surviving nobles are paraded in rags before peasants, confessing their crimes.

Tsarist officers forced to clean latrines in uniform, medals pinned mockingly to their rags.

Converted subjects appear in propaganda photos teaching literacy to peasants, captioned:

"Even parasites can be reborn as men."

The Unredeemable

Broken beyond use: executed quietly.

-----

Special Protocol: Romanov Family

Nicholas II: forced to kneel daily before peasant children while teaching them to read Marx.

Alexandra: ordered to carry buckets of human waste through villages, mocked by peasants.

Daughters: used as models in propaganda posters—scrubbing laundries, sewing uniforms. Publicly photographed with slogans like "The princess scrubs for the people."

Alexei: too frail for heavy labor—appointed as a clerk to Lenin, required to transcribe Marxist texts while being reminded that "the Revolution is stronger than his bloodline."

All images, essays, and humiliations are carefully documented for international distribution as The Redemption of the Parasites campaign.

 

[LysanderArgent]

Sometimes death is mercy.

 

[Xodarap]

I could have gone the rest of my life without know that depth of systemic human cruelty.

 

[Alenco98]

September 19, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

I lounged in the chair like it belonged to me, even though technically it belonged to the state, and the state technically belonged to nobody—or everybody—depending on who was yelling the loudest that day. Trotsky was in the middle of one of his marathon reports/speeches about "training" his new Soviet military. By training he meant: getting a gaggle of half-drunk Red Guards to stop voting on whether or not to obey orders. Charming, really. One of these days they'd refuse to advance because the bread was stale, or because the officer's moustache wasn't proletarian enough. Democracy at its finest. Joy.

The miracle was that they hadn't turned on us outright. Credit where credit's due: Trotsky had charisma. He could convince a half-starved soldier to storm the Winter Palace just by wiggling his eyebrows. I respected that. And besides, the Provisional Government was so universally despised they made us look like benevolent saints. We ran soup kitchens, swept the streets, and ensured the breadlines ran on time. Compared to Kerensky, we were bloody philanthropists.

Of course, it wasn't just goodwill. My "taxation" scheme ensured we had money, guns, and enough food to keep the men loyal. Every business in Petrograd—legal, illegal, or "somewhere in between depending on how drunk the police were that night"—paid into my coffers. Shopkeepers, factory owners, pimps, even the bakers coughed up their share. It was revolutionary redistribution at its finest: steal from everyone, give to ourselves. Compared to the starving idiots in the Provisional Government's barracks, my men looked like kings. Dzerzhinsky's lot weren't much worse off either. Trotsky's weren't half shabby. But there was a pecking order.

But discipline—now that was the problem. Bolshevik agitators in the provisional government's army were whispering in soldiers' ears: "Don't follow orders, comrades. Governments are for suckers. The Bolsheviks are your real friends." Naturally, the soldiers listened and defected. But their lack of disciple transferred over. Which meant Trotsky's shiny "Soviet army" often behaved more like a mob with matching armbands than an actual fighting force.

Luckily, that's where I came in. My Revolutionary Guard Corps—and Dzerzhinsky's so-called National Guard—were proper military outfits. Ranks, discipline, rules, executions. Yes, executions. You refused an order, you got a bullet. Simple, efficient, motivational. And no one could say they weren't warned: from day one, we told recruits, "You'll be fed, you'll be paid, you'll be armed. But you'll also fucking obey or you'll die."

Trotsky, of course, whined about Bonapartism. I reminded him his army was almost 3 times the size of mine and Dzerzhinsky's put together, and that if I got any funny ideas, he and Dzerzhinsky could squash me like a cockroach. He didn't like the reminder, but he shut up. Still, I could tell he was developing a personal grudge. Which, frankly, was hilarious.

Now, today's subject was seizing power. We already agreed we were going to do that, every member of the central committee was all in.

Lenin however wanted it Bolshevik led only, Trotsky wanted to bring in a few allies, and the others—Zinoviev, Kamenev, that usual gang of nervous wrecks—wrung their hands like old aunts at a funeral. The funny part? It didn't matter what they thought. Trotsky and I had the guns, Dzerzhinsky had the prisons and guns, and Lenin was the leader. That was enough. Bonapartism was already here, the others just hadn't noticed.

Trotsky insisted we at least bring in the anarchists, Left SRs, maybe even a few Mensheviks too cowardly to pick a side. Lenin scoffed, naturally. He wanted it pure, a Bolshevik triumph, untainted by compromise. Personally, I didn't care. We had the rifles, we had the men, and if we didn't have the loyalty of the others, well, we knew where their families lived. Cooperation could be… negotiated.

Still, I leaned in. "Comrades," I said, "we can secure support from the Left SRs, the anarchists, and even some wavering Mensheviks. The trick is knowing how to ask."

At that, I gestured to the man who knew the art of persuasion better than anyone. Time to show them all the networking my brother had done thanks to Dzerzhinsky's spies and my money on top of running Pravda. Well, not my money but the revolutions money. Then again who's counting.

Joe stood up slowly, brushing crumbs from his jacket like he'd just stepped out of a bakery rather than a revolution. He looked around the room, face utterly expressionless, then spoke in that gravelly voice of his.

"We can begin… convincing many of them. Bribes. Threats. A little blackmail. The usual. The anarchists scream a lot, but they sign quickly once you show them photographs of their families. The Left SRs fold when you threaten to kill their mistresses. And as for the Mensheviks—well, let's just say their principles cost less than a sack of flour. They won't be a problem."

He sat back down, calm as a priest at confession.

And that was that.

There was silence for a moment after Stalin's little sermon. The kind of silence you only get when a room full of men suddenly realizes they're in bed with the devil—and that the sheets are already on fire.

Kamenev cleared his throat first, fiddling with his spectacles like they might shield him from reality. "Well, ah… Comrade Stalin, I do admire your… thoroughness. But perhaps—just perhaps—relying on… intimidation and, ah, extortion might… complicate things, ideologically speaking?"

He looked around for support, like a drowning man searching for driftwood. None came.

Zinoviev piped up, voice squeaking like a terrified schoolteacher. "Yes, yes, I agree with Kamenev. We are Bolsheviks, not… criminals."

That was when Dzerzhinsky laughed. Actually laughed. It was the kind of laugh you'd expect from a man who hadn't slept in three weeks and was surviving entirely on tea, cigarettes, and the occasional execution. "Comrades, please. We run all the black markets in Petrograd already. If we're not criminals, then what the hell are we? Philanthropists?" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "No, no—Stalin's right. Fear and greed. Same currency as ideology, only it spends faster."

Lenin, for his part, didn't flinch. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes gleaming like a cat watching mice argue about cheese. "If we can bribe them, we will. If we can blackmail them, we will. If we must kill them, we will. The revolution does not care how it is fed, only that it is fed. History will absolve us."

Trotsky frowned, of course. He always frowned when someone else's methods worked better than his speeches. "Yes, yes, fine, but we must at least appear to have their support. I can rally the Petrograd Soviet only if it looks like the Left SRs and anarchists are on board. They don't have to mean it—they just have to say it while I wave my arms and shout about democracy."

Lenin smirked. "Exactly. They will sign. Stalin will ensure it. Trotsky will make it sound noble. Kamenev and Zinoviev will wring their hands. And I…" He tapped his temple. "…I will write history so none of this looks like the gangster racket it truly is."

The meeting moved on, as if Stalin hadn't just admitted to running the Revolution like a mafia protection racket. But everyone's eyes lingered on him just a little longer than before.

Of course, the meeting was far from finished. Now it was my turn to be reprimanded. Word of my draft—Project Red Rebirth—had spread beyond the Central Committee and into the Petrograd Committee itself. Predictably, the reaction had been outrage.

"Comrade Mikheil," Lenin began, his tone sharp but measured. "We have read and reread your draft carefully these last few weeks. I have also circulated it among comrades here. The verdict is unanimous—it is excessive. Far, far too excessive."

I nodded calmly. That was expected. I had never truly believed they would adopt it in its entirety. The point was to shock, to establish myself as indispensable in matters of organization and discipline, to be feared, and to force them to accept at least part of my proposal. Still, perhaps I had overreached; perhaps they now saw me as nothing more than a savage. Fuck them I had the guns and money.

"I know," I replied evenly. "Technically it is written as a final draft, but I never imagined it was untouchable. Edits are welcome, of course. However, I must insist on one matter: we will need the Tsarist officers. If we are to recruit them, then we will also need leverage. Hostages. Without them, discipline is impossible. Trotsky's new Soviet military, as it stands, is closer to a mob than a fighting force. The Guard Corps and the National Guard are disciplined, yes, but not large enough to win a civil war on their own."

The room shifted uneasily. Trotsky straightened in his chair, his expression a mixture of irritation and reluctant recognition.

"You are not wrong," Trotsky admitted after a pause. "If we attempt to command them without guarantees, they will betray us at the first opportunity. Families—yes, in theory, families could be used to secure loyalty. But what you propose, Mikheil, is systematic. Too systematic. Insane even. A program of terror so codified it reads more like a bureaucratic manual than a military measure."

"Because," I interjected, "without system there is chaos. Better that it is codified, understood, and overseen by the Party than carried out in secret by desperate commanders improvising cruelty on their own terms. At least this way, it is discipline with purpose."

Zinoviev shook his head vigorously. "This is barbarism, pure and simple. To hold wives and children as hostages? To torture men constantly for weeks on end? We will destroy ourselves in the eyes of the proletariat. What kind of revolution begins by replicating the Tsar's worst crimes?"

"You are naïve, Zinoviev," Dzerzhinsky cut in sharply. "Revolutions are not made with white gloves. You call it barbarism, but what do you imagine civil war will look like? If we do not control the officers, the Whites will. And they will not hesitate to kill our families, one by one. Better that we are feared than destroyed."

Kamenev leaned forward, trying to moderate. "Comrades, there must be a middle path. Discipline is indeed necessary. Hostages… perhaps only in extreme cases. But to formalize it as policy? To make it a cornerstone of our strategy? That will alienate not only the soldiers, but also our allies on the Left."

Lenin raised his hand, silencing the debate. His eyes narrowed, fixed on me. "Comrade Mikheil, your logic is not without merit. We must recognize the weakness of our position. The Provisional Government still clings to power, the garrisons are restless, the front collapses by the day. Yes, we need the officers, and yes, we must prevent betrayal. But your draft—this Project Red Rebirth—it risks binding us to a program of cruelty so explicit it may discredit us before we have even seized power."

His tone softened slightly. "However… your central point stands. We cannot rely on enthusiasm and speeches alone. Some form of guarantee must exist. Something that makes defection unthinkable. The question is how far we are prepared to go."

All eyes turned again to Trotsky. He tapped his pen against the table, staring at the notes before him as if they contained an escape. Finally, he exhaled.

"I detest it," Trotsky said bluntly. "I detest every part of it. But… I cannot deny the necessity. In the Civil War that is coming, we will face traitors, saboteurs, and men who smile while stabbing us in the back. Hostages may be the only language they understand. I will not endorse your entire draft, Mikheil, but the principle—" he looked around the room, unwilling, yet resolute—"the principle may be unavoidable. I say we keep the hostages, but only until the war ends. And the torture, the humiliation? No." He shook his head, "too excessive, too systematic. We don't have the time, we will need the officers as soon as possible."

The room was already tense when Trotsky finished speaking, and then the shouting began.

Zinoviev slammed both palms on the table. "This is madness! Absolute madness! We are Bolsheviks, not medieval tyrants. To reduce ourselves to taking families hostage—what will the soldiers think? What will the workers think? We'll discredit ourselves before the revolution even begins!"

Trotsky's voice cut through, sharp but strained. "And what will they think when officers defect, when whole regiments collapse because their commanders betray us? Fine words, Zinoviev, but they will not win battles. Families as hostages—yes, it is distasteful. But war is not about distaste, it is about survival. Discipline is life. Indiscipline is death."

Zinoviev turned to him in disbelief. "So you would shackle wives and children to enforce loyalty?"

Trotsky jabbed a finger across the table. "Better that than to let White generals march into Petrograd while we moralize over principle. You call it barbarism—I call it the difference between victory and annihilation."

Dzerzhinsky broke in, cold and cutting. "Enough. We are not debating abstractions. I have interrogated spies, deserters, and infiltrators. I know what betrayal looks like. It always begins with a weak officer who believes he can slip away unnoticed. If he knows his family is in our custody, under our guard, he will think twice. We will not torture them. We will not starve them. But they will remain with us as guarantees. That is the reality."

Kamenev tried to calm the storm, his voice thin against the clamor. "Comrades, there must be limits! We cannot descend into indiscriminate cruelty. Discipline, yes—but not degradation. If we humiliate officers, if we torture them, we will earn nothing but hatred. And hatred is not loyalty."

I leaned forward. "No one is suggesting indiscriminate cruelty, except for me but I'm open to changing my mind. However, the officers must be made to serve. That requires leverage. Hostages will give us leverage. Beyond that—let them be treated properly. Fed, housed, and, when they obey, respected. But make no mistake: without guarantees, we will lose them. And without them, Trotsky's army is a mob."

Lenin rapped his knuckles on the table for silence. "Enough posturing. We must decide. Do we, or do we not, take the families of Tsarist officers into custody as hostages to ensure loyalty?"

There was a pause. Then Trotsky nodded, almost reluctantly. "Yes. We must. Without them, there is no discipline."

Dzerzhinsky: "Yes. Under strict supervision. They will not be harmed, but they will remain under guard."

Lenin's gaze shifted to Kamenev and Zinoviev. "And you?"

Zinoviev hesitated, his face pale. "I oppose it. It will stain the revolution."

Kamenev sighed heavily, glancing at me, then at Lenin. "I oppose cruelty. But… I cannot deny the logic. Very well. Families may be taken—but they must be treated humanely. No torture. No humiliation."

All eyes turned to Lenin. He spoke slowly, clearly, as if dictating a decree. "So it is agreed. Hostages will be taken from among the families of officers. They will be treated humanely, placed under guard, and released only when their loyalty is proven. As for the aristocracy—the Romanovs included—they will not be subjected to humiliation or torment. They will work in factories, they will sweep floors. They will study Marx and Engels. They will live under strict supervision and ideological re-education, guarded by the organs of state security." He glanced at Dzerzhinsky, who gave a curt nod.

Zinoviev tried one last protest. "Comrades, if we go down this road—"

Lenin cut him off. "If we do not go down this road, there will be no revolution to speak of. History does not forgive hesitation."

The vote was called.

The decision was made. The shouting subsided into a heavy silence. Everyone understood the weight of what had just been sanctioned. Looks like my plan, albeit modified to be less insane and sadistic was going forward.

Lenin closed the matter with finality. "It is settled. We will have discipline. We will have loyalty. And we will have victory. History will remember that we acted with necessity, not cruelty."

Later that night

I sat at the table, hunched over a bowl of borscht Keke had conjured together, humming "Kokomo" by the Beach Boys. A song from a future that might not exist, a band that certainly didn't yet — details are iffy when you've been dead for a while and spat back out into Petrograd like some cosmic joke. But still, better to hum about Aruba, Jamaica, Bermuda, Bahama than think too hard about being stuck here: Russia, 1917, pre-communist hell, and somehow one of the architects of the bloodbath-to-come.

Keke had promised to make khachapuri too, bless her, but of course Yakov — that little parasite — had crept into the pantry and eaten half the cheese like a starving rat. Stalin, predictably, wanted to spank the boy, a true Georgian patriarch's solution: blood, bruises, and a lecture on discipline. I preferred otherwise. A stern talking-to, followed by the corner of shame, and denying him dinner. Stalin glared at me across the table, spoon in hand, muttering that I was soft, spoiling the boy. I reminded him — sweetly — that I was the one raising Yakov, not him. And if he wanted to pick up the slack, he was welcome to try. He grumbled, he bitched, he sulked into his soup. Domestic bliss, Bolshevik style. Poor little Yakov meanwhile was now in his room, sulking and hungry but tomorrow everything would be fine.

As I swallowed down another mouthful of beet-red sludge, it struck me how increasingly easy it had become to get the Central Committee to bend toward my point of view as time went on. The more men, money, and rifles I scraped together, the more convincing I became. Except for Trotsky, of course — but Trotsky was Trotsky, a man who could argue with a wall and still think he won. Kamenev and Zinoviev hated me too, but what of it? They were professional handwringers, useful for comic relief more than anything else.

Lenin was harder. Convincing Lenin was like trying to convince God: exhausting, but possible, provided you had enough wit, a touch of ruthlessness, and a decent punchline. Dzerzhinsky, meanwhile, looked like a corpse that had decided to get up and join politics. Terrifying, yes, but very practical. He fell in line.

And Stalin? Joe was pragmatic too — though his pragmatism was measured in how useful a thing was to his rise. As long as my schemes didn't block his climb, he was content to nod along. A bonus, really, because he was the sort who remembered debts, and I had saved him more times than I cared to count.

The rest of the Central Committee? They didn't matter. They knew who the hell I was: the man who had gone from a disgraced Tsarist police chief to commander of one of the largest armed factions in Petrograd in mere months. The man who had saved their arses during the July Days and Kornilov's putsch. The man who brought them guns, men, food — a proper fucking army. And people tend to listen to the man who feeds them.

Still, I reminded myself not to get carried away. Red Rebirth had been… excessive. Too much of my old life bleeding into this one, too many memories of every fucked-up book, movie, anime mashed together into one manual of horrors. Some of it passed, yes, but too much and they'd all start whispering "psychopath" again. Best to be the useful lunatic, not the liability. Which reminded me I should probably speak to those journalists and censor some of the more extreme things I did with them.

The revolution was close now. Soon we'd march on the Winter Palace, sweep the Provisional Government into the dustbin of history, as Lenin loved to say. And after victory? That's when the real game would begin.

I glanced at Stalin across the table. He was sipping his borscht slowly, eyes hooded, like a wolf deciding whether to eat you now or later. My mind flashed back to high school history books: the purges, the pacts with Hitler, the bungling in World War II. And I could see it even now — that same cold hunger already glinting behind his eyes.

The trick, I knew, was to be indispensable. To make him so emotionally dependent that purging me would be like amputating his own arm. And in some ways, I already was. I had raised his son. I had saved his life as a boy, yanking him out of the path of a carriage. I had patched his wounds after those ridiculous bank robberies and half-baked firefights. Hell, I still called him "Joe," and he didn't bite my head off anymore. That was progress. That was trust.

But trust in this game was a blade with two edges. I knew if he turned on me, it wouldn't just be me. Aleksandra, my children, even Keke — none of them would be safe. Stalin didn't purge individuals; he purged bloodlines.

I lifted my spoon and let the borscht drip back into the bowl. "Survive," I muttered under my breath, "just survive."

The table was quiet for a while as I continued eating, save for the scrape of spoons against bowls. It was quiet, too quiet, so quiet in fact I was bored. I figured time to tease my future dictator/brother and further humanize him as well as myself in his eyes.

"Joe," I said, keeping my voice casual, almost lazy. "You should relax more outside of meetings and party activity. You're at home. This is family. We're not your political enemies. No need to look at people like you're about to shoot them for standing up correctly."

Stalin didn't answer at first. He just kept sipping, mustache bristling in irritation. His mother, Keke, muttered something in Georgian under her breath, probably along the lines of 'Yes, stop being a bloody storm cloud at the dinner table'. Aleksandra shot me a look, the kind only wives can give — equal parts you're right and don't provoke him, idiot. Aleksander, my brother, snorted into his bread, delighted to see Stalin getting poked.

I pressed on. "You know what you are, Joe? You're a tsundere."

The spoon stopped halfway to his lips. His brows furrowed. "A… what?"

I grinned, leaning back, savoring the moment like good vodka. "Tsundere. A word from Japanese books. Means someone who's cold, harsh, and aloof on the outside — terrifying, really — but deep down, they're warm and friendly. Kind, even. You remind me of that. You act like the executioner, but underneath, you're a softie. Especially when Kato was alive."

There it was. The flicker across his face. Memory mixed with pain, with loss. For a moment, the tyrant-in-the-making looked almost human again.

Then he growled. "You read too much foreign bourgeois material." He set the spoon down with a clink, glaring at me like I'd just confessed to owning a library of French romance novels.

I laughed, full-throated, and raised my hands in surrender. "Guilty as charged! You're right. Absolute trash. Corrupting my brain. First it's Japanese words, then it's soft discipline for Yakov, next thing you know I'll be letting him draw instead of cleaning rifles."

Even Keke chuckled at that, shaking her head. Aleksandra smiled faintly, relieved the tension had broken. Stalin, for his part, muttered something about "idiots and their metaphors," and dug back into his borscht with grim determination, as if proving that beet soup was more reliable than people.

But I caught it — the corner of his mouth twitching, just barely, like he was fighting not to laugh.

And I thought to myself: That's how you survive Joseph Stalin. You tease the wolf until he forgets to bite.

 

[Xodarap]

Called Stalin a Tsundere to his face then explained it.
The sheer machismo of our boy Mikheil all while humming Cocomos.

 

[Alenco98]

"If you have any last words, now's the time to say them. If not, I'll generously give you a full minute to pray. Not that it'll do you much good. You lot made a sport out of hanging priests from lamp posts, so I doubt you remember how it works. Still, I'm charitable—so I'll give you the minute anyway.

Just in case, though—anyone want a priest for last rites? Anyone? Cigarettes at least?"

– Field Marshal Mikheil Jughashvili, addressing a group of anarchist prisoners in Barcelona moments before their execution by a joint firing squad of the Spanish Communist Party and the Internationalist Soviet Legion, Spanish Civil War, 1937

September 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

11:59 PM

We stood outside Smolny like actors waiting for the curtain to rise, except instead of scripts we had rifles and instead of an audience we had an entire empire balanced on a knife's edge. My Revolutionary Guard was lined up, rifles gleaming in the moonlight, boots clattering on the cobblestones like the world's most terrifying percussion section. Dzerzhinsky's men were nearby as well—tight, disciplined, and looking as if they'd cheerfully shoot their own grandmothers if he gave the order. Trotsky's mob was there too, a bit less uniform, a bit more "peasant militia chic," but still useful in large quantities, like manure.

"Everyone remembers their roles, yes?" Lenin asked in his usual mixture of calm authority and mild constipation.

We all nodded. Of course we remembered; we'd been rehearsing this for days like some demented amateur theatre troupe. Each man knew his part, each unit its cue. The stage was set, the props were loaded, and the orchestra—by which I mean the artillery—was tuned.

The clock began to strike midnight. I yawned, because even revolutions drag on when you've had no sleep, and gave a nod to Bear, my lieutenant, who dutifully handed Lenin a rifle. Lenin looked at it with the satisfaction of a vegetarian suddenly handed a sausage—he liked the symbolism but God help him if he had to actually use it.

"I'll handle clearing the palace out," I said. "Shouldn't be too difficult."

I turned to my men, their bayonets glinting. "Remember, comrades—Kerensky alive. If it looks like he's escaping, put a bullet in him. Preferably somewhere dramatic."

They didn't nod. They saluted. Silent, disciplined, professional. Lovely boys. Trotsky's lot, by contrast, would probably have debated the ethics of it until Kerensky had already caught the next train to Paris.

---

October 1, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

The bells stopped ringing, and with them ended one Russia and began another.

We moved out in our convoys like clockwork, armored cars growling through the streets. It was history, yes—but also theatre. A grand pageant with rifles as props and the Winter Palace as stage. And the actors? Well, half of them were professional revolutionaries, and the other half were professional lunatics. Either way, curtain up.

As we rolled out, I found myself both awed and oddly serene. I'd read about this moment once in dusty high school history textbooks, never expecting to be one of the key players. And yet here I was, writing the script with my own boots on the cobblestones.

I glanced over and caught sight of Joe—my brother Stalin—chatting with some of the Guards. I waved like a friendly idiot. He, of course, did not wave back. Just a curt nod, as if I'd asked him to pass the salt at dinner. Christ. The man could plot mass purges with gusto but heaven forbid he wave like a normal human being.

He climbed into one armored car, I into mine. Behind us, Dzerzhinsky's men filed out with mechanical precision, Trotsky's half-trained collection of idealists straggling after. I couldn't help but smile.

Trotsky had been livid that he wasn't given the honor of storming the Winter Palace. Oh, the way he sulked. He argued for days about symbolism and historical destiny, pounding the table with all the righteous fury of a preacher who's just realized the choir prefers vodka to hymns.

But I'd killed the idea in council with one very simple observation: his men were a mob. Yes, they adored him, yes, they'd follow him into Hell itself, but discipline? Uniforms? The ability to march in a straight line without breaking into a political argument? Forget it. "They're all rival factions stitched together under Trotsky," I'd told Lenin, Dzerzhinsky, and Trotsky who wasn't pleased during our Revolutionary defense council meeting. "No proper chain of command yet, no discipline, no true officer corps. What we need is a scalpel, not a kitchen knife."

Then I'd gestured to my Revolutionary Guard outside the window, standing in neat rows, uniforms crisp, rifles gleaming, discipline drilled into their skulls with a delightful mixture of vodka and fear. "My men are perfect for the job."

And wouldn't you know it—Dzerzhinsky backed me. A miracle. Then again, weeks of dragging him to awkward family dinners with Stalin and my mother had softened him somewhat. Nothing bonds men quite like being force-fed Georgian food while Stalin scowls at you across the table and my family talk to you. Stalin and Felix actually had a decent working relationship even before Petrograd which helped—equal parts mutual respect and mutual threat—which made it much easier to rope him to my side. It also helped I basically helped him set up his own personal army. Debts paid, debts owed.

Trotsky never stood a chance. Networking beats charisma every time.

We rumbled through the streets of Petrograd in our armored procession, iron beasts grinding over cobblestones slick with autumn drizzle. The city was mostly asleep, though a few stragglers peeked out from windows or alleys, eyes wide, muttering prayers or curses depending on their politics.

Trotsky's rabble had done their job. Say what you like about them being a mob of half-trained ex-Mensheviks and anarchists in mismatched coats, but they'd gotten the garrison to melt away and locked down the streets. Of course, it wasn't only just their efforts—it was Felix Dzerzhinsky's efforts as well. Technically, I'd built that spy web for him first, but Felix had taken it, fed it steroids, and now it sprawled across Petrograd and a good chunk of Russia like a paranoid spider's masterpiece. His men had bribed, cajoled, threatened, or simply persuaded most of the Petrograd garrison—some fifty thousand troops—to look at each other, shrug, and collectively say, "You know what? Fuck this. We're out."

So here we were, standing outside the Winter Palace. My Guard fanned out and surrounded it, rifles ready, bayonets fixed. It looked almost professional, which was both comforting and slightly terrifying.

I stepped out of my armored car, boots hitting the cobblestones with theatrical weight. One of my men handed me a rifle, and I marched straight over to Stalin's car. He was still sitting inside, brooding like a Georgian gargoyle.

"Here," I said, thrusting the rifle into his hands.

He looked at it, then at me, like I had just slapped him with a dead fish.

"What?" I shrugged. "You're coming in with me. Symbolism, Joe. Symbolism. I storm the gates with my men, and you're beside me. It'll look good in the history books. I'll be the better looking one but you'll be the taller muscular one."

For a moment I thought he might actually throw the rifle back at me and strangle me with his mustache. But no—he glanced around, read the room, and then gave me that look. You know the one: the "you fucking bitch, but fine" glare. Then he yanked the rifle out of my hands with all the grace of a spoiled child grabbing a toy.

"I'll lead the first men," I said, "and you'll be right begind me." Joe only nodded and got out of the car.

I turned, raised my rifle above my head, and shouted: "Comrades! History is watching! We have a coup to launch—get ready!"

The men fell into formation with the kind of crispness that made me proud and terrified in equal measure. I adjusted my helmet, tugged at my bulletproof vest, then checked Joe had his own and we began. As we did I thanked God for being a forward-thinking lunatic—and tried not to think about how much my stomach was currently attempting to crawl out through my ass.

Because here's the thing: the garrison was demoralized, yes, but what if they resisted? What if some stubborn bastard suddenly decided to grow a spine? What if they actually fought like soldiers instead of deserters? The thought rattled in my head as we prepared to breach.

So I did what any man in my position would do. I hummed the Jedi Temple March to myself as we advanced. Yes, that one—the ominous theme that played when Anakin Skywalker marched into the Jedi Temple to murder a bunch of younglings. Except, of course, I wasn't here to massacre children. Only soldiers. Well, soldiers and Kerensky, if he tried to pull an Allende.

Helmet on, rifle loaded, heart hammering like a drum solo at a funeral. And so we marched into the palace, actors stepping onto the stage of the world's bloodiest drama.

The gates of the Winter Palace groaned as my Guard shoved them open, hinges squealing like an old drunk being forced out of a tavern. It wasn't really a storming—more of a swagger, a saunter with rifles raised and boots striking the marble like we were about to perform Swan Lake rather than overthrow a government. If history was a stage play, then we were the actors who hadn't rehearsed but still knew every line.

The corridors inside were dim, lit by flickering oil lamps that cast shadows over gilded walls and portraits of Romanovs staring down at us with the kind of aristocratic disdain that said: "Peasants, how dare you track mud on my parquet floors?"

I took point, rifle in hand, Stalin beside me. He carried the one I'd given him like it wasn't a rifle at all but a shovel he fully intended to bury someone with. His eyes slid past the portraits and chandeliers with visible disgust. "Bourgeois decadence," he muttered, "would look better melted into bullets." I nodded in agreement. He wasn't wrong.

I hummed the Jedi Temple March under my breath, letting it echo in the hall. Stalin raised an eyebrow at first but then shrugged. By the second refrain I caught him nodding to the rhythm. Perhaps I'd found our future anthem—imagine the Red Army marching into Berlin to the same tune Anakin Skywalker slaughtered Jedi children to. Hilarious. History rhymes, after all.

The palace guards offered about as much resistance as a wet paper bag. Most had already deserted, been bribed, or simply decided they'd rather not die for a provisional government that couldn't even feed them. The few stubborn souls who did resist were promptly disarmed—or ventilated. Sometimes both in rapid succession.

We moved through the palace like rats in a granary, swarming room to room. My Guard knew the drill: clear every chamber, drag out anyone holding a weapon, secure the staircases. Boots pounded up and down the halls, doors slammed open, men barked orders, rifles cracked. Then came the silences—those heavy, ringing silences that meant someone wasn't ever getting back up again.

And then came the real prize.

Alexander Kerensky—poster boy of the provisional government, savior of the revolution, great defender of democracy—was bolting down the back halls with a clutch of guards. He ran like a rabbit that had just seen the stew pot. His escape plan? A waiting automobile in the courtyard at the end of the hall, guarded by a few loyalists. I swear the man had all the dignity of a wet cat sprinting across a frozen pond.

We spotted him just as he and his entourage broke for the car. My blood ran cold, then hot. This was it. I bellowed:

"ALIVE! TAKE HIM ALIVE, DAMN IT!"

The Revolutionary Guard nodded enthusiastically and immediately opened fire. God bless them—real discipline. Kerensky's guards, to their credit, actually had spines and returned fire. Bullets whizzed down the corridor, a couple of my men crumpled, and I suddenly realized Stalin was aiming and shooting beside me.

That's when the awful thought hit me: am I really about to change history by getting my brother killed in the middle of this farce?

Absolutely not. Fuck that. I lunged at Stalin, tackling him to the ground just as something smacked my back like a baseball bat. The vest absorbed most of it, but it still rang through my ribs like a church bell.

Our numbers easily overwhelmed them. The gunfire sputtered out, the last loyalist fell, and silence crept back in. I staggered to my feet, chest burning, and surveyed the carnage. That's when I noticed two things.

One: all of Kerensky's guards were women. Dead, scattered across the hall. Some of them were genuinely pretty. I sighed, shaking my head. "What a waste," I muttered, stepping over them like discarded mannequins in a shop window.

Two: at the end of the hall, at the edge of the courtyard where the car was, I saw a body right at the edge of the car door. My stomach dropped before I even reached it. Kerensky.

I knelt, rolled him over. He was coughing up blood, hands clawing weakly at the air. A neat row of bullet holes tore through his chest like some drunk had tried to play connect-the-dots with a Mosin-Nagant.

"Get a fucking medic!" I barked, stripping off my jacket and pressing it against his chest. Blood soaked through instantly.

I leaned close. "Hey—stay with me. Do you really want your last words to be cough cough choke gurgle? Think of your legacy, man!"

Kerensky's eyes bulged, his mouth frothed crimson. He tried to speak, managed a wet rasp, then shuddered and collapsed. Nothing. Gone. Just like that.

"Goddamn it!" I shot to my feet and kicked his limp body. The thud echoed across the courtyard. "Why couldn't you just fucking surrender like a civilized man?!"

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Stalin grumbling as he dusted himself off. And somewhere deep in my skull, the Jedi Temple March started playing again.

I slumped against the car, back still burning from where the bullet had kissed me. My lungs felt like someone had lit a candle inside them. With a grunt I tugged off the vest, the straps sticky with sweat, and held it up for Stalin to see.

There it was—neat and ugly—a bullet lodged dead center, flattened against the steel plate like a bug on a windshield. I laughed, bitter and wheezing, because what else could I do?

"Would you look at that," I said, shoving it toward him. "Guess that makes twice I've saved your life, Joe."

He frowned, confused, maybe even offended. "Twice?"

"Yeah," I smirked, wincing as the movement tugged at my ribs. "Don't tell me you forgot. That cart when we were kids? I shoved you out of the way, remember? You got away clean, I took the bruises. History repeating itself—me getting knocked around so you can keep raging at the world."

Stalin stared at the vest, then at me, his expression unreadable. Finally he gave this little grunt, half irritation, half reluctant acknowledgment. The man didn't do gratitude. He just adjusted his cap and muttered, "Hmph. You're still soft."

"Fucking Tsundere." I chuckled. "Soft? Brother, I just took a bullet meant for you. If that's softness, maybe you should try it sometime. Builds character."

For a second—just a flicker—I thought he might laugh. Instead he gave me that look of his, the one that promised he was already calculating whether welcoming me to the Bolsheviks had been worth the trouble. Then he muttered:

"Next time, wear two vests."

I barked a laugh, clutching my ribs. "Next time, you wear one. I'm not in the habit of making this a trilogy."

I looked over at Kerensky's body, still steaming faintly in the night air, while my vest hung limp in one hand like a butchered breastplate. The man had choked to death on his own blood, and all I could think was how history books had made him seem so much more… important. In reality, he looked like a butcher's accident.

"Pick him up," I ordered flatly. Two Guards moved in, gingerly hoisting Kerensky like he was a broken chair. "Treat him with care, but don't make it look like we're crying about it."

I turned to the women guards, sprawled lifeless across the cobbles in their crisp uniforms. Pretty faces, bloodied but still strangely dignified. They'd fought hard, harder than Kerensky ever had. I raised a hand to stop a Guard from dragging one by the boots.

"No. With dignity. Carry them out properly, two to a stretcher. Don't strip them for trophies. Don't mess with their bodies. They fought like soldiers, not servants. We'll honor that."

Stalin raised an eyebrow at me, but I waved him off. "Don't give me that look. We need martyrs, not looters."

And then, as we were escorting the bodies out of the palace, the heavy doors of the Winter Palace swung open behind us. Out came Lenin, Zinoviev, Kamenev, Trotsky, and the rest of the whole central committee marching in like a funeral procession. They stopped dead when they saw me, vest still dangling in one hand, Kerensky's limp body in the other direction, and a line of dead women soldiers being lifted out like fallen saints.

Perfect timing.

Lenin's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Comrade Mikheil… explain."

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Kerensky tried to flee. We went after him. His guards resisted, my men returned fire. Kerensky caught a few bullets. I tried to save him, but…" I gestured at the corpse being hauled up the stairs. "Well. The provisional government is now very dead."

Zinoviev looked horrified, Kamenev just looked sick, and Trotsky's face twisted into something between fury and smugness. The rest of course just looked stunned. I could practically hear Trotsky rehearsing the speech he'd give about my incompetence.

So I cut them all off.

"We double down," I snapped. "We take credit. We tell Petrograd, we tell Russia, we tell the world: Kerensky ran like a coward and died like a coward. No heroic stand, no noble sacrifice—just a little man trying to scurry out the back door. His guards fought harder than he did. Women, comrades. They fought more bravely than their own Prime Minister. And we will bury them with military honors to show we reward courage, even from the enemy."

That shut them up for a moment. The idea sank in. Lenin stroked his beard, considering.

I pressed on. "Kerensky, meanwhile, we give him a grave. A public one. Headstone with his name, nothing fancy. His family can find him, mourn him. But no flowers from us, no speeches, no marble. He gets a patch of dirt and that's it. And when people ask why, we say: this is the difference. He had office but no courage. His guards had courage but no cause. We had both."

Trotsky finally exploded. "This is insanity! You want to glorify Kerensky's guards? You want to turn them into martyrs? Into symbols?"

I grinned darkly. "No, Leo. I want to turn them into our martyrs. People will say: even Kerensky's guards respected the Bolsheviks enough to die with dignity. They'll say: look at the women, fighting with more courage than the whole damned provisional government. And when they compare that to Kerensky coughing his lungs out in a gutter—who looks stronger? Who looks legitimate?"

Dzerzhinsky—stone-faced, iron eyes—nodded once. "He's right. Fear comes from cruelty. But legitimacy comes from control. This shows control."

Lenin exhaled slowly. "A dangerous gamble, but… it may serve us. Kerensky alive would have been… useful. But dead, he is only a symbol. And symbols can be recast."

Kamenev muttered something about "desecrating politics with theatrics," and I leaned over him. "Comrade, politics is theatrics. You think the people care who signed what document in some smoky office? No. They'll remember the image: Kerensky scurrying, Kerensky dying, women laid out with honor, and the Bolsheviks striding victorious through the palace."

Silence fell for a moment. Then Stalin snorted, low and derisive. "Hmph. You sound like a street performer."

I flashed him my bloodstained smile. "Street performers keep the crowd happy, brother. And right now, Russia is a very angry crowd."

 

[TrahKartolo]

Dude really have to make a meme out of a dead man. Nasty.