My brothers Keeper, an SI as the twin brother of Stalin (Reworked)

[BuilderOne]

What are the chances that Uncle Joe will be chill after this?

Well, chiller, more relaxed. Not chill. We are talking about Joseph fking Stalin here. He'd still be paranoid, but I hope the future would be less bleak after his... what is the word? Catharsis?

 

[Deathsea22]

What are the chances that Uncle Joe will be chill after this?

Well, chiller, more relaxed. Not chill. We are talking about Joseph fking Stalin here. He'd still be paranoid, but I hope the future would be less bleak after his... what is the word? Catharsis?

Click to shrink...

I Honestly think he will be much less purgey than OTL. He'll still purge but it won't be nearly as ridiculous as it was… at least I hope so.

 

[OverseerEX]

You know what would be interesting? If Mika gets involved in the Comintern, goes to China to help out Mao, becomes friends with Mao, and continues a good relationship without a Sino-Soviet Split. (Not purging scientists and doctors, saving Stalin, and him ruling longer would also deal with that.)

Another one would be giving the European Communist Countries a bit more autonomy, in terms of self-governance. This would help a lot for later when the market socialist reforms happen.
(Of course still monitor whether there are pro-west leaning cadres, and inform the Parties.)

Also let's hope Mika can save Bukharin, because without him the Soviet Union missed a lot of chances to have a China-style socialist market economy. While this would be a problem for the hardliners and ideological purists, Lenin himself created the foundation with the NEP so hopefully they can either be persuaded, and if not, sidelined for Party loyalists.

 

[Alenco98]

March 9, 1919
Smonly Institute
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic

Joe and I were just leaving Zinoviev's offices. Officially, we reported to him, helped him "run" the city. In practice, that was a courtesy — a little theater to preserve the illusion of a chain of command. Stalin ran Petrograd. Or rather, we ran it, but Joe steered the ship while I handled the day-to-day filth. Fortunately for me, he listened to my suggestions most of the time.

I pulled out a cigarette and offered him one. He took it, lit it, exhaled like a man who had just survived another pointless meeting.

As we stepped into the corridor, we passed a small group of people who were very clearly out of place. Clean coats. Alert eyes. The sort of posture that screams not from here. At first I thought foreign journalists. Then one of them — the bald one — spoke English. American English.

My radar lit up.

I stopped and nudged Joe. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

I tilted my head toward them. "Americans. Let's check it out."

"Mika, for fuck's sa—"

I waved him off and walked straight toward them. "Excuse me, gentlemen," I said in English — god bless my previous life as an American. "What are Americans like yourselves doing in this godforsaken place?"

Up close, there were four of them. One young man, already losing a war with his hairline — the Norwood Reaper had claimed him early. One middle-aged fellow who looked like he'd seen enough of the world to regret it. And one nondescript man, the kind whose defining feature was the lack of defining features. Always suspicious. And another man, close to the young man's age, hairline relatively intact, he seemed to be friends with the other young man.

"Sorry?" the young man said. "This is… unexpected. I didn't think anyone fluent in English would be here. Who are you?"

"Mikheil Jugashvili," I said pleasantly. "Director of the Petrograd Cheka." I gestured as Joe came up beside me, already radiating irritation. "And this is Joseph Jugashvili. He goes by Stalin. Older brother. Liaison between Petrograd and Moscow."

"Jugashvili," the young man repeated, nodding. "I've heard of you. You're the one who shot Kerensky and took the Winter Palace. You've become something of a sensation in diplomatic circles. Your actions caused quite the mess."

He said it with admiration. Like he was meeting a celebrity.

"And when we heard you offered to turn yourself in to the United States afterward," he added, "we were stunned."

"What do you mean we?" I asked. "Don't tell me I ended up on the front page of the New York Times."

"You did," he said. "For a few days. Until another story replaced you. I'm surprised you know the Times. And your English — how did you learn it?"

"Seminary school," I shrugged. "Graduated too. Was even recommended for the priesthood. Became a cop instead. Then the revolution happened, my brother joined the Party, recruited me, and… here we are."

"And here we are," he echoed, smiling faintly. "William Christian Bullitt Jr." He extended his hand.

I shook it. "A pleasure."

I glanced between the four of them. "So tell me — what brings you here? You're clearly not tourists. And if you're journalists, you're under dressed. Don't tell me you're spies." I smiled. "I'd hate to have to arrest you."

Joe exhaled smoke beside me, silent, watching.

"Nothing like that," Bullitt said calmly.

I raised an eyebrow. "Good. Because that would've made this conversation very short."

I glanced at the other three in his entourage and pointed at the oldest one. "You. Name. What do you do?"

"Lincoln Steffens," the man said calmly. "Journalist. The American Magazine. A muckraker."

"Oh," I said. "So you dig through filth for a living. Yes, I've heard of one of you. Some woman who locked herself in an asylum to expose conditions."

"Nellie Bly," he said, nodding. "Met her once. Sharp mind."

"Interesting. Very interesting." I nodded, then shifted my gaze to the other two. "And you?"

"R. E. Lynch," the young man said quickly. "Mr. Bullitt's secretary. We've known each other for years."

"And you?" I asked the last one, who already looked like he regretted wearing his uniform.

"William W. Pettit," he said stiffly. "Captain, United States Army. Military intelligence."

"I see." I nodded slowly, then glanced back toward the corridor that led to Zinoviev's office. "And Zinoviev didn't think to mention he'd just met an American military intelligence officer." I nodded again. "Good. Very good."

I looked back at them. "Here's what's going to happen. You have thirty seconds to tell me why you're in Russia and why you were just speaking to Zinoviev. Because from where I'm standing, this looks suspicious as hell."

Bullitt stepped half a pace forward, hands raised slightly. "Now hold on. We're not here to spy. I was assigned by the Office of the President to travel to Moscow and meet Vladimir Lenin."

"You're going to meet Lenin?" I asked. "Why?"

"To negotiate the terms under which the United States might establish diplomatic relations with the new government."

"I see." I nodded. "Then why are you still here? Shouldn't you be on a train to Moscow?"

"We will be," Bullitt said. "In a few days. Our mission also includes gathering information about conditions in Russia."

"What kind of information?"

"The war. Civilian conditions. The situation on the ground. Fact-finding."

"Fact-finding," I repeated. "And what did Zinoviev have to say?"

"Very little," Bullitt admitted. "Once we explained our purpose, he lost interest and told us to wait for our train."

"I see," I said again.

I turned to Joe and repeated everything in Georgian. I didn't bother lowering my voice. Stalin's eyes narrowed as he studied the Americans, his expression unreadable.

"That bastard Zinoviev just let an American intelligence officer walk out without telling us," I said.

"Leave it," Stalin replied evenly. "Let him dig his own grave."

"Should we put eyes on them?" I asked. "The Americans still have troops in Arkhangelsk. If they decide to get ambitious—"

"Do it."

"Mind if I stay with them?"

Stalin looked at me. "Why?"

"If they want to 'fact-find,' we let them. Under supervision. We control what they see."

He hesitated. Just a fraction.

"This is risky, Mika."

"If something goes wrong," I said lightly, "we blame Zinoviev. He's the one who didn't report them."

Stalin's gaze shifted from the Americans to the corridor behind us. "You take responsibility. If this turns ugly, I won't save you."

I smiled. "I haven't let you down yet."

"Don't get arrogant," he said, already turning away.

When he was gone, I faced the Americans again, clapping my hands once.

"Good news, friends," I said, switching back to English. "You want to see Russia? You want to understand conditions on the ground?"

Bullitt nodded eagerly. The others looked less sure.

"I can show you Petrograd as it really is," I continued. "Care to join me on a patrol?"

"That would be great," Bullitt said.

"Excellent," I replied, already walking. "Try to keep up."

Excerpt from Stephen Kotkin's 2014 book: Mikheil Jugashvili, The Red Rockefeller and His Rivers of Blood

By March 1919, Mikheil Jugashvili's efforts had effectively consolidated Stalin's control over Petrograd. The Cheka in the city was no longer merely aligned with Stalin; it functioned as the central nervous system of governance itself. Under Jugashvili's supervision, the Cheka oversaw the official rationing apparatus, regulated black-market activity, controlled factories and transport nodes, monitored the city's remaining churches, supervised soup kitchens, and even imposed oversight on foreign humanitarian organizations such as the Red Cross. Although the Red Army units and Kronstadt sailors charged with defending Petrograd were formally subordinated to the People's Commissariat for Military and Naval Affairs, in practice they depended upon Stalin's patronage network for food, pay, and access to housing. Petrograd had, for all intents and purposes, become Stalin's personal fiefdom, with Mikheil Jugashvili acting as its chief enforcer and administrator of terror.

It was in this context that the American diplomatic mission led by William Christian Bullitt Jr. arrived in Petrograd. Officially received by Grigory Zinoviev, the delegation was quickly dismissed once its purpose became clear. Zinoviev, who lacked both the authority and the inclination to engage substantively with foreign intermediaries, instructed the Americans to await transport to Moscow. Their presence, however, did not go unnoticed. Jugashvili identified the delegation almost immediately, initiated contact, and—having satisfied himself as to their objectives—undertook to guide them personally through the city.

Bullitt and his companions were shown a Petrograd stripped of revolutionary romanticism. They observed severe food shortages, the emerging architecture of a police state, and the extensive fortifications erected in anticipation of renewed White offensives. Jugashvili escorted them through checkpoints, warehouses, and defensive works, and they were briefly introduced to his family at Cheka headquarters in Fittinghoff House—an encounter that left a lasting impression on Bullitt.

They were also shown the physical remnants of the terror unleashed the previous year. Skeletonized corpses still hung from lampposts in certain districts, deliberately left as warnings. Dried blood stained the paving stones before the Winter Palace, guarded to prevent its removal. Bullitt later wrote that "people either freeze in place or step aside when Jugashvili approaches; the entire city appears terrified of him." Crime, he observed, was nearly nonexistent—not because of social harmony, but because fear had replaced it as the primary regulator of behavior.

Yet Bullitt's impressions were not uniformly condemnatory. He admitted to a measure of reluctant admiration, noting that Jugashvili "spoke English like an American," exhibited striking pragmatism, and displayed a willingness to bend ideology in favor of expediency. Bullitt was particularly struck by Jugashvili's family life, describing his mother as "a charming old Georgian woman who openly kept Orthodox icons and a cross in her room, despite Bolshevik hostility toward religion," and remarking on the warmth and politeness of his children. Stalin himself, by contrast, made little impression beyond unease. Bullitt wrote only briefly of him, describing Stalin as "quiet, observant, always watching me and the others. I felt as though I were prey before some kind of animal."

The most consequential outcome of Bullitt's Petrograd visit, however, was not diplomatic but humanitarian. During their discussions, Jugashvili informed Bullitt of his connection to Elsa Brändström, a Swedish Red Cross worker who continued to operate in Siberia despite the ongoing civil war. Deeply affected by the food shortages in Petrograd and, in his words, "moved and impressed by Jugashvili's testimony regarding Miss Brändström," Bullitt pledged to advocate for expanded funding to the American Relief Administration (ARA) and to ensure that food supplies reached Russia.

After proceeding to Moscow and meeting with Lenin, Bullitt failed to secure a political settlement between the Bolsheviks and the international community. Nevertheless, he successfully pressed Lenin to authorize the entry of American aid agencies into Soviet territory, albeit under strict Cheka supervision. Upon returning to the United States, Bullitt continued lobbying aggressively for expanded ARA operations in Russia. These efforts bore fruit. By early 1920, as the civil war increasingly turned in the Bolsheviks' favor, the first major shipments of American food aid began arriving.

Bullitt maintained close coordination with Brändström and Jugashvili, facilitating the steady flow of relief supplies as hostilities gradually subsided. His role expanded accordingly, and he was eventually appointed deputy director of the American Relief Administration under Herbert Hoover in March 1920. The impact of this aid was profound. During the Russian famine of 1921–22, an estimated three to four million people perished; contemporary analysts later concluded that had relief arrived later or in smaller quantities, the death toll might well have exceeded five million.

These activities also proved pivotal for Bullitt's own career. When the United States formally reestablished diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union, President Franklin D. Roosevelt appointed Bullitt as the first American ambassador to Moscow—a post shaped, in no small part, by the relationships and experiences he had forged during the darkest years of the Russian Civil War.

Note: I think i'll get the civil war done in 5-7 chapters, maybe less.

 

[GarfRed]

Normalization with ties for the United States, an acquaintance in America, the famine being slightly less severe. A lot of good things happening. The historical records of our Mc is gonna be weird, accidentaly killed a head of state, has killed and purged a lot of people, but also he helped in humanitarian efforts in Siberia. My man is gonna get an expy in a COD game in the future as that one you love in your campaign.

 

[OverseerEX]

My man is gonna get an expy in a COD game in the future as that one you love in your campaign.

Click to shrink...

Press M for Mikheil.

I would love to read some foreign POVs, for example after the Civil War when Bullitt becomes Ambassador to Moscow, his POV on meeting Mika again or something. It could also show how the State has formed and advanced after the war through his eyes from the outside.

Oh, oh, also maybe a Lenin POV on the status of the Revolution and his thoughts for the future..

 

[BenMalek]

Fantastic chapter, as usual
Love these little historic hindsight notes

 

[Alenco98]

War is inevitable in the struggle for world revolution, we must constantly ready ourselves and be vigilant at all times.
Excerpt from: Quotations from Chairman Stalin, published in 1930 by comrade Mikheil Jugashvilli

October 17, 1919
Smolny institute
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic

We stood around a long table in Zinoviev's office: Stalin, Zinoviev himself, Trotsky—who had arrived earlier that day with all the theatrical exhaustion of a man who wanted everyone to know he was indispensable—Dmitry Nadyózhny of the Seventh Army, Dmitry Ayrov, commander of the regional defenses, and Stepan Petrichenko, sent as a representative of the Kronstadt sailors. And then there was me.

On the table lay a map of Petrograd and the surrounding region. Scattered across it were small wooden rectangles—some painted red, some white. There were more red than white, technically, but quantity didn't mean quality. The Whites had planes, tanks, pristine rifles, endless ammunition. Our forces had been conducting a fighting retreat since September 28, when Yudenich's army crossed back into Russia, steadily pushing closer to the city.

Unfortunately for Yudenich, Joe and I had turned Petrograd into a death trap.

I hadn't forgotten the German scare the year before. That attempt had rewired something in my brain permanently. Ever since, I'd been building defenses like a medieval city planner with access to industrial explosives. Sandbags reinforcing checkpoints. Trenches carved through parks and boulevards. Machine-gun nests positioned at intersections. Carefully planned kill zones. I even requisitioned medieval cannons and bombards from every museum in the city and mounted several on the roof of Smolny itself. Zinoviev had screamed at me for hours about "symbolism" and "public perception." I ignored him and added more ammunition.

Now here we were, planning the desperate defense of the city. Well, more like arguing. I'd pitched Stalin's plan for the defense a few hours ago, technically it was my plan, but, I had to credit Stalin, I didn't want to die once he went all dictator. And I figured, what better way to survive than to give your brother credit for all your good ideas so you seemed too brilliant to kill yet useful enough due to knowing your place on the revolutionary totem pole. Politics baby.

We'd been arguing for hours, Trotsky, Zinoviev and Ayrov wanted to launch an immediate offensive to drive their forces back. While me, Stalin, Nadyózhny, and Petrichenko argued for well, our plan. Fortunately, we had a majority at the conference table, and it seemed Trotsky was finally coming around to our side.

"This is madness," Zinoviev said, stabbing a finger at the map. "We cannot just let them march into the city."

"We've been over this for hours ever since I bought up my brother's plan. What part of 'fighting retreat' don't you understand, or should I repeat the plan again?" I said pleasantly. "We're not letting anyone march in. We're making them bleed for every meter."

Trotsky leaned in, adjusting his glasses. "The plan has merit. Drawing them into the city could pin them down effectively. And if we wipe them out wholesale it would deliver a blow to the reactionaries. But allowing a Cheka commander to lead the flanking assault—" He glanced at me, then away. "I cannot have Red Army authority undermined on the battlefield. Most importantly, its dangerous, what if the flanking maneuver fails?"

"Then why don't you lead it, Comrade Trotsky?" Stalin said calmly. "The plan has merit as you just said. If our cavalry outflanks Yudenich's forces, we encircle them. We destroy them. The war ends faster."

Nadyózhny nodded slowly. "It could work," he said. "But only once."

Petrichenko followed with a sharp nod. "Kronstadt is ready. Give the orders and we'll man every checkpoint you've established."

Ayrov cleared his throat. "The plan is mostly sound," he said carefully. "But arming the masses indiscriminately—children included—that will create chaos. Discipline will collapse."

"We already arm children in the countryside," Stalin replied without emotion. "Desperate times require desperate measures."

Trotsky exhaled, fingers steepled. "Stalin has a point. But Ayrov is right about discipline. We should not commit the masses immediately. Keep them in reserve. Assign support roles. If the situation becomes truly desperate…" He paused. "Then we prepare to throw them in."

Everyone nodded gravely.

"So," I said, "You're in then Comrade Trotsky?"

"Reluctantly," He continued, "But the more I recall the defenses you've set up, and the state of the war. Its a gamble, but I think its one we can successfully carry out."

The room went silent, I nodded. "So then." I broke the silence again, because I have a talent for doing that at the worst possible moments. "Who's leading the assault? I'm still available. I can handle myself in a fight. Or at least I like to think I can."

Trotsky looked at me for a long moment. He was assessing, weighing, calculating. The man practically towered over me — five-ten, maybe a bit more — while I stood there at five-three, looking less like a commander and more like someone who should be asking for permission to leave the room. He scanned the others around the table, then returned his gaze to me.

"And who performs your duties while you're gone?" he asked. "You remain the Cheka chief of Petrograd."

"Uritsky," I said with a shrug. "He's been an excellent deputy." I paused, then added casually, "If I die, so be it. I imagine I'll be reunited with my wife."

I turned my head slightly toward Joe. "You remember the promise, brother. If I die, you take care of my children."

The room went quiet.

I could feel it — that sharp, uncomfortable stillness when everyone realizes they are standing next to someone who does not value his own life anymore. I figured I might as well lean into it. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the first I'd smoked since before Maria died.

It tasted incredible.

I didn't inhale — never do, terrible for the lungs — but the flavor lingered anyway. Still, all I could think about was Maria. Part of me was ready. Truly ready. Life after her death felt like someone had scooped my heart out with a spoon and forgotten to put anything back. I was a ghost wandering through meetings, executions, and maps, looking for a woman who wasn't there.

"So?" I said, exhaling the smoke. "Anyone else volunteering to throw themselves into the fire?"

Trotsky cleared his throat.

"Your… enthusiasm," he said carefully, "has been noted." He nodded once. "You may lead the assault. However, Red Army officers will coordinate your forces. You will follow army orders without deviation. While your plan has merit, I will modify it as necessary. And I see plenty of ways to adjust it."

"I will do as you say," I replied, smiling — the polite, reassuring smile of a man who had already accepted death.

Then I glanced back at Joe. "So, comrade, should we start measuring me for a coffin?"

Stalin didn't answer.

His eyes narrowed instead, just slightly — the kind of narrowing that meant he was thinking very hard about whether this was bravery, madness, or something far more dangerous.

October 28, 1919
Pulkovo heights
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic

I sat on my horse, my ass aching from having ridden almost continuously for the last 24-36 hours, I stopped counting honestly. We'd taken the heights less than an hour earlier. Around me lay bodies — some Tsarists, some ours. It was hard to tell who had died for the revolution and who had simply died near it.

A handful of prisoners had surrendered. I'd offered them a choice: murder their officers and live, or die with them. They chose quickly. Once it was done, I armed the survivors with bayonets and pistols and placed them at the front, right beside me. I like to keep people motivated.

I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, staring at the sky. I took a long breath and thought of Maria. For a moment, I was back in the apartment — Maria, the children, Keke — Caruso playing softly in the background. Normal things. Civilian things.

"I'll be home soon," I whispered in Georgian.

Then I turned my horse to face the men.

"Comrades!" I shouted. "Today the revolution hangs in the balance. Either we rout the reactionary pigs and crush them between the city and our forces, or the revolution dies here. There is no tomorrow to regroup. Either we win today, or everything ends."

I drew my pistol.

"But I have full faith in our victory! Trotsky fights with us. Trotsky takes bullets with us! And behind him stands the might of the workers!" I raised the pistol. "So I say — glory to the first man who dies!"

I fired into the air.

Then I turned my horse toward the city. "Charge!"

The men screamed and surged forward. I kicked my horse into a full gallop. Red cavalry thundered beside me, infantry pouring down the hill behind us. Below, I could hear the sound of fighting echoing through the streets.

I spotted makeshift buildings — camps, supply depots Yudenich's men had thrown together. Unfortunately for them, they were suffering from an advanced case of being trapped in a hostile city. We rode straight through the defenders. I shot a few men, then rode over the rest.

Five minutes later we slammed into their reserves, and everything disintegrated.

I burned through my ammunition quickly. After that, I drew my saber and started cutting at anything that moved while keeping my horse in motion. There was something deeply ironic about it — me, some random bastard from 2025, reincarnated into the dying Russian Empire, fighting on horseback with a sword like an extra in a medieval pageant.

Irony is a cruel woman.

At some point — I don't remember how — I was knocked from my horse. I hit the ground hard and found myself pinned beneath him. I wriggled, cursed, tried to free myself, then panicked and stabbed at the horse until it stopped thrashing.

I looked left.

A soldier stood over me, raising his bayonet.

He stabbed.

I barely parried it. A heartbeat later, a bayonet burst through his chest. A Red Army soldier dragged him off me and helped me to my feet. My leg screamed in protest, but it wasn't broken. I raised my saber.

"Forward!" I screamed. "Kill them all!"

I charged again — on foot this time — limping, throwing myself back into the chaos. Gunfire cracked around us. Machine guns rattled. Artillery thundered. I ignored it all and just kept moving forward, stabbing and slashing at whoever was in front of me.

After my tenth kill — approximately — I noticed a rifle on the ground. I dropped the saber and picked it up. It was loaded. Thank God for small mercies. I fired, stabbed, shot, killed my way forward.

My body began to feel heavy. Emotionally, I felt nothing. No fear. No thrill. Just a vast, empty indifference pushing me onward.

Something flickered in the corner of my eye. I turned just as a soldier swung his rifle at my head like a club. I barely dodged and lunged to stab him. He dodged too and punched me square in the face, knocking me flat.

It devolved into a wrestling match. The revolution vanished. The war vanished. It was just the two of us.

He got on top of me. He had a knife.

He pressed it down toward my face. I grabbed the blade with my left hand, screaming as I tried to push it back. I punched his forearm with my right — solid as stone. I clawed at his face, uselessly.

The knife kept descending.

Then it touched my eye.

The world went red and black. Pain exploded everywhere. Apathy shattered into pure, animal desperation.

My right hand scraped the ground and found a stone. I slammed it into his face with everything I had. It worked. He reeled back. The knife fell free.

I pulled it from what was left of my left eye and charged him, screaming.

"Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!"

I stabbed until my arms burned.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. I spun, ready to kill again — and froze.

A Red Army soldier stared at me, horrified.

"Comrade Jugashvili," he said.

I gasped and looked around. My men were advancing slowly now. Victory was settling in.

Only then did I realize the world had changed. My right eye saw clearly. My left saw nothing but red and black. No depth. No detail.

Just absence.

"You have a pistol?" I asked.

"Yes, comrade."

"May I have it? I seem to have lost mine."

He handed it over.

I looked at the men ahead of me. "Let's move forward."

Excerpt from Stephen Kotkin's 2014 book: Mikheil Jugashvili, The Red Rockefeller and His Rivers of Blood

By October 1919, the Russian Civil War stood at a critical juncture. In the south, General Anton Denikin's forces continued their slow advance toward Moscow, while in the west General Nikolai Yudenich's army pressed toward Petrograd. The loss of the former imperial capital would have been both a strategic and symbolic catastrophe for the Bolshevik regime. Leon Trotsky, who had consistently argued that Petrograd must be defended at all costs, was therefore dispatched by Lenin to take direct responsibility for the city's defense. He arrived in Petrograd on October 17, 1919.

What Trotsky encountered was not a city resigned to defeat. Under the combined authority of Stalin and Mikheil Jugashvili, Petrograd had been transformed into a fortified urban stronghold. Sandbagged checkpoints dotted nearly every block. Trenches cut through parks, boulevards, and open squares. Machine-gun nests dominated major intersections, arranged to create overlapping fields of fire and carefully calibrated kill zones. In a gesture that combined desperation with theatrical symbolism, Jugashvili ordered medieval cannons and bombards removed from museums and installed at strategic points, including several on the roof of the Smolny Institute itself. Zinoviev protested at length, but to no effect.

Planning for the city's defense had been underway for months. Stalin had overseen the organizational framework, while Jugashvili refined the operational details. When Trotsky convened discussions upon his arrival, it was Jugashvili who presented the decisive plan.

The concept was stark in its simplicity. Trotsky's reinforcements would conduct a controlled fighting retreat into Petrograd, drawing Yudenich's forces deeper into the city while steadily eroding their strength. Once the Whites were sufficiently exhausted, Bolshevik units would engage them at close quarters—"hugging the enemy," as Jugashvili described it—thereby neutralizing the Whites' advantages in artillery, armor, naval support, and British-supplied air power. Simultaneously, Jugashvili would lead a flanking force from the south, sweeping northward behind Yudenich's army and sealing off all avenues of retreat.

This maneuver, named Operation Maria in honor of Jugashvili's assassinated wife, began on the night of October 27–28, the very day Yudenich's forces entered Petrograd. Departing from the rail junction at Tosno, Jugashvili's column surged westward, capturing Gatchina before pivoting north. After a grinding engagement, they retook the strategically vital Pulkovo Heights, a position that had changed hands repeatedly during the campaign.

Following the battle, Jugashvili took more than a thousand prisoners. It was here that he introduced what he chillingly termed the "Baptism of Betrayal." Officers were separated from enlisted men and presented with an ultimatum: the soldiers were ordered to kill their officers with their bare hands or die alongside them. Of the prisoners, seventy-eight were officers, and 123 enlisted men chose death rather than compliance. Only two—Lieutenant Yegor Litvinov and a soldier named Ivan Pavlov—were deliberately spared. Jugashvili intended them to bear witness and to carry a message to the White movement about the consequences of resistance. Those who agreed to participate were immediately armed and placed at the very front of the advancing columns, their loyalty tested in combat.

It was during the final advance toward Petrograd that Jugashvili sustained the first of his disfiguring injuries. Engaging Yudenich's reserve forces in close combat, he lost his left eye in a melee with a White soldier. Despite the wound, he continued to lead his men forward, pressing deeper into the collapsing enemy formations.

Inside the city, news of Jugashvili's maneuver spread rapidly. As the realization set in that retreat was impossible, many White soldiers laid down their arms. Others—Yudenich among them—attempted a breakout, only to encounter Jugashvili's forces holding firm from the rear while Stalin launched a counteroffensive from within Petrograd. Trapped between converging Bolshevik formations, Yudenich's army disintegrated. Yudenich himself and many of his senior officers were killed in the fighting. With his death confirmed, the remaining White forces surrendered.

The aftermath followed a grimly familiar pattern. British and Estonian prisoners were separated and interned—476 Estonians and 123 British soldiers in total. The White officers, 785 in number, were condemned to execution, alongside 456 enlisted men who refused to betray them. The remaining rank-and-file soldiers were ordered to carry out the killings themselves. In front of the Winter Palace, under guard, former comrades murdered their officers with hands and stones, while the foreign prisoners were forced to observe.

Neither Stalin, Trotsky, Zinoviev, nor the other leaders of Petrograd's defense intervened. They stood by as blood once again pooled in the square before the Winter Palace.

In Moscow, the victory was greeted with jubilation. Lenin decreed that Stalin, Jugashvili, and Trotsky be awarded the Order of the Red Banner. Summoned to the capital, each was personally decorated by Lenin. Jugashvili spoke first, praising the courage and sacrifice of the soldiers and workers and concluding with a public tribute to his brother, declaring that without Stalin's planning, Petrograd would have fallen. Trotsky followed, commending the defenders and offering a characteristically strained acknowledgment of Stalin's "effective organization of the city's defenses." Stalin didn't say much, briefly thanking the workers, Trotsky and Mikheil for their efforts and sacrifices.

In Petrograd meanwhile, the consequences were immediate and decisive. Whatever authority Zinoviev retained evaporated. Jugashvili—once the Revolution's enforcer, the "Red Robespierre"—was now hailed as the city's savior. The Petrograd Soviet, one of the last institutions still nominally aligned with Zinoviev, shifted its loyalty entirely to Stalin and Jugashvili. Zinoviev remained a figurehead without power, while Petrograd became Stalin's principal base of operations—a foundation for his eventual ascent as Vozhd, constructed upon the violence, and sacrifices of Mikheil Jugashvili.

Note/Edit: Writing this chapter I thought about it, and I really wanna get to after the civil war and get to WW2, so I'm gonna rush the civil war basically as Petrograd aside from being under a reign of terror didn't suffer much action aside from Yudenichs offensive and the Kronstadt rebellion. I'll get a new chapter out tomorrow. It'll probably slow down once the civil war happens and NEP begins as Mika is gonna do some shit with bootlegging and other shenanigans.

 

[Introspective Tinkerer]

Kind of cliche to take an eye.

 

[OverseerEX]

It was during the final advance toward Petrograd that Jugashvili sustained the first of his disfiguring injuries

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The first? Well I hope despite "disfiguring injuries" Mika lives to the 2000s. Bro deserves to listen to some Jpop for all the things he had to go through.

 

[BenMalek]

Kind of cliche to take an eye.

Click to shrink...

Think of it this way... MC can now make Metal Gear Solid references